Reversing the Lens of Matthew 6:26
Philipose Vaidyar
Prologue
The Lens
Flipped
What happens when
you travel the same road in reverse? The scenery is familiar, yet the
perspective is entirely new. We often revisit the Sermon on the Mount for our
own comfort, specifically the comforting logic of Matthew 6:26: “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?”
For generations,
we have used these birds as a mirror to soothe our own anxieties. But recently,
in the quiet of my garden, the lens flipped. I began to wonder: instead of
looking at the birds to see how God provides for us, what if we look at
them to see how we might provide for them on behalf of the Creator?
If the Lord has
provided for us through various ways, means, and people, why can’t we be the
"incidentals" in the arms of a providing God? To be made in His image
is to possess His nature, and His nature is inherently generous. We are not
meant to be merely the destination of His grace, but the conduit. When we
choose to protect a nest or delay a harvest, we are no longer just reading the
Word; we are participating in it. We move from being the birds who are fed to
being the hands that ensure the feeding happens.
Our faith is fully
realized when our eyes see what God wants to see, and our hands touch what the
Creator wants to protect. To friends or foes, people in need around us, and even in the small, limited circles of our own
gardens, we participate with Him by being on the giving end—protecting the
"lesser" things He loves.
While my hands were busy painting the silhouettes of birds and the words of Matthew 6:26 onto a bamboo platter, a pair of Jungle Babblers was busy manifesting that very verse in the leaves of a nearby Nenthran plantain. It shifted my focus from the art of representing the birds of the air to the quiet, sacrificial discipline of sustaining them.
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Between Bananas and Babblers
Philipose Vaidyar
Sometimes, in the quiet corners of a garden, life asks us to pause and choose—not between right and wrong, but between what we see and what we value.
Thirteen months ago, I wrote in length about the noisy
fellowship of jungle babblers in our garden. I had watched them closely then,
learning their rhythm, their quarrels, and their companionship.
(The blog link is here: https://pvarticles.blogspot.com/2025/01/the-guava-tree-chattering-jungle.html ) It must be their hatching season again.
A few days ago, I noticed a nest tucked among the bananas between the broad leaves at the head of a nenthran plantain in our garden, very close to our home. The banana bunch hangs full and heavy, ready for harvest. These bananas are not accidental fruit—they are the result of a year’s labor: bringing in the bulbs and planting it rightly, manuring the soil, watering through dry days, patiently attending the plant through changing seasons. Every cluster carries the weight of care, patience, and expectation.
Yet my eyes were drawn not to the fruit, but to a small
woven cradle hidden in green. I wondered—was it new, abandoned, or active?
Last evening, I noticed a pair of jungle babblers in a
nearby tree, alert and watchful. This morning, I placed an aluminum A-ladder
near the plantain. As I approached, one bird flew away, confirming what my
heart already suspected—the nest was active. I could not see clearly from
below, so I climbed. Inside lay three eggs. Quiet. Undemanding. Full of
possibility.
The ladder has since been removed and kept away, though it
still rests elsewhere in the garden—a silent witness to that close encounter.
Is the whole bunch of bananas more valuable than three unseen lives?
Are those three eggs—warmly guarded by their mother, tiny, fragile—less
important than fruit that represents a year of labor, care, and patience? Dry leaves
coloured babblers often go unnoticed while rustling among leaves on the ground.
The jungle babblers themselves are ordinary in color,
blending almost perfectly with the earth and dry leaves, yet extraordinary in
purpose. Life stirs in hidden ways, asking for attention we often give only to
what is visible, tangible, or productive.
Over the past few days, I have also been painting on a
handcrafted bamboo basin—picked up by a friend during his travels. His family
felt I could do a better job and turn it into a meaningful wall hanging with a
message. So I worked carefully on bird silhouettes across its curved surface
and almost finished the piece with the verse:
“Look at the birds of the air… Are you not of more value
than they?” (Matthew 6:26).
How gently ironic that while I was shaping painted birds
into art, real birds were entrusting their future within reach of my ladder.
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Creation now places before me a quiet test—not of
productivity, but of compassion; not of ownership, but of stewardship.
Sometimes faith is not proved in grand declarations, but in
whether we pause long enough to protect something smaller than our plans.
Sometimes the question is not about what we can take, but about what we are
willing to leave untouched. Sometimes the most ordinary things—fallen leaves,
silent eggs, hidden nests—carry the future.
So I wait. The bananas hang. The nest rests. The mother
returns and settles again. The ladder is gone, but everything remains a quiet
witness to a choice between harvest and hatching, between visible reward and
unseen life.
I warmly invite you to leave your reflections in the
comments below. What would you do?
The harvest—or the hatching?
The fruit earned through a year of care—or the future hidden in three silent
eggs?
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