Don’t Worry? Easier Said Than Done.
One of my favorite passages in the New Testament is Matthew 6:25–34, where Jesus tells us not to worry about our life—what we’ll eat or drink, the clothes we’ll wear. After all, the birds have all the food they need, and the lilies of the field are dressed more beautifully than a king in his finest robes.
“So don’t worry about tomorrow,” he says. “Each day has enough trouble of its own.”
Yeah, right.
It’s hard not to worry these days, isn’t it? The birds and the lilies don’t have to worry about inflation, climate change, or whether their health insurance covers spiritual unraveling.
But maybe that’s the point.
Jesus wasn’t dismissing our struggle. He was pointing to something deeper: a Divine Intelligence that lovingly nurtures all of Life—a Peace that doesn’t depend on circumstances.
Birds don’t worry because they’re aligned with it. Lilies don’t strive because they’re held by it. And we are part of it too.
The Loving Intelligence That Nurtures All
The sun shows up every day.
The rain falls without judgment.
The seed splits open in due season.
The fire warms without asking.
And our heart keeps beating.
Not because we earned it.
Not because we deserve it.
But because we’re part of something that never stopped loving us.
This is the Law Jesus taught—this loving Intelligence—the quiet, steady pulse of unconditional support. And—contrary to popular belief—we don’t have to strive for it, prove ourselves worthy of it, or work overtime to keep it.
It’s not a prize.
It’s not a paycheck.
We simply exist.
And that’s enough.
The Illusion of Separation
We are the only species capable of denying the force in which we “live and move and have our being (Acts 17:28).”
Birds don’t wear parachutes.
Fish don’t use snorkeling gear.
Sunbeams don’t doubt the sun.
But we resist what holds us.
We think of ourselves as having a separate identity and a superior intelligence. Thus, we have invented systems that make us think we’re in charge. We have created rules to override relationship and systems of control to reject trust.
They are all illusions.
When Religion Forgets Mercy
Many people today cling to systems created according to man-made laws—external behaviors, rigid traditions, and spiritual elitism—just like the Pharisees in Jesus’ time. Jesus challenged that directly. He said, “You nullify the Word of God for the sake of your tradition” (Matthew 15:6).
The Pharisees accused him of abolishing the Law. No. He was restoring the Law: Love, Mercy, and Truth. These things were painfully absent from their made-up laws, and the result was suffering.
The same is true in today’s world.
What Happens When We Build On Sand?
If Divine Intelligence is Law—and that Law is Eternal—and if what’s created in harmony with it shares in that Eternity … then what must happen to the illusions man created to deny and reject it?
Imagine a dam built long ago—a dam built by human fear — a dam built to hold back the waters of vulnerability, mystery, and surrender. Brick by brick, we stacked beliefs:
“I must earn love.”
“I must control everything.”
“I must prove my worth.”
For a while, it worked. The dam held. But over time, the pressure kept building, leading to the inevitable collapse.
We all sense the impending deluge. We fear the water behind the dam. We think it’s chaos—but it’s actually grace. It’s the flow of divine rhythm, the current of unconditional support.
The breaking isn’t wrath—it’s mercy.
The collapse isn’t destruction—
it’s restoration.
The flood isn’t meant to drown us—
it’s meant to carry us home.
Not because we’re being punished.
But because we’re being saved.
Saved because we are loved.
The Mercy in the Undoing
Another one of my favorite passages from the New Testament is the Parable of the Prodigal Son (Luke 15:11-32).
A father has two sons. One day, the younger son demands his share of the inheritance—essentially saying, “I want what’s mine now. I’m done with this family.” The father gives it to him, no questions asked.
The son leaves home and squanders everything—his money, his dignity, his relationships—in reckless living. Eventually, he’s broke, starving, and working in a pigsty, wishing he could eat the pigs’ food.
That’s when he “comes to himself.”
He decides to go home—not as a son, but as a servant. He rehearses his apology, expecting rejection or punishment. But while he’s still far off, his father sees him. And runs.
He doesn’t wait for an apology. He doesn’t demand repentance. He throws his arms around his son, weeps with joy, and throws a feast. “My son was dead and is alive again. He was lost and is found.”
Meanwhile, the older brother—who stayed home, followed the rules, and never asked for anything—is furious. “I’ve been loyal, and you never threw me a party. But this reckless son gets the royal treatment?”
The father gently reminds him: “You are always with me, and everything I have is yours. But we had to celebrate—your brother came home.”
The younger son’s undoing—his collapse, his shame, his return—isn’t met with judgment. It’s met with mercy. The father doesn’t say, “You messed up, now earn your way back.”
He says, “You’re mine. You were always mine. Welcome home.”
And the older son? He’s a mirror for those who cling to performance and rewards. He’s in the house, but not in the heart. Even so, the father loves them both.
The Great Undoing is Collective
If Divine Intelligence is the Law that sustains Life—unifying, loving, and eternal—then anything built in opposition to that Law is unsustainable.
Just as the younger son built a life of unholiness—reckless, defiant, and disconnected from the rhythm of grace— we, too, have built systems that reflect an unholy life:
Caste systems that rank human worth.
Economic models that reward exploitation.
Religious hierarchies that gatekeep grace.
Governments that disguise control as care.
These reflect the illusion
that we are not already held.
They are systems built on sand.
And so, they are crumbling.
This is the Great Undoing.
Not the end of the world,
but the end of the illusion.
The Most Radical Act of Resistance
The most powerful thing we can do—the most radical act of resistance—is to choose alignment. To live in harmony with the Intelligence that sustains Life. To embody the Law Jesus restored: Love, Mercy, and Truth.
Because alignment creates a ripple. One soul in resonance with grace sends waves through the collective. And the more who align, the more who follow. Not because they’re forced— but because they’re drawn to the rhythm.
The rhythm they forgot they belonged to.
The breath they were given but have tried to regulate.
So let the illusions fall.
Let the scaffolding give way.
Let the flood come.
Because what’s rising is not destruction.
It’s the Kingdom Jesus spoke of.
Where the last are first.
Where the poor are blessed.
Where love is the only law.
And if you’re wondering what to do …
Start with alignment.
Start with trust.
Start with the rhythm.
The Love that never stopped holding us.
Benediction for the Great Undoing
May the false foundations fall away.
May the flood of grace rise without fear.
May you remember the rhythm into which you were born—
And rest in the Love
That never asked you to earn it.
Next Post: Ego on Parade
Rev. Joan M. Kistler 