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Matthew 11: 16–19, 25–30
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Lord, may we hear your voice in the words spoken in Your name.
Amen.
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Last Sunday afternoon I was thrilled to hear our granddaughter Eliza
play her first piano recital. Eliza, who is nine, has only been playing
for a year or so, so I wasn’t sure what to expect when we pulled
our chairs up to the computer to listen to this Zoom recital, each child
playing from his or her own living room in California.
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The first few pieces she played were the ones you might expect, if you have
ever taken piano lessons – Fur Elise by Beethoven, German
Dance by Haydn, and The Ice Skaters by Emile Waldteufel. But
when, unexpectedly, she began to play “My Country tis of Thee”
I nearly lost it. Okay. I did lose it. Tears welled up in my eyes and I
had to lean quickly out of camera range to find a tissue to wipe them away.
It wasn’t just that she was playing the piece well and I was proud
of her. It was also that I hadn’t expected that song, and hadn’t
expected the flood of emotion that suddenly overwhelmed me.
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I learned that patriotic song in first grade, and sang it with the
whole–hearted innocence of a six–year–old. In those days,
guided by my teachers and family, I truly believed that America was a sweet
land of liberty for all. No exceptions. It was a land some of my uncles
had fought to keep free during World War II, a land my eldest cousin
enlisted to defend during the Korean Conflict. Moreover, I understood
it was somehow a holy gift given by God to all who wanted to enjoy its
“rocks and rills,” its wooded beauty. To my
six–year–old way of thinking this wasn’t a song of praise
to my country; it was a song of praise to God for my country, a song
I imagined everyone sang with whole–hearted gratitude.
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But last Sunday, when Eliza played the song’s opening notes, what hit
me was the grief I’ve felt over the last few weeks as we’ve
learned that America’s promise has not been extended to all people
equally. Instead, some people have been badly treated, for the flimsiest of
reasons – or sometimes no reason at all. So in the last few weeks
we’ve heard peoples’ pain at being excluded. Instead of
hearing praise we’ve heard angry criticism. Instead of hearing hope
for the future we’ve heard cynicism. So those tears rose up last
Sunday as I recognized the gap between the America of my childhood and a
sadder adult reality. And they spilled over as I realized how little
I’ve been able to close that gap.
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I’ve been thinking about this all week, particularly as I heard
Jesus’ gentle invitation, “Come unto me all ye who are weary,
carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.” He is speaking
these gentle words of encouragement to some newly–fledged disciples
who have just tried to do ministry on their own – and haven’t
found it easy. These aren’t the learned ones, the well–educated
ones who have long, complex answers to every question. These are the
unsophisticated ones – the infants in the faith who never imagined
that doing ministry in Jesus’ name could be so difficult.
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To encourage them, Jesus reminds them of the difficulties he and John the
Baptist faced, as they tried to introduce the Kingdom of God. “They
objected to John,” he reminds them, “because he was stern.
He was ascetic and demanding. Then I came along, eating and drinking with
all sorts and conditions of people –– and they called me a
glutton, a drunkard. So don’t feel badly that they rejected your efforts.
Rejection is the name of this ministry game. And they will change the
rules of the game every other day.”
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But he has discovered a way to make it easier on them. “Take my yoke
upon you,” he says. “And learn from me; for I am gentle
and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.”
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This crowd understood immediately what Jesus was saying. In those days,
plowing was usually done by oxen, pulling the plow as the farmer walked
behind them. Sometimes it was just one ox, but more often there were two,
yoked together. The more experienced animal supplied most of the strength,
having learned when to pull, when to stop and which way to turn as it
followed the farmer’s commands. The younger animal learned as it
followed the older one’s lead, yoked together beside it. So Jesus
is here gently inviting the little ones, the less–than–experienced
ones into ministry with him. He’s inviting them to step into a
double yoke with him, to learn by his patient, gentle example as they
work together for the Kingdom.
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I find this invitation encouraging and comforting – and I suspect you
do too. It tells me that the Lord does not expect us to do the work of
bringing in the Kingdom of God all by ourselves. He will direct us.
He will guide us and teach us, step by step.
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Nor is he disappointed that we’ve not yet closed the gap between
rich and poor, privileged and deprived in this land. Instead, he sees
our hearts. He sees how much we want to help and how much we have
already done . . . and he is pleased. The
world might demand results . . . and business
might look at the bottom line . . . but
scripture says that the Lord looks at our hearts. And if –– in
our hearts –– he finds the desire to make a difference, to
close the gap, to mend what’s broken – that’s all he needs to work
with. We just have to be willing to surrender any sense that we know
what needs to be done, and follow instead the leading of our Savior –
much as children are open and vulnerable, as they depend on adults.
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Come unto me, he says, all you who are weary and heavy laden, and I
will give you rest. Take my yoke on you and learn from me; for I am
gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.
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Amen
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