Pulled This Way and That Way

Text: Matthew 6:24-34
Other texts: Psalm 131

The season of Lent is nearly upon us. Ash Wednesday is ten days away. On that day we are reminded of our humble origins in the dust of the earth, given life breathed into us by God. It is a day of humility that begins a season of humility.

Lent, like Advent, is a time reserved in the church year for soul-searching contemplation. It is a time to look hard at ourselves, at how things are going, at how we are doing. And it is a time to pray and think about how we would like things to be, how, maybe we would like things to be different. It is a time to get back in sync if we are out of sync, to be restored if we are bone-weary, to be quiet if we live in a cacophony. It is a time to be sane if things seem insane.

A longing to be at peace is an ancient longing. So there are disciplines, actions, that people perform during Lent that help them come to peace. Some of them—alms-giving, for example—have fallen into disuse. But “giving up” something for Lent remains. People give things up during Lent.

You might think of this as a chore. Or you might think of it as a great relief. An opportunity to lay down some of the burdens, obligations, and desires that you always carry with you. These burdens can be a distraction, making it impossible for us to think as clearly as the season of Lent asks us to. They are like little buzzing bugs that keep us from being mindful of ourselves and of God, keep us from loving those we love, from seeing the gifts and beauty in the world and in people around us.

We are invited by today’s readings to think about the things that rule us, that rule our lives. Perhaps you think that there are no such things. That you are not ruled by anything other than yourself. That you are the boss of you. Perhaps that is so for you. Perhaps you never feel the need for comforting by someone outside yourself. Perhaps you never look for direction outside of yourself. Perhaps you are self-assured; you never need reassuring.

Or perhaps instead you feel that you are small and the world is big, and that there are forces that draw you and push you—more or less—and that you are subject to them.

Last week Katie reminded us in her sermon that it is not our job to judge. We were invited to give up judging (and not just for Lent). It is God’s job. This week the Bible reminds us that it is not our job to provide for ourselves. It is God’s job. This seems harder. We can imagine that we can go without judging (though I doubt we can). It is harder to imagine that we can go without toiling and reaping.

Jesus in the Gospel is not suggesting that we do not need to eat and drink and be sheltered. God knows you need these things, Jesus says. These very things are the things God says we must provide for one another in the “goats and sheep” last judgment episode later in Matthew. We are animals; we need sustenance and security. But are we to let our striving for them rule us? And if not, what will? Which is the master, Jesus asks, that we serve?

Psalm 131 captures our deep longing for Home with a capital “H.” A place of total peace. Of safety. Of soft embrace. Like a child with its mother. Still, my soul, and make it quiet. Put aside pride, haughtiness, overwhelming matters, things too hard. Let my soul be still.

But in the psalm the child on its mother’s breast is not nursing, but is weaned, no longer totally dependent. It is not naive in the ways of the world. It is experienced. It has, we can imagine, come back to its mother after having been away on adventures, discovery, and struggles.

That’s what children do (it is built in; even monkeys do it). That’s what people do. We march out confident, curious, eager. Later, maybe frightened, maybe confused, maybe just tired, we hope to come back to a source of life for us. We need a base camp, a home base. An “all in free” safe spot. The place in which our souls can rest quietly.

But what if there are two such places? Competing places. Two masters, as Jesus calls them. Two mothers to which we might return. What then? Can there be two rocks on which our lives stand? Can there be two foundations? Can there be two mothers? In particular, can one of them be God and the other of them be money (and the stuff that money is good for)? Can we hang precariously balanced between the two, like between two poles of a magnet? No, Jesus says. You will hate one and love the other, Jesus says. They make different demands for the same you. They provide different comforts, different hopes, different guidance.

How will we know which to choose? For it seems that Jesus is giving us a choice to be made. We know in our brains, since we are faithful people, we should choose God. But in our hearts? What does our heart tell us?

Imagine you have two sweethearts vying for your affection and that you must choose only one. You ask yourself: to which are you more attracted? Or which would you rather please? To which do you turn when afraid? Or which are you most afraid of losing? What if the two are God and money?

Which is home to you, with a capital “H”?

If this were an easy question to answer, they wouldn’t be talking about it in the Bible like they do. If it were easy to trust in God instead of money, Jesus wouldn’t be telling us so energetically to choose God. He wouldn’t be making elaborate arguments about lilies and birds. He wouldn’t tell us as frequently as he does not to worry (the most frequently stated of all the commands of Jesus).

If this is a good time for soul-searching, as it might be for you, it is a good time to ask ourselves: what draws us most strongly? For you, which makes a better mother? If this is a time to get back in sync and to restore our weary bones, which master best shows us the way?

Which has brought you life and sanity? Which has brought you comfort? Which has been more reliable? Which stills your soul and brings you peace? Which, when you go there, feels like you are home?