“Giving Thanks with the Birds and Lilies”
“Giving Thanks with the Birds and Lilies”
Matthew 6,,25-34
Matthew 6.25-34
In the name of the Living God and his risen Christ. Amen.
46.2 centimeters. 18 inches. A foot and a half. One cubit, if you’re working on the Noah’s Ark construction team. If the span of your life was measured as a length — your “length of days” as the Bible says — Jesus tells us that worrying cannot add even one cubit (18 inches) to its span. All the fretting, all the planning, all the restless nights, all the anxious intrusive thoughts, the weight of the worry of the whole world — stack it all end to end and at the end of your life, how much further has it got you? Not even 18 inches.
Six times in this short section on the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus uses the word for “anxious.” He knows us pretty well, doesn’t he? Even in first century Galilee, apparently, worry was an issue. Although separated from us by over six thousand miles and two thousand years, the core issue remains the same: what are you fixated upon? What are you staring at? What grabs your gaze and won’t let it go? It was for them the same as for us: we tend to stare at what we don’t have… what others have… what we should have had… what we demand to have… what we hope to have one day. It’s incessant, isn’t it, once you begin to think about it? How much time and energy spent on these endless “if only”s rather than the gratitude for the gifts already present.
Jesus points us to present tense thankfulness today. Right before me. In my lap. At my table. Here and now. Not the would’ve, could’ve, should’ve of the past; nor the maybe-one-days, if only’s, hopefully’s of the future, but to rest in the reality that today, this day, I have been give so much.
In order to point his hearers to this present tense thankfulness, the Lord points them to two of the most common creations around them at the time. He tells them to fixate rather upon these humble, abundant creations of the birds of the air and the lilies of the field. The fowls and the flowers, we might say, to add a little alliterative flair. “Look, behold, fix your gaze upon the birds of the air; they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly father feeds them.” We’re not told precisely what kind of birds these were (definitely not turkeys), but we know they were abundant. Israel at this time has been described as a crossroads for bird migration.[1] We can imagine “swarms of winged travelers in the air as Jesus preaches.”[2]
Or, Jesus says, fixate instead upon the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his glory was so arraigned. Again, we don’t know what kind Jesus refers to here, but we know they were beautiful and abundant. Galilee’s springtime brought forth fields flowing with beautiful wildflowers. But before the end of summer, they served as dried out fuel for the domestic ovens.
The fowls and the flowers have one thing in common which stands in stark contrast to us: they can really only live present tense. Theirs is a day-to-day existence. The flower can grow but can’t grow a bank account; the birds can build a nest, but they can’t build a 401k. These creations of God simply grow and gather without care for the future. Today is enough for them.
Maybe it can be enough for us, too. We, who are of such greater value than birds and lilies, loved by our heavenly father, made in his image even, redeemed by the greatest gift of his precious son, filled with his spirit, promised eternal life, how much more… how much more will he care for us today?
Jesus calls them “ye of little faith” in his sermon — it’s not a compliment, like you know, “aww, cute little faith.” No, he means that their fixation upon all that they should have, and all that they don’t have, and all that they strive to have one day, enslaves them to anxiety and worry. It is a symptom of how little they trust in their Father. Rather, they are called to a simple, instinctive, day-to-day, daily bread trust, like the fowls and flowers. They are called, as are we, to a greater Faith in the greater God who made all things, and who went to hell and back for us, he can handle today, tomorrow, and yesterday too, by the way.
Many of us have family traditions associated with Thanksgiving. It usually involves a great table with a great feast, loved ones gathered from far and near. Maybe there’s a football game (Lions have a good shot this year) or a long walk after dinner. But some Thanksgiving memories for some of us are not always pleasant or positive either, are they? They can be times of stress and conflict. They can be reminders of hurt, or loss, or a painful reminder of what we don’t have. (Don’t talk about religion or politics, right? Don’t bring up the past, right?)
One memory stands out for me. The table was spread in our finished basement, because that was the only place where we could fit everyone. We had a pool table that my mom would put a board and tablecloth over that doubled as a banquet table. All gathered around, the prayer was said, but then each person was given their portion: five kernels of corn. I remember staring at it. Fixated upon it. That’s it? You got to be kidding, right?
Of course, there was a larger purpose behind this illustration. Of dubious historicity is the legend of that during the famished winter of 1622, Governor Bradford reduced each pilgrim’s daily ration to a mere “five kernels of corn.” The 19thcentury American poet and hymn-writer, Hezekiah Butterworth (great name, right? No relation to Mrs. Butterworth from the syrup bottles), wrote a thanksgiving poem based upon the story:
The pale Pilgrims welcomed each reddening morn;
There were left but for rations, Five Kernels of Corn.
Five Kernels of Corn!
Five Kernels of Corn!
But to Bradford, a feast were Five Kernels of Corn!
Of deeds such as thine was the free nation born,
And the festal world sings the "Five Kernels of Corn."
Five Kernels of Corn!
Five Kernels of Corn!
The nation gives thanks for Five Kernels of Corn!
To the Thanksgiving Feast bring Five Kernels of Corn!
I’ll never forget that Thanksgiving, my wide eyes fixated upon those five kernels of corn – how little they were to me, but how much they would have meant to that group of famished, “pale pilgrims.” How much I had compared to them. How ungrateful I had been.
It’s all about where you cast your eyes, isn’t it? What you’re fixated upon. Learn the lesson of the fowls and the flowers, the birds and the lilies. Cast your eyes upon Christ, our savior. Be content with his word and promise. Know that his love is upon you. Let this be enough for today. And be thankful.
Come soon, Lord Jesus. Amen.
[1] Hendrickson, Matthew, 350
[2] Ibid.