Don't worry - be happy? Don't worry - trust love!

 Second Sunday before Lent: Genesis 1:1-2:3, Romans 8:18-25 and Matthew 6:25-end

Bobby McFerrin is an american folk and jazz singer with a distinctive vocal technique who’s probably best known for the song, ‘don’t worry, be happy’.  

He wrote the track after seeing the slogan on a poster and he was taken by its simplicity. It was a hit which brought him worldwide recognition and won him a Grammy award in 1989.

Sheet music cover

For some, this was a sunny, optimistic song about survival: about surviving when rent has to be paid, about life without cash or style or a gal by his side. Worrying doesn’t lengthen our days; every life has some trouble, worrying can make it double. 

There’s a risk with such lyrics that they become superficial truisms; a saying that makes us feel worse rather than better.  Some of us will worry more than others - about little things or situations which feel insurmountable; the realities of our own lives and loved ones, or the scale of challenge confronting us in terms of living costs, racial justice and the environment. 

‘Don’t worry, be happy’ doesn’t seem to cut it. Yet as a piece of spiritual or practical wisdom not worrying is at the heart of today’s gospel. Jesus says, ‘I tell you, do not worry’; don’t worry about life, food, drink or clothing. 

As we heard that reading, there’s an important word coming before that statement: ‘therefore’. Therefore, do not worry. “Therefore” points us back to Jesus’ teaching in the sermon on the mount. 

Such teaching which both intensifies and internalises the law of love - it’s an ethic which gives a glimpse of God’s kingdom, which Jesus invites us to seek. 

It is a love which speaks of faithful hearts and which curtails insults or unkind thoughts; a love which entails truthfulness and restrains vengeance; a love which goes beyond our own loyalties of family ties.  

It is a love that shuns the false idols of wealth, consumption, acquisition and materialism; it makes space for generous giving, moderation in lifestyles and resisting being possessed by possessions. 

The scope of this love - from heart to action, thought to service - is the context and basis of Jesus saying: ‘therefore, do not worry’.

As Anna Case-Williams puts it, the ‘capacity to trust in God’s providence enough not to worry requires seeing the world differently’. That way of seeing flows from the poetic vision of Genesis - a world of beauty and goodness, plenty and fruitfulness. 

It’s a vision where God’s care and provision is evident: look at the birds of the air - from the murmurations of starlings to the blackbirds, sparrows, wrens and robins; look at the flowers of the fields - or snowdrops in a churchyard, daffodils in gardens and roses in parks. 

Matisse - reproduced here

Jesus is not being naive about basic needs or disregarding struggles for survival - for God’s goodness makes demands on us to seek justice and flourishing common life. This is a collective vision of shared responsibilities; narrowing the gap; being able to say this is good.

Yet, that work is a labour. Romans 8 presents us with an image of creation itself waiting with eager longing - for hope beyond futility, for freedom from decay. The whole creation groans, the Spirit groans within us as we await the glory that is to be revealed. 

Something decisive happened in Christ’s life, death and resurrection. We are invited to share in the labour of making hope visible through the outworking of love. 

As we labour we are set free from dazzling prizes and glittering possessions. For wealth is an affliction to those who have too much as to those exploited by it. There is something in Jesus’ teaching which is about being freed to pay attention to what is good and beautiful.

We are freed in hope and trust to seek God’s righteousness first: to seek that which is just, merciful, compassionate, hope-filled. 

Do not worry isn’t simply a truism that it adds nothing by way of length or quality to our days; it isn’t simply a catchy and optimistic song or good advice. Somehow it reflects the character of God’s new creation - of which we through faith are the first fruits.

The goodness of creation in all its fruitful abundance and the eager longings for liberation is a hope which enlarges our imaginations and encourages our actions. If we are no longer limited by fear and scarcity or overwhelmed by worry, might we live out of a love that is inexhaustible, a relentless mercy, a fathomless compassion? Might such a hope be manifest in our lives - because small acts of love reflect a love without limit. 

As our collect puts it, to rejoice that God created the heavens and the earth; that we are made in God’s image becomes a prayer that we may not only see where God is at work, but also respond to God’s likeness in all people. 

Such reverence and respect impacts on the work of racial justice and mutual flourishing - as we seek the radical inclusion of walking together in our differences for the sake of a kingdom of righteousness, of justice and peace: telling better stories, being allies and advocates; hearing different voices; celebrating diversity and dignity, with a unity of purpose. 

It’s not so much ‘don’t worry, be happy’ as ‘don’t worry, trust love’.

As Stanley Hauerwas puts it: ‘Such trust is not an irrational gesture against the chaos of life, but rather a witness to the very character of God’s care of creation.  So it is no wonder that Jesus directs our attention to birds and lilies to help us see how it is possible to live in joyful recognition that God has given us all we need’.

We can go further, that God has given us the people we need too: to journey with as we move hearts from lament to action; as we live out of the abundance of love for the sake of a hope that changes things. Amen.

© Julie Gittoes 2023

Being salt and the shaker

 Third before Lent: Isaiah 58:1-12, 1 Corinthians 2:1-12 and Mathew 5:13-20

The poet and author   Anthony Liccione wrote: ​​To be the salt, you also need to be the shaker. To shake the world. Shake the truth. Shake the people. Shake the word. Have it sprinkle, melt and preserve humanity.

The slang to ‘be salty’ in modern slang is to be angry or upset by something; perhaps shaking the truth of injustice or the unkindness of people. As saltiness sprinkles, perhaps it melts hearts and preserves humanity. 

Today we hear the phrase ‘salt of the earth’ fall from Jesus’ lips. It’s a strong statement - not might be, could be or will be, but you are. It’s a marker of our identity. 

If salt also requires a shaker, then this is no patronising or condescending marker. An expectation of honesty and reasonableness might be part of it; but the goodness of dignity flows from the one in whom we live and move and have our being. That is the light and love of God.

Before he makes this statement, Jesus has been addressing the crowds on the mountain top. He teaches them about the way in which God’s grace and our obedience are woven together - plotting out the ways in which the pattern of our lives echo God’s love. 

Jesus names both the blessing and risk of this commitment: he speaks of what sustains us in grief and persecution, of God’s defence of the vulnerable; he speaks of the service we are called to give - seeking peace and seeking justice and righteousness with the fierce instinctiveness of thirst or hunger. 

As he names these ‘beatitudes’ or blessings, we might think of our attitudes: within a community of love - the body of Christ, the church - we are invited to cross over into this radical commitment, to the alternative reality of God’s ways with the world. Saltiness entails a response - it is useless without ‘taste’.

To be salt is to shake the world, the truth, the people, the word: sprinkling, melting, preserving. What words and actions, what stories and commitments, what risks and dreams might this entrail?  For it is because we love the world that we not only pray for it, but quarrel with it when there’s injustice and sooth it where there is pain, enhance it where there is joy and preserve it where there is goodness.

We take salt for granted - or regard it as a health concern - and yet for millennia it has been a sought after commodity with medical as well as culinary uses. Jesus is applying this to us - identifying us with  a substance which seasons, melts, soothes and cleanses; or which irritates or ruins; a substance with an edge?

We are salt: what sort of identity statement is that? We make a difference - goodness, anger, preserving or melting, healing or irritating, enlivening - and knowing when too much might spoil or embitter. 

Salt is precious: Jesus is confirming dignity and value to those who are poor, grieving, persecuted, humble; the frightened, the misfit, the hungry, the peacemaker; the advocate and mediator, the counsellor and healer; those who’d been wounded or who were forgotten; those who were rejected or felt unloved. 

Salt needs to be sprinkled, ground up or poured out - it needs a shaker - it dissolves, its flavour enhancing its surroundings. If it is bringing out the best - we have to be out in the world too; preserving, restoring, healing, soothing, cleansing; sometimes being the ‘edge’ that reflects strong response for change. 

Jesus talks about dying in order to live; salt too does not exist to preserve itself, but to enliven what is around it. It enhances, rather than overpowers; it heals, sometimes with a sting, rather than wounds; it melts away and purifies, rather than destroying or ruining. Even when it has an edge, it's a saltiness that makes us thirst for the true water of life.

It is this mystery which Paul proclaims: rather than put his own lofty words as the main thing, he points to Jesus Christ crucified; the one who came in weakness, fear and trembling; not plausible words of wisdom but the demonstration of the Spirit. All we have rests on the power of God. Beyond what the human heart conceived has been prepared for those who love him - revealed through Spirit, Spirit who searches everything, even the depths of God and gifts bestowed on us. 

What we do with salt matters - it is precious and is also poured out. It is meant to enhance not overwhelm. It's meant to heal and bless, not ruin. To be salty isn’t to leave bitterness and irritation in its wake; to be humble rather than proud. 

Sometimes it would feel easier to retreat - to be bland rather than bursting with boldness. That’s not what it is to be salty; sustaining, enriching, soothing, healing; where necessary challenging with a definite anger. 

Salt - and light. What this fulfils rather than abolishes. Not to break commandments but teaching them - love God, love neighbour as self. Jesus takes us deeper into what the law demands of us - in the conduct of our lives, in the subordination of all that we do to love: of acts of service, our financial stewardship, our acts of worship, our reading of scripture. All those things are to heighten our commitment to justice, mercy and faith. 

This is the opposite of self-interest, quarrelling and oppression - as Isaiah puts it it is about breaking bonds of injustice, breaking yokes of burden, sharing bread with the hungry, providing shelter for the homeless and comfort for the afflicted; this is the light of saltiness - the healing that springs up quickly. 

That's the kind of saltiness in our prayer: healing, loving and transforming. We are to be bold not bland, to be something enriching both when we gather together but also when we are poured out or dispersed in the world.  We are to seek and be part of a kingdom with a rich depths of flavour - rooted in the works of mercy and compassion, healing and justice. In the power of the Spirit, we are to be in the world to bless not ruin, for the life of the world.

We are to be rebuilders, repairers and restorers. This is also the universal scope of God’s blessing. Returning to Anthony Liccione: ​​“To be the salt, you also need to be the shaker. To shake the world. Shake the truth. Shake the people. Shake the word. Have it sprinkle, melt and preserve humanity.” 

(C) Julie Gittoes 2023