Rev. Nick Cheek
Matthew 6: 25-34
“Do not worry. That’s easier said than done. Everyone worries. It’s part of our human condition.
I felt the weight of that kind of worry just last week. Many of you know I dropped my daughter off at Furman. I was proud of her, excited for her, and grateful that she’s stepping into this new chapter of life. But beneath all that pride and excitement sat a knot in my stomach. It reminded me of my own college days here in Charlotte—how I felt on top of the world during orientation, how confident and outgoing I thought I was. And yet, when that moment came for my father to leave, I fell apart. As soon as he walked toward the door, I burst into tears, and we held on to each other for a long time. Underneath my excitement was the ache of worry: How was I going to navigate this life?
Those same feelings came rushing back at Furman. As I hugged my daughter goodbye, I couldn’t help but wonder: Will she be okay? Will she find her way? Will she know she’s not alone? I wanted to be strong for her, but inside I was a little bit of a mess.
The excitement of new beginnings was right there, but so was the worry. I realized I couldn’t just rush over to rescue her anymore, or fix something for her, or just be there in her presence when she needed me. And then I started to worry about her worrying… about school, fitting in, making friends… and then it just turned into a vicious circle of worry.
The Greek word for worry is meridzoe, which means “to be divided, to be pulled in opposite directions.” My father used to tell me that worrying is a waste of energy. And in many ways, he was right. While some stress can be positive—in that it can motivate us to accomplish an important task—overstressing about what’s to come can actually be harmful.
In our passage this morning Jesus says, “Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to your life?” You can’t. In fact, worrying does the opposite. It decreases the hours of your life. Researchers from the University of Idaho say worrying can cause physical problems such as an upset stomach, headaches, and muscle tension. Worrying that gets out of hand has the ability to affect our daily lives so much that it interferes with appetite, lifestyle habits, relationships, sleep, and job performance.
But still we worry. But still we get anxious. But still we ruminate—on what’s happening in our personal lives, in the lives of our families and friends, in the lives of our neighbors, and in our nation and world.
Transition to Passage:
In our passage this morning, Jesus invites his listeners with these words: “Do not worry about your life—what you will eat or what you will drink, or about your body, what you will wear. Do not worry.” At first hearing, it almost sounds naïve—like a fairytale promise. How could anyone not worry about food on the table, or clothes on their back?
But Jesus doesn’t just give the command; he paints a picture. He points to the world around us, to what is right in front of our eyes. “Look at the birds of the air,” he says. “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 then he points to the lilies of the field, dressed in colors more brilliant than any royal robe. If God takes care of the birds, if God clothes the flowers in such beauty, will God not also care for you?
It’s a powerful reminder: the same God who holds the Milky Way in place, who hung the sun and moon and stars, who carved out rivers and raised up mountains—this same God is watching over sparrows and wildflowers. And if that is true, is it really so hard to believe that God also watches over us—his children, loved even more than the stars?
And yet, if we’re honest, we struggle to believe it. We struggle to trust that God’s provision is enough. Can we really count on daily bread? And even if we do trust that God will provide, is daily bread enough for us—for me, for my family? I think sometimes that’s exactly where our worry grows roots: daily bread doesn’t feel like enough. We want more. We are harvesters and gatherers at heart, never quite content with what we’ve already been given.
How many times have you caught yourself thinking: If I just made a little more money… if we just had a bigger house, a better car, a more secure job, a stronger college fund… then I wouldn’t worry as much. Then I’d be content. Then I wouldn’t worry. But have you ever noticed that some of the wealthiest people you’ve met are also some of the most anxious? More money doesn’t necessarily bring more peace. Proverbs 17:1 says it plainly: “Better a dry crust with peace than a house full of feasting with strife.” Sometimes the more we have, the more there is to worry about—and the tighter we hold on to what we have, the more we have to lose, and the more reasons we find to worry.
The truth is, the more we put our faith in our own ability to acquire and control, the less we lean on God’s provision and grace. Perhaps that is the invitation hidden inside Jesus’ words: that learning to live gratefully with what we already have—to be content with God’s daily bread—might be the beginning of a less-anxious life.
We are a prideful people, people who value control and order. We like to think it is the work of our own hands that sustains us and protects us. But is it really us? Or is it the work of God’s providence and care? Or is it some mixture of both?
Pastor Lydia Shiu has written honestly about this tension. She says that one of the hardest parts of living faithfully is naming our fears and worries out loud—because to do that means admitting we are not in control. She talks about the way we grasp for control to ease our anxieties—planning, working harder, trying to fix things on our own—when in reality, control is often just an illusion. It looks like security, but it doesn’t last. Shiu reminds us that faith is not about pretending we have it all together. It’s about surrendering what we can’t hold and trusting God with what is beyond our reach. That doesn’t make us weak—it makes us honest. She says that when she finally admits, even in front of her congregation, “I don’t have all the answers. I don’t know how this will turn out. I’m afraid too.”—that’s when faith becomes real. Because it’s not grounded in her ability to hold everything together, but in God’s promise to be with us through it all.
And isn’t that the heart of Jesus’ words here? Whether we want to admit it or not, we’re not in control of much. And the sooner we realize that, the sooner we can rest—not in our own hands, but in the peace of God’s providence.
In our story this morning, Jesus is talking to everyday people—people who worried about putting food on the table, among many other things. He’s talking to the overworked mother or father trying to keep it all together—worrying about homework, dinner, keeping the house in order. He’s talking to the teenager worried about fitting in, making grades, pleasing parents. He’s talking to the grandmother who just learned she must return to the hospital after bad news from a blood test. He’s talking to the family striving to make ends meet, the couple worried about paying for college. He’s talking to all of us who share common anxieties about our past, our present, and our future. He’s talking to children of God who strive to make it all work by depending on our own strength. Children of God who work harder and harder as our worries pile up—until finally, once we’ve reached our max—once we’ve given it all we’ve got, exhausted, depleted, physically, mentally, and spiritually spent—we have no choice but to fall into the arms of God. We have no choice but to let go of our control and say honestly: God, help me. Help me know that you are near. Remove my anxieties so that I might dwell in your peace.
Hudson Taylor, the missionary to China who knew more than his share of worry, once said this: “Let us give up our work, our plans, ourselves, our lives, our loved ones, our influence, our all, right into God’s hand; and then, when we have given all over to God, there will be nothing left for us to be troubled about.” That’s the invitation Jesus offers in this passage. He tells his disciples—and us—that our God is a God of provision, a God who is near, a God who cares for us deeply. And he gives us one focus, one priority to set our hearts on: “Seek first God’s kingdom and God’s righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well.”
When Jesus says do not worry, it isn’t magic—it’s perspective. It’s about who we believe is in control: us, or the God of the universe? If God can keep the planets spinning in orbit, if God can feed the sparrows and clothe the lilies, can God not also hold onto us through whatever storms or anxieties life may bring? Seeking God first doesn’t mean the storms go away. They don’t. But it does mean we can face them differently—with the trust that even in the storm, God is with us. And when we stop, when we pause long enough to reorient our hearts to that presence, our worries begin to shrink. Instead of being consumed by anxiety, we find ourselves dwelling in the peace of a loving and caring God. And church, I’ll be honest. Even after preaching all this, I still struggle. I can stand here and tell you God is in control, but I still find myself clinging, grasping, trying to hold on to more than I can carry.
Last week at Furman was one of those moments. As I hugged my daughter goodbye, it hit me how much of her life is hers to live now. Of course, we will always be there for her—forever—supporting her, a call or a drive away. But this is different. She is stepping into her own life, making her own choices. She is no longer fully under our roof. She is like a bird being nudged from the nest. And then I came home. That evening, I heard the familiar squeak of the swing set in the park across from our house—the same sound I had heard at all hours of the day when Lydia was home. It was one of her favorite places. That sound, usually so ordinary, suddenly stopped me in my tracks. It carried with it the ache of absence, the reminder that life had shifted. She wasn’t out there anymore. She was beginning a new chapter. In that moment, I had to face the truth: I can’t control her days. I can’t shape every choice or shield her from every storm. All I can do—the hardest and holiest thing a parent can do—is place her in God’s hands. And maybe that’s the heart of this whole passage. The call to stop carrying the things we cannot control, and to trust that the God who watches the sparrows is watching us, and watching those we love most.
Friends, hear these words from Philippians: “Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”