The nest in the bush outside my office window is empty now. Frankly, it is a bit of a mess. It looks rickety and fragile, made up of sticks and bits of trash that must have been blowing around our parking lot. A bit of an eyesore, really. I should probably go out and clear it away, it would beautify the courtyard immensely.
A few weeks ago I didn’t notice the construction quality of the next in question. My attention was captured by the activity captured inside. Three tiny baby cardinals were vibrating with the excitement of living as their doting parents - the gaudily bright dad who stood guard on the thin branches of the peak and the more muted mom who made trip after trip to fill the gaping mouths spread wide as though to swallow the world if given the chance. If I stood too long watching at the window, the whole scene would freeze as the parents cast a wary eye at the potential threat to their domestic tranquility, and even the babies stopped their frenzied waving trying to draw the attention of mom with her latest offerings and waiting, opened mouthed but still as statues, until the danger - me - had passed.
So as not to cause too much stress on the cardinal family, I didn’t stand daily vigil at my window, or set up banks of cameras to record every activity and growth spurt. I checked in from time to time, noticed when the babies grew a little bit, saw their fuzzy grey fur begin to grow into feathers, saw them start to move around, climbing on top of brother or sister for a little higher view, or primacy of feeding place. But respecting their privacy I missed the whole learning to fly moment, the struggles and strains to make your own way in the world. To be honest, I got busy and forgot all about them until the day I looked and saw the abandoned property notice tacked up on the remnants of the home that once was. And I feel like I missed something significant.
On Saturday we will load up Rhys and drive him to Greencastle, Indiana to begin his career as a college student at DePauw University. (Which is the reason why this is appearing sooner than usual.) And a part of the wash of emotion is a feeling like I missed something along the way. When did we get to this moment? Surely there was a lot more to come before this pushing out of the nest time, did I get busy and miss him growing up? So many moments come to mind as I contemplate this threshold upon which we stand as a family. And though there are lots of them, they simply can’t add up to this. Wasn’t it just yesterday that we stood at a gate at Chicago O’Hare and greeted a bright-eyed little bundle who proceeded to change our lives forever?
No, it wasn’t yesterday. It was eighteen years ago, and so much has happened since then. But, I can’t help but ask, is it enough? That’s my overriding worry, I must confess. His mother worries about underwear and laundry soap and school supplies, so I worry about other stuff. Like is he really ready to grow where he is planted, wherever that may be? Will he bear fruit and not be torn down or rooted up, not be choked out by the weeds of this world. Because there are weeds. We did the Round-up thing for eighteen years, kept him as weed free as we possibly could. But now he will be out of our reach. And the weeds are rampant.
You probably picked up on that segue-way there, didn’t you? I did have to eventually get around to a bible study to justify the title of this blog post. Take a look at the passage I chose for this weekend, one that is both sobering and comforting at the same time. At least it seems so to me.
Matthew 13:24-30 He put before them another parable: "The kingdom of heaven may be compared to someone who sowed good seed in his field; 25 but while everybody was asleep, an enemy came and sowed weeds among the wheat, and then went away. 26 So when the plants came up and bore grain, then the weeds appeared as well. 27 And the slaves of the householder came and said to him, 'Master, did you not sow good seed in your field? Where, then, did these weeds come from?' 28 He answered, 'An enemy has done this.' The slaves said to him, 'Then do you want us to go and gather them?' 29 But he replied, 'No; for in gathering the weeds you would uproot the wheat along with them. 30 Let both of them grow together until the harvest; and at harvest time I will tell the reapers, Collect the weeds first and bind them in bundles to be burned, but gather the wheat into my barn.'"
First of all, a warning to those who worship at Aldersgate. The sermon which will grow from this text will be very different from this reflection. We are still in our summer series of questions and answers in Sunday worship, so there is a question that I am responding to that lead me to this parable. But sitting here next to an abandoned nest and a Saturday journey, it rings in my soul differently. That’s the amazing thing about scripture, it seems to me. It doesn’t change and yet we hear different things, because while the words are the same, the hearers have changed, our needs have changed, our hopes and dreams, our fears and doubts have changed. And a Word that is “living and active” can accommodate those changes and meet us where we are.
Today this word says to me that there are weeds. No burying your head in the sand with Jesus, unfortunately. No, it’ll be ok, don’t worry about it, no big deal, with the Son of God. An enemy has done this, he says. There are enemies, there are dangers out there. It would be naive and risky to think otherwise. We are not called to live with blinders on, to live incautiously. Jesus sent his disciples out with the words “I am sending you out as sheep among wolves.” Weeds and wolves, watch out.
But while this is a sobering word, it isn’t the last word of the parable. Or even the most important word. That most important word comes in the response to the question raised. The question is “do you want us to root up those weeds?” That is our human inclination. We need to tear out anything that we think is evil, anything that goes against our vision of what life ought to be about. And we do this for very good reasons, to protect those we love, to be secure and safe, to do God’s work!
And that is where we get into trouble. We want to do God’s work. But God consistently says, “I’ll do my own work, thank you. You do yours.” The master says, no, leave them, because you can’t always tell how much damage you are going to do by trying to uproot what you think is evil. I’ll take care of that. I’ll order the reaping. That isn’t your job. It is mine, says the Lord.
So ... now what? What does that mean? We live passively? We don’t care about weeds or wheat? We just live inwardly, protectively and wait for someone else to sort it all out? By no means, to quote St. Paul. It means we remember who is in charge. Or rather Who is in charge. And we trust in that presence and that power. And we do our job, which is to love. Transformatively. Powerfully. Confidently. Unstintingly. We love, without reservation, without determining who might be worth our time and attention, who might be worthy of our love. We are called to live as though everyone was worthy of loving, of our love. Here’s the hard part: does this mean we might get hurt from time to time? Yes, it does. Loving is a risky way to live. But, and pay attention here, it is a better way to live. So much better. In spite of the occasional hurt, or maybe even because of it. It is better to live loving and trusting than suspicious and hateful.
Nests are supposed to empty. Thresholds are supposed to be crossed. God is in control, lean back on that. I know I am. And I think I’ll leave the rickety construction in the bush outside my window as a reminder that it isn’t the security we build for ourselves that provides the real protection, that the homes we create are temporary and transitional. I don’t know where the birds have gone, but I will trust that they are singing songs of joy and hope, that they are flying as they were made to fly. And should they come back to roost, or do their laundry, I’ll greet them with joy.
Shalom,
Derek
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