God Cares? Show me where and tell me how! ~ Matthew 6:25-34

 

I want to start with a confession.

There have been moments in my life when the phrase “God cares” felt hollow – almost like a bad joke. Maybe you’ve been there.

Someone says, “God cares about you,” and instead of comfort something in you tightens. Because if we’re honest, sometimes that glib statement doesn’t land as good news. Sometimes it lands as - thin. Especially when you’ve painfully experienced enough of the world. When you’ve walked through a neonatal unit or seen a child hungry. When you’ve watched someone you love not get better or walk away. When you’ve read the headlines or, worse, lived them.

And in those moments, the image of God can shrink into something distant—a ruler far away saying, “I care.” And we’re left wondering: What does that actually mean? Because if “care” just means God has warm feelings, it’s not enough. We don’t need a God who merely feels care. We need a God who does care—and we need to know how.

Jesus doesn’t avoid that tension. He steps right into it. He says, “Don’t worry about your life… your Father knows what you need.” He says, “Look at the birds of the air . . . See how the flowers of the field grow” and playfully asks, “Are you not more valuable than they?” Jesus refuses, in other words, to cancel God’s care.

It’s a strong claim. But it raises an honest question: How is that true? Because sparrows still fall. People still suffer. Hunger, sickness, and loss are real. So whatever Jesus means to say about God and us, it has to be big enough to hold that reality. Otherwise, it’s not truth—it’s denial. It’s not theology – it’s fantasy. So what does Jesus mean?

Jesus can’t be saying, “Nothing bad will happen.” He’s not offering a shallow optimism or a promise that life will be easy. Instead, he gives a command rooted in a communal vision and corporate ethic: “Y’all seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness and all these things will be given.” (Proper Texas Version) And even though it’s at the end of our passage, that’s where the real meaning begins.

The “kingdom of God” is not an abstract place. It’s a way of organizing life around God’s principles—principles of generosity, justice, prayer, trust, and love. It’s a world where:

• people don’t hoard while others starve
• people serve God’s ways rather than money’s commands
• people don’t look away from suffering they lean in
• people trust there is enough—if we live like family

Jesus is not saying, “Food doesn’t matter.” He’s saying, “God intends a world where no one faces hunger alone.” So “do not worry” is not denial—it’s an invitation: He’s saying: “God invites us to live as a community where no one is left alone to worry about food.” That’s a very different thing.

So Matthew 6:33 is a call to action to be God’s ambassadors in order to enact God’s goodness: to seek God’s justice and build a world where people are clothed and fed.

This is how the promise of care in Matthew 6 makes sense. It only works inside a life shaped by kingdom principles—where needs are met together, not carried alone. So there’s a darkside -it doesn’t work if we do nothing.

And that leads to the second truth:

God’s care is expressed through partnership.

We see this from the very beginning – the origin story of human beings who are created not for worship but for the shamar [in Hebrew: the keeping, the caring] of all creation. That’s what it means to bear God’s image – to care like God and for God.

So if we’re waiting for God to care by overriding reality—suspending natural laws, instantly fixing everything—that’s mostly not how Jesus describes God at work.

Look at the birds and the flowers, he says. They are cared for—but through a God-created, God-sustained system of soil, rain, seed, and sun. In the same way, God’s kingdom runs on relational systems—on people living out God’s principles: loving enemies, giving to those in need, forgiving others, sharing possessions, refusing to hoard.

This is God’s way of caring.  Desmond Tutu said it this way: “God does nothing in this world without a willing human partner.” Wrestle with that. It reminded me of Matthew 14, where the disciples saw a hungry crowd and brought it to Jesus’ attention, he didn’t say, “Wait for God to act.” He said, “They do not need to go away. You give them something to eat.” And in another version of the story (Mark 6) he asks, “How many loaves do you have?” And even though a multiplying miracle occurs, partnership and participation were essential. So part of the answer to “Where is God’s care?” is this: Where are God’s partners?

And once you start looking for it, you begin to see God’s care everywhere both in Scripture and in day-to-day life.  Not in dramatic moments, but in quiet ones. A meal shared. A beautiful flower. A hand held. A burden carried. A bird singing. People who show up, who listen, who refuse to look away. People who are the care of God. People who become mundane miracles of attention and presence. Don’t underestimate that. Partnership is how God cares.

Let me offer another illustration. In the book of Acts we encounter a tremendous inward change of grace in believers who experience a radically different attitude toward possessions. Luke was so amazed by it that he describes it twice in Acts chapters 2 and 4 (Acts 2:44-45; 4:32-35). In one account, he said:

³² All the believers were one in heart and mind. No one claimed that any of their possessions was their own, but they shared everything they had. ³³ With great power the apostles continued to testify to the resurrection of the Lord Jesus. And God’s grace was so powerfully at work in them all ³⁴ that there were no needy persons among them. For from time to time those who owned land or houses sold them, brought the money from the sales ³⁵ and put it at the apostles’ feet, and it was distributed to anyone who had need. (Acts 4:32-35)

Why was there “no needy person among them”? Not because resources fell from heaven—but because people who encountered God’s grace became participants in God’s care. God’s principles reshaped their lives from greed to need, and they became God’s agents. That’s the pattern.

So when we ask, “Who is God, according to Jesus?” we have to let go of lesser images: God is cold and distant. God is passive. God is a celestial vending machine responding to requests, especially if you’re good or cute.

No. According to Jesus, God is an actively caring, transforming presence who works through principles and partnership—through people graciously transformed by love in a world made for love. And that’s both comforting and confronting. Because it means we don’t just ask, “Why doesn’t God do something?” We must learn to ask:

• What has God placed in my hands?
• Where is God inviting me to show up?
• Who near me needs care right now?

It may feel small—like five loaves and two fish. But in willing hands, that’s enough to begin. But it also means learning to receive care. Because if God works through people, then sometimes the answer to our prayer is already present—in the hands of someone nearby. Maybe what Jesus is doing in Matthew 6 is not denying the darkness or scolding our worry, but retraining our vision (Matt. 6:22-23).

Yes, the world is full of suffering. But it is also full of care, wonder, and beauty —quiet, persistent, often unnoticed. And once you see it, you can’t unsee it. So the question we leave with is not just, “Does God care?” But: Where is that care showing up right now? And how might God be working through me?

Because according to Jesus, God’s care is not far away. It is here— waiting to be noticed, waiting to be received, and waiting to be shared by us, through us, in us, and for us. To be a system of care that acknowledges our God-given pricelessness. And when we say “God cares.” When we pray for God’s provision. Always remember that God lovingly responds, “I am pouring out my goodness upon you. Look at the birds. Revel in the flowers. You are so valuable! And now, you give each other something to eat." Amen.

The Christian Atheist [God, According to Jesus series] ~ Luke 15:1-2, 11-32

 

One of the things Jesus reveals through his teaching and ministry—the gospel in its clearest form—is this: nothing shapes our lives more than the God we imagine. That vision sits at the helm. It sets the direction. It quietly calls every shot. I meet so many people—Christians and non-Christians alike—who carry around a toxic picture of God. A God who is more burden than beauty, more threat than hope.

The New Testament scholar Tom Wright tells a story from his years as a chaplain at Oxford and Cambridge. He would sit down with first-year students, welcoming them into college life. Though most were eager to meet him, some would say, a bit awkwardly, “You won’t be seeing much of me. I don’t believe in God.”

Wright would gently respond, “Oh, that’s interesting. Which god do you not believe in?”

Caught off guard, the student would scramble: “Well… an old man in the sky, ready to smite people at a moment’s notice, sending good people to heaven and bad people to hell.”

And Wright would smile and say, “Oh good. I don’t believe in that god either.”

That moment opens a door: it’s not just whether we believe in God—it’s which God we believe in. And this matters because Jesus also understood that the god we imagine shapes the life we live.

The image of God we carry becomes the architecture of our inner world. If God is harsh, we can grow hard. If God is distant, we can become unavailable. If God is anxious, controlling, or easily angered, we often mirror that same posture in our relationships. We judge quickly. We forgive slowly. We live with the quiet ache that we are never quite enough.

A judge in the Boston Marathon bombing case once quoted from Verdi’s Otello: “I believe in a cruel God.” That belief doesn’t stay theoretical. It leaks into everything.

But if God is gracious—shockingly gracious—something in us begins to thaw. If God is patient, we learn to breathe more slowly with others. If God is merciful, we become softer people. If God delights in us—not because of what we’ve done, but because of who we are—then we begin to extend that same delight outward.

So the question is this: Who is God, really? And perhaps more honestly: Who have we been told God is?

Because many of us are still held hostage by a version of God we no longer even believe in—but can’t seem to escape. Teresa of Ávila encourages us this way: “All concepts of God are like a jar we break.”

A God who keeps score. A God who withholds love. A God who demands perfection before offering acceptance. These are jars Jesus came to shatter. Or, perhaps I should say it more provocatively, 

 

That’s exactly the dilemma Jesus confronts in Luke 15. There’s a single line in Luke 15 that begins to expose everything: “This man welcomes sinners and eats with them.” That’s the complaint. That’s the scandal. The problem isn’t that Jesus’ God is too righteous—but that God is too kind. Too open. Too generous.

And Jesus responds—not with an argument—but with images. A shepherd searching for a sheep. A woman searching for a coin. A father with two sons. Each story pulses with the same rhythm: something lost and sought, until they find it.

But underneath the stories, something deeper is happening. Jesus is dismantling a false God. A transactional God. A scorekeeping God. A God obsessed with rule-keeping over relationship. A God of retribution instead of restoration. All jars that must be broken.

And in its place, Jesus reveals a God who seeks persistently. A shepherd who goes after the lost sheep—until he finds it. A woman who searches for the coin—until she finds it. Relentless. Focused. Unyielding.

The God of Jesus is not indifferent to loss or lostness. God is not waiting passively to be discovered. God is already moving, already searching, already pursuing—and heaven erupts when the lost are found.

Then comes the third story. A father. Two sons. The younger son leaves, burns through everything, collapses into ruin, and finally decides to return home—not as a son, but as a servant. And when he returns he is met by the father with embrace rather than anger, with a party rather than punishment.

But there’s a question that lingers and something to notice. In the first two stories, the seeker goes out until the lost thing is found. So why doesn’t the father leave the house to search for his son? Why does he stay? Where is the “seeking”?

There are reasonable answers. The father allows his younger son the dignity of choosing to return. Sure. He runs to him “while he is still a long way off.” Of course. He declares, “This son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.” Amen.

All true. But still—it feels different. The searching seems less obvious. Unless, Jesus is telling a slightly different story. Because I finally noticed the father does leave the house to seek and save the lost. Did you catch it?

“When the older brother became angry and refused to go in, the father went out and pleaded with him.”

Yes, the younger son was lost in rebellion and returns home. But if what is lost is identified by the persistent seeking – the sheep, the coin, and the son – who does the father actually go out to seek and save in the third parable?

We often assume the story is about the reckless son—the obvious sinner, the one who ran away. But Jesus is telling this story to the Pharisees. To church folk. To those who are offended by unfettered grace. And he wants to save them from their puny, transactional, uptight, stiff-shirt, God. Jesus’ God wants to save the religious.

That’s the shift.

Yes, the younger son is lost in rebellion. But more importantly, the older son is lost in resentment. The younger says, “Give me what is mine.” The older says, “I’ve earned what is mine.” Different language. Same posture. Both are living lost but one tragically does so in the Father’s house.

And listen closely: the older brother says, “I’ve been slaving for you all these years.”

Slaving!?

He doesn’t see himself as the son of a good father. He sees himself as a servant. And here’s the quiet tragedy: Both sons were outside the house. One left physically. The other never truly came in. Both have reduced themselves to spiritual slavery. And yet, the father moves toward both.

This is the deeper issue: Both sons have misunderstood the father. The younger thinks, “I am not worthy.” The older thinks, “I have earned my place.” Both are wrong. 

 

If God is transactional, we become transactional. If God keeps score, we keep score. If God excludes, we exclude. And before long, we find ourselves standing outside the party—explaining why others shouldn’t be inside.

And the story ends unresolved. Two sons remain. But only one has entered. We don’t know what the older brother chooses—because the story is holding up a mirror, especially for church folk – those who secretly think themselves somehow slaving in the Father’s house.

Will we go in?

Will we open doors and celebrate grace given to people we don’t think deserve it, including ourselves?

Will we let go of our small, brittle images of God—and discover the God of Jesus who comes to us until he finds us? Or will we stay outside—angry, justified, and alone—shaped by the image of the false god we’ve believed in?

If you remember anything, remember this:

We don’t measure up to this God; we simply show up.

We let this Tender One embrace us. We let him break our jars and then throw open our doors. And when we meet people who don’t like a toxic God—who fear that God, or fight that God—we can smile and say: “Good. I don’t believe in that God either.”

And then we lovingly announce the good news of God, according to Jesus: a God who is unrestricted, openhearted, and relentlessly faithful— a God who seeks, who runs, until he finds us. Until he finds us. Until he finds us. Amen.

And so, as we lean into this gracious God, I invite you to come forward—not because you have everything figured out, not because you have earned your place, but simply because you are loved. Come and remember your baptism. Remember the water that named you, claimed you, and held you long before you could hold onto anything yourself. As we sing—I Was There to Hear Your Borning Cry—let it carry you gently back to that truth: that God has always been the One who comes toward you, who seeks you, who delights in you. Come as you are—whether you feel close or distant, certain or unsure—and touch the water as a sign of the God who never stops reaching for you. Come and remember: you don’t have to measure up. You can simply show up.