“Face Today”
Twenty-Seventh Sunday after Pentecost
November 24, 2024
Burnt Hills United Methodist Church
Video from Livestream (starts at 38:21)
Well, we’re in those waning days and weeks of fall here in upstate New York—one of my absolute favorite things about this part of the country. It’s one of the reasons I was excited to come back to New York—Virginia doesn’t quite do late fall like we do it up here.
The air has that crisp, late fall feel to it.
The last few leaves falling from their trees and crunching under foot, returning to the earth from whence they came.
The birds overhead carrying their sweet, silver songs with them as they make their journey southward to warmer winter weather.
As a child, I remember my grandparents coming over to visit us from Michigan during this time of the year on occasion—coming over for Thanksgiving and all that. And I’d get off the bus from school, and my grandpa would take me on a walk around the block. And on that walk, he would notice those birds flying south in their familiar V formation.
Now, before I go any further, I learned a lot of very important lessons from my grandfather. The importance of being generous with a friendly spirit. The proper technique for diving into the pool. Not to take yourself too seriously. The value of honesty—a retired parole officer, he was known to tell us grandkids, “you know, you can go to hell for lying as well as stealing”.
True story.
But, and any grandfathers in here can probably attest to this, the most important lesson he taught us was that grandpas know everything.
So, there we would be, walking around the block, and he’d point out those birds on our walk, and he’d say, innocently enough, “now where do you suppose those birds are going?”
And I was all too eager to show off my smarts, and I would quickly respond, “South! They’re flying south for the winter! Down to Mexico!”
“Is that so?” my grandpa would ask, slowly laying his trap, “and why do you think they’re doing that?”
“Because,” I would say, proudly recalling a lesson on bird migration that I learned in school, “it gets too cold up here! They need to be somewhere where it’s warm!”
“Well isn’t that something,” he’d say. “Mexico sure is awful far from here—that’s quite a ways to travel. I bet their arms get real tired doing that.”
And, of course, I’d correct him, unaware of what exactly he had in mind. “No, Grandpa! Birds don’t have arms! Birds have wings!”
Grandpas know everything, after all, and I had to protect that! But what he knew that I didn’t know was that he was playing a much larger game here.
“Oh right, right,” he’d brush it off, as if it were nothing at all. Slowly, but steadily setting his pieces in motion. “Now, you see how they’re flying in that V shape?”
And, ever the showman, he’d do this with his fingers.
“Except one side is longer than the other. Now, why do you suppose that is?”
And just like that, he had me. Not understanding the sheer magnitude of what was about to befall me, I’d say, earnestly and seriously, “I don’t know, Grandpa. Why is one side longer than the other?”
Grandpas know everything, after all.
“Because,” he’d say, smirking in that way that only grandpas can, “one side has more birds in it than the other.”
Grandpa jokes. They’re like dad jokes, just more subtle and far more devastating.
Look, then, at the birds in the air:
They neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them.
Are you not of more value than they?
Are you not of more value than they?
We’re going through a bit of a time, aren’t we?
I was listening to a podcast this week, and one of the panelists said something like, “look, the period of time in any cycle between election day and the inauguration is like the week between Christmas and New Years. Nothing matters and the calories don’t count.”
We are going through a bit of a time. And in more ways than one.
We can never know what a day is going to bring, but we do know that we are going through a bit of a time.
In theological spaces and conversations, we talk about “kairos moments” or “kairotic moments” in history. These are times when the veil between this world and the world to come wears thin. When the potential for divine action in perfect love is at its thickest and the invitation to join in that action by the Holy Spirit is palpably present.
Kairos moments. Or, put plainly, a bit of a time.
Christ meets us in these moments and asks us, “which of you, by worrying, can add a single hour to the span of your life?”
Because Matthew’s audience, as it turns out, was also going through a bit of a time.
Pastor Amy referenced the destruction of the second Jerusalem temple in her sermon last week, and, well, Matthew’s community was living in the immediate aftermath of that. Written in the late first century, CE—some time after the year 70—Matthew’s community was one that was more Jewish Christian in composition than Gentile Christian in composition.
It was a community that still felt the scars of their ancestors’ trauma and exile back in 587, BCE. Back when the first Temple was destroyed and the inhabitants of Jerusalem were carried off into exile in Babylon.
A community wrestling, once again, with the question of what it means to be the people of God when God’s house has been, once again, razed to ruin by a foreign imperial army.
A community that witnessed Rome and its legions march through the city of Jerusalem—the city of peace—burning it to the ground as they went.
This is the community that was first receiving Matthew’s Gospel and passed it on to us, its descendants in the faith.
And, smack dab in the middle of Matthew’s sharing of Jesus’ famous sermon on the mount—a sermon about what living as a disciple of Jesus Christ entails and requires—this community would have heard, “Your heavenly Father knows that you need food and drink and clothing, and so he will provide you with food and drink and clothing—do not worry about these things. Instead, seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness. Everything else will be given to you. Do not worry about tomorrow; today has enough troubles for today.”
And look, I get it. When I’m going through a bit of a time, the last thing I want to hear someone say is “calm down”.
These moments, when it feels as though all we know and love are falling all around us, put us in a state of heightened anxiety and worry.
When the adrenaline flows, driving us to fight, flee, or, if you’re like me, freeze.
The last thing I want to hear when going through one of these moments is to “calm down”.
It’s ok. It’s perfectly natural to be in that state—it’s how we’ve made it this far as a species. But if we let ourselves stay there, long-term and lasting damage can and will take place—the body keeps the score.
There’s a yogi I follow on Instagram who practices yoga as an act of decolonization—of taking the hustle and grind culture brought by the British and western imperialism out of this ancient Hindu spiritual practice. Her name is Susanna Barkataki.
Now, I’m not someone who’s ever particularly had an interest in yoga as a way of moving my own body. I wouldn’t know a downward dog if it rolled over and let me rub its belly. But I’ve recently been really appreciating Susanna’s content, and this week, she reminded me in a post that “Anxiety isn’t your enemy, it’s a love letter from your body saying, ‘This isn’t right. Slow down. Listen.’”
She says, “stress and anxiety thrive in oppressive systems,” and, to that I would add, oppressive systems thrive in stress and anxiety. Because, it turns out, stress and anxiety has this propensity to drive us into despair—drawing our focus inward, hardening our hearts, and putting us in a posture of isolating self-preservation.
Feel your anxiety, yes. Absolutely. But do not stay there, because despair will only breed more despair.
I really think that that’s what Jesus is telling us in our passage this morning.
Despair will only breed more despair, so don’t stay there.
So, take Susanna’s advice and ground yourself—literally. Kick off your shoes and feel the actual earth. Breathe. Imagine roots anchoring you to the soil and to one another deeper than this broken system ever will.
It’s true. We are, through the power of the Holy Spirit, anchored and rooted to one another, friends. No matter how much those oppressive systems might want us to believe otherwise, we are never alone in the face of these kairotic moments.
We have been given the greatest gift of all: we have been given the gift of each other.
Because, it turns out, there is a reason why one side of the V is longer than the other.
Birds that migrate in that V formation do so because they reflexively know that doing so is the most efficient use of limited energy on a long journey. When one bird flies behind another, slightly askew, it takes advantage of the updraft caused by the flapping of the wings of the bird in front of it, while keeping the one in front of it in eyesight.
However, this means that the bird at the very peak of the V formation—the bird at the very front—is expending the most amount of energy and the birds at the end of either line are expending the least amount, so what happens?
It turns out, that the “leader” of the flock is constantly switching midflight—the whole flock shares the burden of leadership.
This is why one side of the V is sometimes longer than the other: the bird at the front of the V keeps trading off with other birds in the back of the pack. Symmetry doesn’t pose an inherent advantage.
The whole flock takes care of itself to make their long journey south.
We’re going to face a number of kairotic moments in the days and weeks, months and years to come. But we knew that was going to be true no matter what. Because that’s what it means to be a disciple of Jesus Christ. That’s what it means to live a life of faith. We know that God always meets us in moments of crisis, inviting us to meet the moment and join in the act of divine love.
We’re going through a bit of a time. In more ways than one.
The only way we’re going to make it through is together, leaving no one behind and supporting one another and our neighbor.
May the one began a good work be faithful to complete it in us.
The work continues.
Amen.
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