Something light in a heavy world [Proper 9A - Matthew 11:16-19, 25-30]

 The Rev. Jeremiah Williamson 

Matthew 11:16-19, 25-30 

 

Something light in a heavy world 

 

I recently decided to convince myself that being stressed out is not an essential aspect of my personality.  I am trying to believe that I could live, and even thrive, and still be good at things, without constantly feeling stressed.  I’m not sure if myself is yet convinced.  But, on good days, I am trying. 

 

But, the truth is: we live in a heavy world.  Each person you encounter each day of your life is navigating a litany of stressors; everybody is weighed down something or some things: weighed down by injustice, violence, hatred, division; weighed down by frayed friendships and broken relationships; weighed down by isolation and alienation; weighed down by existential crises and apocalyptic fears; weighed down by outside pressures and internal voices; weighed down by legalistic demands and merciless systems; weighed down by frailties and failures; weighed down by unmet goals, unrealized dreams, and unrealistic expectations. We live in a world of weary people, carrying heavy burdens.   

 

The weight of the world is a stifling inheritance, a burden that we all shoulder.  It is not something we acquire at college orientation or when we begin our first real job or take out that first mortgage.  Young and old alike feel the weight.  I have been dealing with stress as long as I can remember.  As a child, I very much experienced my parents’ struggle to make ends meet, to provide for their family, to keep a roof over our heads.  I felt the pressure to get good grades, to meet academic expectations, to be the one who went to college.  I felt the singe of Pentecostal brimstone at church, keeping my feet firmly planted on the straight and narrow, scaring the sin and mischief right out of me.  When I lost my hair, at age nine, I was told it was because I was so stressed – and, of course, that just stressed me out more.  The reason for the hair loss turned out to be genetics, but I didn’t know that at the time.  To me, it was just another thing that felt out of control and tough to deal with.  There is a weight to living; and we are born under it.  

 

My own children, thankfully, will not experience some of the challenges and worries that I did growing up; their parents are trying to provide them with greater stability and a smoother path.  But honestly, we can only do so much. They still have their worries.  Like many of their contemporaries, they worry about the future of the planet, and about getting sick, and about school shootings.  They are pursued by the relentless creep of technological forces and the despair that seems to be encroaching on ever-younger lives.  Some of their worries I never even considered when I was their age.  Some they likely learned from me.  I see my little boys and they are so young and yet so human.  Already sometimes they feel overwhelmed by life; sometimes life makes them sadder than they can understand or justify.  Because life does that, in this heavy world. 

 

It is this world, with its pain and beauty, that Jesus graced with his presence.  And in this world, he also felt the weight.  He was tempted by the devil, threatened by his neighbors, pursued by the authorities – both religious and civil.  He wept over death, agonized about his fate, felt God-forsaken on the cross.  Life, it seems, was even stressful for God.   

 

Long ago, Jesus came to live in this heavy world.  And he discovered: sometimes life is hard and sometimes it is wonderful and sometimes the line between the two is very faint.  Like us, Jesus lived all the things.  Sometimes, when he wasn’t slipping through hostile crowds or arguing with hostile scribes, Jesus ate and drank and laughed and talked with people, weary people, some of the weariest – people who struggled to make ends meet, who carried unrealized dreams in their hearts, who chafed under the shackles of merciless religious institutions, people who picked up scars from the jagged edges of society, people who were shunned and reviled.  And some people hated that about Jesus.  They hated that he loved messy people.  They hated that he talked so much about forgiveness and mercy, undermined their notions of fairness and their reliance on debt.   

 

It seems hard to imagine, but some people despised Jesus.  He was despised by burdened people.  And stressed out people tend to get into the burden business. And so they hated that Jesus wanted to lighten the weight of the world.  But he did.  Because he understood, as well as anyone, how hard it can be to be human.  And when you love someone you don’t want to see them struggle.  

 

To the stressed out crowds, in his weary world, Jesus said, “Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.”  Jesus walked our roads and he saw the weariness etched into every face he encountered.  Everyone carries heavy burdens – some are obvious, others are well-hidden.  God knows these words, what Jesus said, were intended to be a universal invitation; his arms are long enough to embrace an entire world of weary souls, though, of course, we know how the story goes: not everyone took up the offer. 

 

What Jesus offered to those weary people was a yoke.  And to those already carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders, that does not sound like a gift, or like good news.  But it is. 

 

A yoke can represent a great many things.  In some cases, the yoke serves as a metaphor for something oppressive, like the yoke of imperialism that Jesus’ audience experienced at the hands of the Romans or the heavy yoke of religious legalism that Jesus accused the scribes and Pharisees of imposing on the people. 

 

But Jesus’ yoke was not heavy; it was not oppressive.  In fact, it was just the opposite.  It was light because it was shared.  A wooden yoke held two oxen together.  They shared the weight.  They walked together.  They learned to navigate the world together.  The yoke made them a team.  And that is why sometimes, in the ancient world, the yoke was also a symbol of marriage.      

 

Jesus finds us weighed down, collapsing under the weight of our burdens.  And he picks us up.  And he walks with us.  The yoke in this Gospel is a replacement, not an addition.  It does not add to our burden.  This is not a yoke that Jesus imposes, but one that he himself wears.  One that he shares.  Jesus is the one who can make the burdens of this life bearable.   

 

Jesus doesn’t want much; he just wants you to say “yes.”  But that can be hard because our burdens sometimes feel like an identity, like we need them to survive.  But we don’t.  What they do is weigh down our souls; they make us weary.  And weary folks often lack the energy required to be kind, to care, to make the world more beautiful.   

 

Jesus wants to give you a break; he is willing and able to carry some of your weight; even now, Jesus is giving you permission to let go of some of the stress and pressure that is burning you out.  He wants you to find new life in the joy of his eyes and the glow of his smile, in the pace of his stride and the strength of his love.   

 

The weight of the world will never entirely disappear.  Jesus never makes that promise.  Instead he promises to be gentle with us.  To stay by our side.  To share our sadness and struggle.  And to lighten our load.   

 

To these stressed out souls, in this weary world, Jesus says, “Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.”   That sounds like a good offer, one that, on my good days, I am trying accept.