“DO NOT WORRY ABOUT TOMORROW” - Revd Sarah Curl
- Feb 17
- 5 min read
During his famous Sermon on the Mount, Jesus says these deceptively simple words:
“Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.”(Matthew 6:34)
Simple words. Familiar words. And yet, if we are honest, some of the hardest words in all of Scripture to live by.
Because we worry.
We all do.
Some worries feel small, what someone thought of something we said, a tone of voice, a look that suggested disapproval. Other worries feel enormous, money, health, family, politics, world crises, work, relationships, the future of our planet. Some worries arrive quietly; others crash in and refuse to leave. Worry can creep into the mind at night and sit heavily on the chest until sleep becomes impossible. Anxiety seeps into the heart and taints everything we see by day and by night.
Fear can rob us of confidence. It can make us replay conversations that have not yet happened, or may never happen at all. We imagine worst-case scenarios. We spiral. Our thoughts run away with us. We find ourselves sick with worry, beside ourselves, frantic, unable to breathe properly, butterflies churning in the stomach.
And it is not only our own worries we carry. We worry for our children, our parents, our siblings, our friends. Sometimes we are the ones others come to when they are worried. Love, after all, makes us vulnerable.
So how do we live in a way that does not worry about tomorrow?
Jesus does not deny that trouble exists. He does not tell us to pretend everything is fine. He does not shame us for feeling anxious. Instead, he invites us to notice what worry does to us—and what it takes away.
And in extreme moments, worry can tip into panic, narrowing our world until fear becomes the loudest voice we hear.
Jesus asks a gentle but piercing question:“Which of you by being anxious can add a single hour to your span of life?”
The honest answer is: none of us.
If anything, worry shortens life. It consumes energy that could be spent loving, noticing, giving thanks, being present.
I want to invite you to imagine something.
Close your eyes, if you are comfortable. Imagine you are a small bird, lifting gently into the air outside this church. You rise just high enough to look down and see yourself sitting here, with all your worries, whatever they may be. But you also see everyone else around you. Each person carrying their own invisible bundle of concerns.
Now fly a little higher. You can see the parish. You look into houses, into lives. You see people worrying about money, about relationships, about health, about loneliness, about the future.
Fly higher still, and you see Putney. You notice those who are homeless. Those in hospital. Those in care homes. Those caring for loved ones who are ill or disabled. Those who are unemployed. Those waiting for a diagnosis. Those who are grieving. Those who are nearing the end of their lives.
Fly higher again, and you see London spread out before you. So many people. So much worry. Not just about today, but about tomorrow, and next week, and next year.
Worry is everywhere.
I used to tell a version of this story to my daughter when she was little. She would lie awake at night, replaying a falling-out at school, worrying about what would happen tomorrow, internalising and overthinking everything. Like so many of us, she found tomorrow hard to leave alone.
And yet, if I asked you to think back five years, to this very date, you would have had worries then too. I wonder if you can remember what they were. Many of them, I suspect, have come and gone. Some were resolved. Some were not. And yet, life went on.
This does not mean our worries are foolish or trivial. Fearful questions arise at every stage of life, not only in moments of crisis, but in the ordinary rhythm of daily living. Questions about security, certainty, and safety hover just beneath the surface:
What if my health fails?What if I do not get this job?What if my marriage does not hold together?What if the things I have always believed no longer stand up?What if our baby is not okay?What if the person I love does not really love me?
These questions should not be brushed aside. They can help us face reality. They can reveal where our deepest insecurities lie. They can even prompt us to act wisely and compassionately in the face of danger or loss.
But they were never meant to become the guiding questions of our lives.
Henri Nouwen says When fear takes the lead, it does not open us to hope; it drives us toward despair. It trains us to distrust words spoken from the house of love, dismissing them as unrealistic, sentimental, or useless. Fearful questions tend to generate only fearful answers. And eventually, they close down the imagination, convincing us that love and hope are impossibilities.
At some point, Jesus suggests, these questions, having been acknowledged, must be laid down.
There is a quiet paradox woven through Scripture: whenever God draws near, the first words spoken are often, “Do not be afraid.” Fear is not condemned, but softened, as God’s presence reshapes the world we thought we knew.
The Sermon on the Mount, recorded in Matthew chapters 5 to 7, is a vision of life in the kingdom of God. Jesus speaks about anger, forgiveness, enemies, prayer, generosity, judgment. And right in the middle of it all, he speaks at length about anxiety.
He tells us to look at the birds of the air. They do not store food away in barns, yet they are fed. He tells us to consider the flowers of the field. They do not labour or spin, yet they are clothed with beauty.
This is not a call to irresponsibility. It is a call to trust.Jesus is not saying, “Nothing bad will happen.” He is saying, “You are not alone in what happens.”
“Your heavenly Father knows that you need them all.”
And then comes the heart of it: “Seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be added to you.”
In other words: let love, not fear, set your priorities. Let trust, not anxiety, shape your attention. Let today be today.
My mum used to say, “Remember, today is the tomorrow you worried about yesterday.” There is something gently reassuring in that. As Mark Twain once observed, “I am an old man and have known a great many troubles, but most of them never happened.”
Even Winston Churchill, no stranger to real danger, once said, “If you’re going through hell, keep going.”
Jesus wants us to live, not merely survive. He wants us to enjoy life. God gave us taste buds, colour, music, laughter, friendship, beauty. Worry dulls all of that. Anxiety flattens the world until joy becomes merely an afterthought.
It is telling that politicians commission surveys to discover what people are worrying about and then shape their speeches accordingly. Fear is a powerful motivator. And yet, despite extraordinary advances in science and technology, despite computers with unimaginable memory, here is still no cure for worry.
Except this.
Trusting, again and again, that we are held.
“Do not worry about tomorrow,” Jesus says—not because tomorrow does not matter, but because God is already there.
Each day has enough trouble of its own. And each day, has enough grace.
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