They Don't Worry, They Just Bird

Welcome to Scattered Moments. Over the past few months, I've been amazed at how this podcast has turned into my own little confessional booth. And today I confess, worry. I can worry. It's a gift. I can worry about a lot of things. I can worry about money. I can worry about my health. I can worry about my family. I can worry about the future. I can worry about something I said yesterday. I can worry about something I'm supposed to say today. I can worry about whether somebody is upset with me. I can worry about whether somebody should be upset with me. I can worry about a strange noise coming from my car. I can worry about a strange noise coming from my body. I can worry about the roof, the air conditioner, the water heater, the refrigerator, the stock market, the interest rates, identity theft, artificial intelligence, natural intelligence, and whether I remember to close the refrigerator or garage door. I can worry about the weather next Thursday. I can worry about the pain that disappeared three days ago. And I can worry about the fact that somebody texted me. Can we talk? And I can worry about somebody who didn't text me. Yes, those angry bubbles that disappear. No text. I can worry about why the dog is barking and I can worry about why the dog has suddenly stopped barking. I can worry about the expiration date on a jar of mayonnaise. And if by some miracle I reach the end of the day and discover that I have nothing left to worry about, I can worry about whether I've forgotten something. I am exceptionally gifted at worry. Unfortunately, it is not listed among the spiritual gifts, and worry can become something more serious than a bad habit. It can become an idol. That's why I wince a little when I read the words of Jesus in Matthew six. Do not worry, because Jesus doesn't merely tell us to stop worrying. He tells us to go outside and look at the birds. And I've done the research. Birds do not have retirement accounts. They don't check the Dow before breakfast. They don't attend support groups where they process their recurring fears of squirrels, neighborhood cats, power lines, and declining worm inventories. And they don't hover over their children wondering whether little Johnny is ever going to get his wings together, move out of the nest, and find a nice robin and start raising a fine feathered family. They just bird. That's what they do. And apparently they're doing it quite well. And Jesus says they never sow, they never reap, they don't gather in barns, and yet the Heavenly Father feeds them. And then he asks a question that gets underneath all our anxieties. Are you not much more valuable than they? Perhaps Jesus used birds because we do something birds won't. We worry. And they do something we can't. They fly. Maybe there's a reason there. Your heart can't worry and soar at the same time. No, I get it. Jesus isn't teaching irresponsibility because birds still hunt for worms, they still build a nest, they still feed their young. Trust isn't inactivity. Trust is doing what God has given you to do today without demanding a guarantee about tomorrow. Then Jesus points out something else about worry. It doesn't work. Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life? Nobody ever worried themselves into a longer life. We spend countless hours rehearsing catastrophes that never show up. We write the screenplay, cast the actors, compose the soundtrack, and watch the entire disaster in our imagination. And meanwhile, the actual Tuesday we're living isn't half bad. So what do you do with worry? Here's an idea. Worry to God. We call that prayer. Take the same fears you've been endlessly researching and rehearsing in your head, and rehearse them before the throne of God. Prayer doesn't pretend the problem isn't real. Prayer simply puts the problem next to someone considerably larger. And perspective changes. I have a friend with a wonderful theological response whenever something breaks. It's all gonna burn. Car gets scratched, it's all gonna burn. Dishwasher dies, it's all gonna burn. Roof starts leaking? Okay. That one requires a contractor, but eventually it's all gonna burn. Everything we ensure, polish, repair, protect, lock up, obsess over, eventually ends up in a landfill, junkyard, or estate sale. Jesus turns next to our clothing, consider the lilies, which reminds me of 1978 when I went to my first school dance that year. And I had saved up enough money to purchase what I consider the finest shirt ever manufactured, pure polyester, silky, with banana prints on the collar. I wore patent leather shoes so shiny I could see my reflection in them, and I got to borrow Dad's Caprice Classic, AM and FM radio, eight track tape player. I was styling. I can assure you that if I walked into church wearing that outfit today, nobody would say Behold how beautiful the father has clothed him. Someone would organize an intervention. Fashion changes. Flowers don't. My wife still loves yellow roses just as she did decades ago. Nobody looks at a rose and says, Yellow, seriously? That's so nineteen eighty nine. Flowers don't have stylists, they don't follow fashion influencers, they don't worry about whether tulips are trending. They simply display the beauty God gave them, and Jesus says Solomon in all his splendor wasn't dressed like one of those. Then he reminds us how temporary things are. Here today, gone tomorrow, and so are we. One day this body I've exercised, fed, dieted, medicated, moisturized, and occasionally complained about will be returning to the earth. Food for worms. The question isn't whether I can preserve it forever. The question is, what am I doing with it while it's here? And Jesus finally brings the whole conversation down to one sentence. Seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. And that's the alternative to worry. Not denial, not irresponsibility, not pretending everything will work out exactly the way I want. Seek first the kingdom. Do today's assignment. Trust tomorrow to God. When I was a kid, I never worried about the price of GM stock. I didn't lose sleep over my father's pension. I didn't study interest rates. My financial planning consisted primarily of determining whether there was enough Captain Crunch for tomorrow morning. Why? Because I had a father. Provision was somebody else's responsibility, and I was free to be a child. And maybe that's part of what Jesus is inviting us to recover. Not childishness, but childlikeness. The confidence that says, My father knows what I need, my father knows where I am. My father knows what tomorrow holds. So I'll do what he's giving me to do today. I'll work, I'll pray, I'll love, I'll serve, I'll seek his kingdom, and occasionally I'll go outside and I'll look at the birds. Because while I'm standing there worrying about tomorrow, they'll be flying overhead, and maybe they'll remind me your heart can't worry and soar at the same time. So today, let's fly.