Wisdomfest 2024: Rising Above Anxiety – Lessons From the Lilies 7/7/24

I want to tell you a secret. And since this isn’t the kind of thing you’re normally supposed to tell other people, let’s just keep this between us, okay?

I want to tell you my main internet password. For those of you who are security-minded, don’t worry. I changed it about a week ago. But for more than the last ten years (and I know that’s way too long for a password) my password has been this: hoosegow. Do you know what that word means? Jail. It’s old-timey western slang for jail. Like, let’s round up them cattle rustlers and toss ’em in the hoosegow. But that’s not the real secret. The real secret is why that was my password for ten years. The reason was sort of a secret even to me until about a year ago.

I picked that word because when I had to come up with a new password, that was the first thing that popped out of my brain. The thought of jail was top of mind for me because I had been walking around fearing that something bad would happen to me. And though I really didn’t think I’d be literally tossed into jail, I knew it would be a catastrophe. I feared that it could happen any day, and I didn’t even know what it was.

It was an ugly thought. It’s an ugly secret. And I rubbed my own nose in it by having to type it in almost every day for ten years. Even after I realized how debilitating that was, it still took me months to finally change it. I’ve lived with that anxiety for many years, long before the password. I guess I’ve had it in small ways for my whole life, but in the last twenty years, it’s gotten worse. It’s been my “normal” for at least that long.

Maybe it’s been that way for you. Or maybe it’s the ugly normal for someone you love. And even if your anxiety isn’t acute or chronic, you probably still understand how it can eat away at your joy.

So when I heard that this year’s Wisdomfest was about anxiety, I was eager to dig in. For most of my life, in fact, when I’ve heard sermons on passages like ours today, I paid special attention because I’ve wanted to find some relief for the persistent knot in my gut that I really don’t understand.

But I’m a tough customer when it comes to anxiety advice. I’ve heard it all, and most of it just doesn’t work for me. So I’m pretty skeptical. Maybe you are, too.

But in our passage today, I found something beautiful that eases my anxious soul: lessons from the lilies that I now try to remember every day. Maybe they’ll help you, too.

To get a clear picture of what Jesus says about anxiety, we first need to zoom out to what he’s saying in the whole Sermon on the Mount.

Jesus is teaching us what’s important in the Kingdom of God. What God values is often the opposite of what this world values, so some of what Jesus says sounds radical.

He tells us that things like poverty and meekness and mourning—all things that the world considers weak and worthless—are blessed in God’s kingdom.

He goes on to teach that sins in your heart are just as damning as sins done openly, and acts of piety done openly are often not as important as those done in secret.

Jesus lays out what we’ve called an “upside-down kingdom,” where leaders are servants, the last are first, and to find your life, you must lose it.

With that upside-down theme, in this passage, Jesus talks about what we should live for, and that’s upside down, too. He tells us that the material needs that most people worry about, even though they may be important, should not be most important for God’s children. Instead, we should seek first the kingdom of God, and we should not be anxious about our material needs.

Jesus teaches this lesson with examples and arguments in a few tight verses that fit together like the petals of a flower. In verse 25, he tells us that life is more than material needs. He picks some basic needs like food and drink and clothing to represent anything that might make us anxious. He points to the birds of the air to teach us to trust God’s provision for food and drink.

After a quick comment about the futility of anxiety, Jesus then considers the lilies of the field to show that we should not be anxious about our clothing. In verse 31, he comes back to his main point to tell us that instead of our material needs, we should seek the kingdom of God. Finally, in verse 34, he tells us that the chance of future troubles need not make us anxious.

Last week Allan took us birdwatching in verse 26. Today, let’s pick up in verse 27. Here in between the birds and the lilies, Jesus includes a quick truth about anxiety. He says in verse 27,

“And which of you by being anxious can add a single hour to his span of life?”

Being anxious gets you nothing. So is Jesus saying that since we can’t worry our way to anything good, the best advice is “don’t worry, be happy,” like the Bobby McFerrin song? Is Jesus endorsing Timon and Pumba’s motto here? “Hakuna matata,” no worries?

In some situations, that may be good advice. There may be times when we’d be better off to reject worry and simply be happy. But “don’t worry, be happy” doesn’t do much to ease the anxiety I feel in my gut, and it certainly doesn’t help someone beset with chronic anxiety who’s given up on happiness altogether. What’s more, I think “don’t worry, be happy” falls short of the lesson Jesus has for us here. I think he’s saying something better.

Before we look at what else Jesus says, let’s take a minute to review the mechanics of anxiety, how it works. A couple of weeks ago, Peter explained that “we experience anxiety psychologically and emotionally, but physiologically as well.” He said it’s a body-soul thing.

Karen Hubbard, in her testimony, said that her anxiety felt the way you feel when you wake up at night and think that there’s something scary in your house. Your heart races, adrenaline shoots through your body, you get ready to fight or flee.

That’s actually a good thing. God made us that way so that we can respond to threats or even routine challenges, like a test or an important meeting or preaching a sermon. That’s called “facilitating anxiety” because it helps us get things done.

If it turns out that the scary thing in your house is just the cat knocking over a jar or a shadow on the wall, normally (once you figure out that everything’s okay), your body will begin to relax and go back to normal.

But sometimes, if you’ve had a bad experience with an intruder or some other real threat like a job loss, an illness, or a car accident— every time after that, when your body gets a hint of something similar, it begins to react the same way: increased pulse and breathing, feeling uncomfortable and unsettled. There is no real threat, but your body reacts as if there is. That’s debilitating anxiety: an intense physical response without a real threat, reacting to a “what if” that never happens.

I once had a boss who would call me at 9:30 every morning, and often his call brought something unpleasant. It got to the point where I started feeling a tension in my gut every day starting about 9:15 because even without my really having to think about it, my body was getting ready for an upsetting call.

With some people, that heightened state doesn’t ever completely go away. You walk around with your soul stretched out on tenterhooks, anticipating a threat that never comes. It’s exhausting. Because it’s exhausting, some people with chronic anxiety go into shutdown. This too, is part of God’s design, like when a deer tired out from fleeing its predators hunkers down on the leaves and tries to disappear.

Sometimes, however, you get stuck down there in your shutdown hole. You tell yourself, “It’s safe down here. At least down here I know it can’t get any worse. Bad things are going to happen if I climb out.”

This is where I lived for years. This is why I was always thinking about the “hoosegow,” some looming threat. And I ended up sort of liking it down there. It felt safe. “If you never fly, you’ll never crash,” I told myself. An important part of me was going numb (like when you sit cross-legged for too long). Because when all you feel is ugly, it’s easier not to feel anything at all. And all the time, no one else knew what I was feeling on the inside—not my friends, not my wife, and I certainly wasn’t going to tell them. In fact, I didn’t even really recognize it myself. I figured that that was just the way life was for me.

So for someone like me, “don’t worry, be happy,” along with a lot of anxiety advice, is just a cute and meaningless trifle. If Jesus has nothing more to say to me, I might as well just stay down in my hole.

But Jesus does have more to say. Yes, your anxiety does nothing to help you, but God does everything to make you beautiful. Look at verses 28 and 29.

“And why are you anxious about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.”

When Jesus invites us to “consider” the lilies, he’s using a word that’s a little more intense than “look.” It’s as if he’s saying “learn from” the lilies. As an anxious person, Jesus tells me to consider the lilies. I figured I would do just that.

A few months ago, when I started to study this passage, I started taking pictures of wildflowers that I found in my yard, on walks, hikes, or drives through the country. I found them everywhere, even right out in front of the church. I found wild lilies and so many other wildflowers in all colors, shapes, and sizes, in bright sun and in mountain shade. Some common, some unusual.

These flowers do nothing to earn their beauty. They don’t study fashion trends. They never hire a stylist. The work is their Creator’s, whose skill frames their joyful symmetry, whose craft stitches their lines and colors their hues.

Botanists say that the purpose of flowers is to attract pollinators to the plant so it can reproduce. That may be. But think about what Jesus says here, that

“even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.”

This is more than purely a utilitarian design. These extravagant and subtle flourishes, tucked in unseen coves and urban cracks, are simply beautiful for beauty’s sake. God is not stingy with his craft but has fashioned a world silly with beauty. These are lessons everywhere for us to consider.

So as I followed Jesus’ instruction here to consider the lilies, I learned five important lessons.

First, I was struck by the fact that if Jesus wanted an example of the beauty of creation, he could have pointed to the heavens, like Psalm 8.

“When I look at your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars, which you have set in place, what is man that you are mindful of him, and the son of man that you care for him?”

But here in this sermon, when Jesus wanted to show us the beauty of God’s provision for anxious hearts, he did not point to a sublime, overwhelming, overpowering image like the heavens, but to something small, delicate, beautiful—something like us, something we can literally hold in our hands.

Next, I learned that the very act of noticing the beauty around me begins to ease my anxiety. That’s because noticing is what experts call a grounding skill that gets me out of my head and reconnects me with my numb senses.

But noticing is also a simple antidote to the toxins of an anxious online world. Allan Sherer talked about this last week, and a few weeks ago on his podcast, the journalist John Dickerson, who had been musing over notebooks of random observations he’d collected over the years, concluded:

“I really believe … that noticing is a practice like meditation and that noticing rewards noticing … Attention to the small allows discovery of wonder in the world, keeps you stuck on grateful, and slows time, rescuing you from the pull of the algorithm. We’re in a different age from which we need the rescue of noticing. Our minds flit because they are designed to flit. But our natural inclination to flit is hijacked. We are in an age where the vast organized skills of smart people are aimed at removing our attention from our control. And attention is the only thing that creates meaningful art, relationships, joy, love. Noticing can be a protection in that world.”

Third, I learned that I can choose what I pay attention to. I need to think about what I think about. For example, every week or so when I take my daughter’s dog on a walk near our house—there she is. That’s my buddy Pola with one of the wildflowers. I can choose to pay attention to beautiful things like this.

These are some of the flowers that Pola and I see routinely on our walk. But on that same walk, I could pay attention to this. I can choose to consider the beautiful things, or I can let myself be distracted by the ugly. And there will always be ugly, if that’s what I want to focus on. To paraphrase what Jesus says in verse 34, “Sufficient for the day is its own ugly.”

I can choose to notice the ugly (like forcing myself to remember the hoosegow fear every time I enter my password), or I can take Paul’s advice in Philippians 4:8,

“Whatever is true, honorable, just, pure, lovely, commendable, if there is any excellence, anything worthy of praise, think about these things.”

I think this is what Peter had in mind in 1 Peter 1:13 when he said that as chosen exiles, we should literally

“Gird up the loins of our mind.”

That is, get your mind ready for action.

“Be sober-minded, and set your hope fully on the grace that will be brought to you at the revelation of Jesus Christ.”

I learned, too, that even anxiety can be beautiful. I know that sounds strange, but hear me out. I know that we normally think of anxiety as a problem to be solved, a weakness, an ailment to be healed. But I think that maybe God doesn’t see our weaknesses that way.

Remember Paul’s “thorn in the flesh.” We don’t know exactly what it was: a problem with his vision, or epilepsy, or malaria. But whatever it was, Paul told the Corinthians:

“Three times I pleaded with the Lord about this, that [the thorn] should leave me. But he said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me. For the sake of Christ, then, I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities. For when I am weak, then I am strong” (2 Corinthians 12:8-10).

Where most of us see a weakness, God sees an occasion for grace and strength. That is beautiful.

I remember back almost a year ago, at the lunch following Nadine LaPenna’s funeral, I was sitting at a table that included Barry and Candy Wingo and Peter Hubbard. I think to fill a lull in the conversation, Barry asked, “Peter, what language do you think we’ll all speak in heaven?” Peter said, “Well, when we visit Israel our tour guides always say it’ll be Hebrew.”

A few other people tossed out their ideas, then Candy Wingo spoke up. “I think,” she said, “we’ll speak the same language we do now, but we’ll all be able to understand each other. Think how beautiful it will be to hear all those voices singing praises to God in their own language!”

That thought got my attention because, like our languages, our weaknesses, our disabilities, and our scars make us unique. They give us a unique perspective, a unique voice with which we can sing God’s praises as no one else can. And together, that chorus of handcrafted, one-of-a-kind voices brings glory to God in a song far sweeter than if we all sounded the same.

So anxiety can be beautiful because it lets us know God’s tenderness and provision in a way nothing else can.

The other day, Lynn Adams of the North Hills counseling team told me something else that I think makes anxiety beautiful, too. After talking to a lot of people over the years, she has come to see anxiety as an invitation. It’s an invitation to rise above my ugly thoughts and discover God’s true beauty. It’s an invitation to crawl up in my Father’s lap and tell him all my fears. Then it’s an invitation to get up and do what my Father asks me to do.

There’s another way that anxiety can be beautiful. It gives all of us—not those not prone to anxiety and those who are—it gives us all a chance to show compassion to an anxious brother or sister. You see, an anxious person, especially one in shutdown mode, may avoid social connection at the very time they need those connections most.

The rest of us can make anxiety beautiful by loving the anxious person, by caring for them the way Jesus would. Not blaming or condemning them. Not minimizing their struggles, but helping to heal them. To do that, you don’t need to know the perfect words or be an anxiety expert. Just show up. Take up a “ministry of presence,” as Shawn Johnson recommends in his book “Attacking Anxiety.” Just listen. Remind them of beautiful things.

The final lesson I learned from the lilies and this passage is probably the most important, and it comes in verse 30. Final verse for today:

“But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which today is alive and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will he not much more clothe you, O you of little faith?”

Remember we said that if you only read verse 27 (where Jesus says that being anxious adds nothing to your life), you may get the idea that the best advice is “don’t worry, be happy.” And I said that that advice rings hollow for someone who struggles with anxiety.

But if you keep reading, you find that in verse 30 Jesus gives the anxious heart a reason for confidence. Now, I can tell you from personal experience it may take a while to sink in.

He explains that our God, who fashions beautiful clothes even for weeds like dandelions (that we mow down or spray with Roundup), this same God will certainly clothe and care for you, his children, made in his image, redeemed by the blood of his only son, to live with him forever. In other words, if God makes these soon-faded flowers beautiful, he will make you and me much more beautiful. Paul told the Ephesians,

“We are his workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works” (Ephesians 2:10).

One paraphrase says it this way: “we are his masterpiece.” That helps capture the Greek word here — poiema, from which we get our word “poem.” It implies something carefully crafted, a work of art. Something made to be beautiful. Something made beautiful on purpose.

So how does it help an anxious person to believe that God is making them beautiful? Things almost certainly won’t change overnight. You’re going to doubt it for a while, maybe years. Remember, we often don’t really know what beauty looks like. It’s hard for us to see.

But if you take a little time over the years to notice what God is doing —  like marking a kid’s height once in a while on the kitchen door frame — you’ll begin to see how you’re growing. You’ll see that God is shaping you, sanding and buffing and polishing, all to make you beautiful.

So I want to close today by telling you one more secret, and although this is a beautiful secret, it’s harder to tell you than the first ugly one. That’s because I never intended to read this to anyone. I didn’t write this out for you or this sermon, and I only recently read it to my wife and one other friend. I meant this to be just for me, but I’m telling all of you so hopefully you, too, will make the effort to notice the ways your Father is making you beautiful.

Several years ago, I realized that God was giving me what I called messages. I know that sounds mystical, and that’s one reason why I never told anyone else. But there were these short encouragements that I recognized as bits of what God says in Scripture that he seemed to impress on my mind from time to time over the course of many years.

Eventually, I started to write them down with a date and a summary of what was happening in my life at the time. After a while, I also started recording times when I wanted a message but didn’t get one.

Every now and then, I take out this list, read it, and relax a little. It reminds me of what God is doing, how he’s shaping me, that he hasn’t forgotten me. Here it is:

July 2009 (15 years ago). One of our daughters spent the summer at an inpatient treatment facility for an eating disorder. During family week, hearing all those young women talk about their struggles, I realized that if they needed help, I needed help, too. In October of that year, I started meeting regularly with Jim Phillips. The message: go to the body.

October 2010, a year later. We were at a turning point in a recurring family crisis. I needed to take more leadership at home. We had struggles with one of our daughters and doubts about her relationship with Jesus. The message: I have joy for you.

March 2011, about six months later. We were in the process of joining North Hills and I was mourning the loss of service opportunities at our previous church. I felt like I was on the bench. Message: I have work for you.

July 2011, four months later. Anxious about finances, now that we were trying to manage them. Trying to get everything done. Fearing another catastrophe. Message: Delight in me.

December 2015, three and a half years later, just after I started using the “hoosegow” password. The engine on our daughter’s truck failed. Anxious about money again. Trying to make a work project successful. Then the van engine died. More financial troubles. Work project gets very busy. Dad dies. Message: Trust in me.

November 2020, about five years later. This year, I lost my mother, my job, and my fellowship (because of COVID). I’ve not felt this way in 20 years. I need another message. A direction. A cue. A clue. Nothing. I suppose that the other messages proved true, so I should find hope in that. But I feel broken and lost, unable to help my family when they need me most. No new message. Where is God in this?

May 2023, about two and a half years later and about a year ago from now, had heart surgery in January. But even before then, I started to make small changes physically and emotionally. Today, it seems like I have direction — at least something like it. I sense God’s leading. He’s given me opportunities, and I’m learning not to hide in my thoughts or doubts, or under whatever rock may be handy. Message: Don’t hide.

October 2023, about nine months ago. Something changed in me. I saw little rebellions in my life as I never had before, like finally seeing the hidden object in an optical illusion. I began to be less defensive with my wife. And she, in response or by divine coincidence, began to be less defensive with me. The changes were small, but big. Here was a taste of the joy God had promised years ago. It may be evanescent, but it was real. This was all part of a plan to change me. I couldn’t see it before. I don’t understand it now, but I’m thankful for it. I don’t think I could have come to this place without all that has come before. No new message. Just rejoice in the old.

I’m sure I will have more to add to this list, and I know I will be anxious again. Jesus knows that, too. But I know I’m God’s workmanship because I can track the progress of his work. I don’t know what he’s doing or how, but I know he’s making me beautiful. This is what I need to pay attention to. I can rest in this.

I don’t know what God’s doing with you, but I know he’s shaping you, too. Hopefully, you’ll all look better than I do. But I know you will be beautiful even in your anxieties and fears. The God who saved you saves you still. He will never leave you nor forsake you. Learn from the lilies, and trust your Father to make you beautiful.