The Lilies of the Field
“...why be anxious about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow— learn a lesson from the way the wild-flowers grow; they neither work nor do they spin.” — Matthew 6:28.
I am currently serving on an ad hoc committee of the New York Conference of the United Church of Christ. A little more than a week ago that group, a committee with people from all over the state, upstate and down, met in Binghamton. In this particular session we were involved in a workshop facilitated by Bill Green, a U.C.C. pastor and a consultant.
I am sure more than one of you has been in this kind of corporate, focus group. I don’t want to delve deeply into the background of the work the committee is doing, something which would probably be way too boring, but in this particular exercise Bill was trying to empower the group by helping us to get to some basic understandings.
The session was maybe a half hour old when this question was posed (slight pause): ‘what does being empty feel like?’— what does being empty feel like? As will happen at these kinds of workshops, after a little bit of time, the group had drifted a considerable distance off topic. I noticed that drift.
So, I raised my hand, was recognized and said: “I’d like us to come back to this topic of ‘what does being empty feel like?’ In order to do that, I want to ask a question: ‘Is anyone here, besides me, a Vietnam veteran?’”
Based on the ages of the majority of people in the room, I knew most of them had lived through the era. But when I asked that question about being a Vietnam veteran people’s eyes started to dart back and forth to and fro.
One person looked to the next person who looked to the next person to see if anyone else responded in the positive. Finally, the person sitting on my left said, “I was in the service in the Vietnam era.”
“No,” I said. “That’s not what I mean. Was anyone else in this room there, in Vietnam, in country?” The silence was deafening.
“Well,” I said, “one thing I learned from my experience in Vietnam is something about what it feels like to be empty. Let me put what it feels like to be empty this way: you feel like got nothing to lose.” There was a still longer silence.
Finally, the fellow to my right said, “Nothing to lose— if you have nothing to lose, doesn’t that lead to despair?”
“No,” I said. “It doesn’t lead to despair at all. When you learn what true emptiness is, you learn that every day is precious. You learn that every day you get up and live it to the fullest. You put one foot in front of the other and you move forward doing whatever it is that absolutely necessary, that absolutely has to get done.”
“It is only when you stop doing, stop moving that despair has set in. And the reason you move forward day after day after day after day after day is that every day you come face to face with your own mortality.” (Slight pause.)
At that point Ann Kansfield, the United Church of Christ pastor at the Greenpoint Reformed Church in Brooklyn, New York, said: “Yes. And when you come face to face with your own mortality you learn about hope and you start to practice hope every day. I learned that on 9/11.” (Slight pause.)
I met Ann at the Annual meeting of the New York Conference last year. Before becoming a pastor, Ann, now a woman in her late 30s, worked in the financial services industry. She was working in the World Trade Center on 9/11. After that experience, she decided she needed to go to Seminary. She decided she needed to become a pastor. After that day, she knew she had learned something about hope. (Slight pause.)
And these words are from the work commonly referred to as Matthew: “...why be anxious about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow— learn a lesson from the way the wild-flowers grow; they neither work nor do they spin.” (Slight pause.)
If there is anything this passage is not about, it is not about the idea that everything will be all right in the sweet by and by— don’t worry be happy. Including those on the planes, some 2,700 people died in New York City on 9/11. Some 59,000 are counted as killed or missing in Vietnam. Survival in dangerous situations does not blossom out of a ‘don’t worry be happy’ kind of sentiment.
But, if there is anything which should be obvious about the lilies of the field, it is that they live through the cycle of life. And that cycle ends. On the other hand, the words in this passage claim there is an epiphany, a manifestation of the work of God in the lilies, despite the fact that they are finite. In short, God matters in day-to-day living.
As I see it, this passage is, hence, a call to trust God. This is about what life is like when we give our life to God. More to the point, this is a call to trust not that God will make all things right, but that in the reign of God— a reign in which we are invited to participate— in the reign of God, conventional social practice is obsolete.
And, indeed, what is it which conventional social practice dictates? Conventional social practice dictates that we constantly worry about tomorrow. (Slight pause.)
To be clear: some might dismiss the words of Jesus as relevant only to the uncomplicated life of the First Century— a wild assumption that life in the First Century was uncomplicated. Therefore, because they are relevant only in the First Century, we moderns need to think about the future.
We need to prepare our children, prepare for illness, prepare for retirement. But if you think these words deny that kind of preparation— say that you shouldn’t prepare— you are misreading them. And you are misreading them in a way which is exactly the same as those who might think this is a reference to the sweet by and by— don’t worry be happy. [1] Neither stand is true.
For me, the text points out the human dilemma: the existence we know is a mortal existence— finite. Indeed, by asking us to consider what true mortality is and means, by asking us to consider the lilies of the field, we can come to realize God invites us to the realm of God, the reign of God. God invites us to know we are mortal. And God invites us to be comfortable with that. (Slight pause.)
As I have said here before, a prime proclamation of Jesus is that the dominion of God draws near. But that proclamation finds its totality and the fullness of its promise in the resurrection. Paradoxically, it is the resurrection which most vividly tells us we are mortal, vividly tells us the existence we now know is finite.
And here is yet another paradox: because we are mortal God invites us to be participants in the reign of God which draws near. (Slight pause.) The way I see it, this reading, this slice of The Sermon on the Mount, reminds us all of three things: the dominion of God draws near; we are mortal; we are invited by God to be participants. (Slight pause.)
So, let us understand that (quote:) “Tomorrow will take care of itself for it will bring worries of its own.” And let us understand, therefore, that we need to (quote): “Seek first the reign of God and the justice of God...”
Why? Day by day by day by day by day the hope of God lives in us when we remember who we are and who God invites us to be. God invites us to be the people of God doing the work of God and the will of God. If we remember who we are, it is only then that the promise of the resurrection can become real, can become tangible. Amen.
ENDPIECE: It is the practice of the Pastor to speak after the Closing Hymn, but before the Choral Response and Benediction. This is an précis of what was said: “Alcoholics Anonymous has that famous saying: ‘one day at a time.’ Many people take it to be remaining sober one day at a time and sometimes remaining sober one day at a time will be a struggle. I have always also taken it to mean every day is a reminder of our own mortality, and, indeed, some days it is a struggle.”
[1] Some of this analysis stems from the commentary for this Sunday in Texts for Preaching, CD-ROM Edition, A Lectionary Commentary Based on the NRSV Years A, B, and C; Walter Brueggemann, Charles B. Cousar, Beverly Roberts Gaventa, J. Clinton McCann, and James D. Newsome Jr.
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