An Organic Life

Matthew 6

Near the end of Chapter 6 of this first book of the Gospels, and in the middle of his great Sermon on the Mount, Jesus issues a call for simplicity.  He says, "take no thought for your life, what ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink; nor yet for your body, what ye shall put on."  Lilies, birds, and all of the natural world are a testament that God takes care of his creations, better than we could ever hope to.  Of course, this was taught primarily to his disciples who would be moving from house to house, city to city, as he did, without food and clothing at the ready, but since it's here, on the page for general readers, surely we can get something out of it too.

In all of his doctrine, this is possibly the most liberating.  Don't worry about even the "necessities" of life; those will work themselves out. This is not to say that we make no effort in our lives or that we don't work.  On the contrary, becoming "simple" takes a lot of work.  To do so, it helps to keep two main things in mind:

1) Each day has its own life.  It begins with light and ends when that light is extinguished.  It is so sacred that we shouldn't even take thought for tomorrow, "for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself."  It's already brewing, what can we do about it?  Because (this line puzzled me for years)  "sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof."  I'm not sure I have it right, but I think it means that there is plenty of evil just waiting there, in the future, even in tomorrow.

Seven pages before this, John the Baptist was eating his locusts and wild honey in the wilderness, teaching the first phrases of a new order and confessing his unworthiness of even Jesus's shoe's latchet.  Eight pages after this he is in prison, hearing from his disciples of Jesus's fame.  And seven pages after that, John, the much-anticipated, beloved only child of aged parents, beautiful wild man who single-handedly prepared his generation for the Son of God and who, once Jesus's ministry is underway, quietly steps aside, is beheaded.  "For Herod had laid hold on John."  All the time he is preaching, this end is waiting.  When the angel comes to Zaccharias bearing news that is so beyond his wildest dreams he can not believe it, and months later, when that good news leaps for joy in his mother's womb, the man who lays hold on a grown-up John is on his throne eating and drinking and wreaking havoc in a kingdom where he will soon kill all the Jewish babies in hopes to eradicate any contenders for his power.

And for every hour Jesus spent on the mountain top or at the shores of the Sea of Galilee, Gethsemane and Golgotha are waiting.  And he knew it.  He speaks of it more and more as it gets closer, as if the heaviness is slowly arriving.  In his poem "The Stolen Child," W. B. Yeats writes that " the world's more full of weeping/ than you can understand."  Who knew this better?  If anyone knows that enough evil is there, in each day in the world, it is him.

What do we do with this?  Evil is real.  It plays its part.  And yet, (and yet!) that light in that one day is not wasted.  It gave life to those lilies, those birds.  It gives life to us and, if the pattern of days tells us anything, it means that light will return.

2) Follow.  Interestingly,  Jesus never teaches us to lead.  He teaches us to be led. Every day he is led to those people who, having faith and needing him, become the stories by which he tells the world who he is.

His dearest companions are those men who, one day fishing with their father or collecting taxes, stopped what they were doing, changed plans on a dime, "straightway left" those things and became absolute followers.  Never again to be fishermen or tax collectors but to be something altogether new, a company of individuals who witnessed, first hand, the greatest miracles ever to take place.

What we follow obviously matters.  But the notion that we invent our lives, that we are rogue in any way, is absurd.  We all follow something.  If what we follow is intuitive rather than selfish or superficial, something deep within us that recognizes real purpose, then a funny thing happens.  We become the product of an organic life, one that is simple and natural, in the best sense of the word, because it grows. One that allows a person to be led to true greatness.  Because "your Heavenly Father knows you have need of these things."  We keep ourselves open to the wonder that comes to us, unsolicited, sometimes terrifying, often inconvenient.  It could be that the greatest act of creativity is simply waking up each day.  What is waiting for us?  What do we do with it?

In poetry, and most creative writing, there is a strong doctrine of allowing the writing to go where it wants to go.  Sitting down simply to prove one particular point in a poem, with a particular end in mind, generally does not work.  Hokey as it may sound to non-writers, writing is strongest when the movement and texture of the subject develop naturally, almost apart from the writer themselves, so that, by the end of the piece, the writer may be just as surprised as the reader.  It was not what they set out to do, but there it is, a piece wholly-individual, fully-realized, almost taking its own breath.  And as with a poem, maybe a day.  Maybe a whole life.