FACING THE STORM

A reading from St. Matthew’s Gospel (6: 25-27)

"Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds of 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? And can any of you by worrying add a single hour to your span of life?” 

Reflection:

It was cold, down at the nature reserve.  The sky was steel grey, clouds torn by an almost gale-force wind.  It ripped through the trees, scattering the last leaves.  The water was grey and ruffled.  A great armada of Canada geese was in the water, together with dozens of other waterbirds.  They all floated there, facing into the storm.

Their environment had suddenly become hostile, threatening.  They didn’t protest, or run for cover.  They didn’t use up precious energy flying into it, or fighting it.  They faced into the wind, paddling quietly.  They didn’t try to make headway, but paddled just enough to keep their direction and position in the water.

Maybe we can learn from the birds.  Jesus thought so.  They tell us of God’s concern, he said, and remind us that we achieve little by worrying.

When the going gets tough, the tough get going, says the cliché. I’m not sure that’s always the best way.  We’re not all as aggressive as that suggests.  Another way is just to face the storm, and keep position.  Not scream and shout, not protest and ask what have we done to deserve this, but just hold on to faith and wait for the wind to blow itself out.  It will, because the creator of the winds is stronger than the wind itself.  It may take time, but it works.

Poem by Eddie Askew

Look at the birds.
That’s what you said, Lord.
And there they are,
just getting on
with the business of living.
Being birds.

Facing the storm.
That’s part of my problem, I reckon.
Not content to be me.
Wanting something different.
Creating my own tensions.
Piling up the building blocks of discontent.
Making my own high-rise apartments of unhappiness.

Isolating myself in anxiety.
Made worse
when the hand of reality gives it all a push,
and I sit,
a child in the ruins,
howling.

Help me understand, Lord,
that wherever I’m at,
you’re there.

That you have something for me
That you care.

As a hen gathers her chicks under her wings,
you said.
Nice picture, that.

Safe from the world,
warm, secure.
But chicks must grow up,
And so must I.

Get out into the cold wind
of the world out there.
But knowing that your wings
are stronger than the storm.

I think I can live with that.

Amen.