20th Sunday after Pentecost Proper 22, Year B – Bill Harkins
The Gospel: Matthew 11:25-30 Jesus said, “I thank you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because you have hidden these things from the wise and the intelligent and have revealed them to infants; yes, Father, for such was your gracious will. All things have been handed over to me by my Father; and no one knows the Son except the Father, and no one knows the Father except the Son and anyone to whom the Son chooses to reveal him.“Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”
In the Name of the God of Creation who loves us all, Amen. Good morning, and welcome to each of you on this Feast of St. Francis a day on which we hear a surprisingly challenging Gospel text. And, we prepare for the blessing of the animals today we also give thanks in this season for All the Saints whose lives are intertwined with ours, often in ways we cannot see.
In today’s Gospel from Matthew we are reminded that some forms of wisdom cannot be obtained by working harder and harder for them. Knowledge of God, it seems, cannot be achieved through the ordinary means of excellence of effort or dent of perseverance as we typically understand both of these. I don’t know about you, but this perspective turns my normal ways of being and doing in the world upside down. Jesus has a way of doing that, of course, but it still catches me off guard. What might it mean if through hard work and my often “type A” behavior, I am sometimes missing the point Jesus is making and, perhaps, the main purpose of our lives as Christians? Can I really reconcile this part of me with the need to become more childlike in my faith?
And then in vs. 28-30 we find the lovely invitation to which these passages have been building, “Come to me all who are weary and carrying heavy burdens and I will give you rest… for my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” It is a wonderful metaphor, really, although in our part of the world we don’t often see yokes. The principle, however, is that of bearing burdens more efficiently, to harness the power of the animal or, in some cases the person carrying the load, and work together as a team. The second century author Justin Martyr said that when Jesus worked as a carpenter, he likely made yokes as part of his daily work. I like to imagine this. It is comforting, somehow, to imagine him carefully measuring and fitting the yoke so that it would fit just right—not rub or scrape the animals—and help them bear the burden of the plow or whatever they may have been pulling. I can see him sanding the rough spots, carefully fitting the yoke, making it a perfect complement to the animal, and the task at hand. Metaphorically speaking, Jesus invites us to take a yoke just like this, made by his own labor and love, perfectly and completely for us. He knows each of us by name, knows our gifts and graces, our needs and broken places. He does not want us to be weighed down or so weary that we cannot bear what we have been called to do.
It is a beautiful, utterly simple invitation, and yet so hard to do. So often Vicky, my wife of almost 31 years, has said “Why didn’t you ask for help with this?” or, “Why didn’t you let us know what you needed?” Perhaps this is connected to the other part of this Gospel text—the part about letting go of trying so hard to do things alone, and relying solely on our own alleged wisdom and intelligence. Over-functioning, once we learn it, can be very hard to change. I confess that I do not turn things over to God, or others, easily. And, I have trouble remembering that there are others standing by ready to help. I struggle to realize that I am likely at my best, and my strongest, when I ask for God’s help. Some time ago, my ordination brother Thee and I were on the hill atop the Horseshoe Drive entrance to the Cathedral for the “drive by blessings,” after the 11:15 service. It was an unusually warm day, and at about 1:00pm we were preparing to head inside when a lone woman leading 4 dogs on leashes slowly made her way up the driveway. Thee was engaged in blessing the ashes of a dog named “Wags,” whose owner was still grieving. The woman arrived atop the Cathedral Close completely out of breath after the long climb. “I almost didn’t come today,” she said, her mascara running in the late October sun. “I live in Snellville….and it’s a long way to drive. But this is my home…this is my family,” she said, nodding to her dogs who were already greeting me effusively. I consider the Cathedral to be my home. I am so thankful for this place.” Then, introducing me to her dogs one by one, she said, “These are all rescue dogs,” patting each one in turn, lovingly, saying their names. One was blind, and mostly deaf, and another had been thrown out of a car on Hwy#78, and barely survived. “Each of these dogs has a sad story, and needed a home. It’s been a hard couple of years for me too,” she said, tearfully.” “I lost my husband, and my home. These dogs are all I have left, but we do have each other, and I am so very grateful for that. I guess the truth is we all needed a blessing today.” “Maybe,” she said, “we bless each other along the way, especially when we are grateful. Maybe those blessings are how God continues to be present in our lives. I have learned to live from a place of gratitude,” she said tearfully. “It’s the place where all of our blessings go to live.” I found the pastoral counselor in me responding with compassion for, and a bit of concern about her, and I said “It’s so warm out here. Would you like to come inside for a cold drink of water,” I asked? “No thank you,” she said. “I’m not ready to go inside yet. For now, I’ll just take my blessings where I find them. And they are right here, right now.” I had the good sense to let this be enough to say grace over, and so I did just that. I have thought about this many times since then—and in particular about blessing, and gratitude, and giving from that deep place where we are most at home. And, I have come to realize that this is one of the ways God’s Creation continues to unfold, right here, right now, every moment of our lives.
In her wonderful novel, “Gilead,” the author Marilynne Robinson tells the story of Rev. John Ames, a dying Presbyterian minister writing to his young son, so that he will remember his story long after he is gone[1]. The book takes the form of an extended letter, really, and is itself a blessing of gratitude, and the generosity borne of gratitude. In one passage he recalls blessing a cat in his early days as a young pastor. This memory leads to an especially lovely passage:
“I still remember how those warm little brows felt under the palm of my hand. Everyone has petted a cat, but to touch one like that, with the pure intention of blessing it, is a very different thing. It stays in the mind. For years we would wonder what, from a cosmic viewpoint, we had done to them. It still seems to me to be a real question. There is a reality in blessing, which I take baptism to be, primarily. It doesn’t enhance sacredness, but it acknowledges it, and there is a power in that. I have felt it pass through me, so to speak. The sensation of really knowing a creature, I mean really feeling its mysterious life and your own mysterious life at the same time.”
That day, in the process of giving and receiving blessings with my friend and colleague Thee, I lost myself in the process, and I found a new way of seeing the world—shaped by gratitude. As the wonderful poet Mary Oliver has said: “And what do I risk to tell you this, which is all I know? Love yourself. Then forget it. Then love the world.” “Practice Resurrection,” the poet Wendell Berry reminds us. Come to me all you that are weary and are heavy-laden, and I will give you rest. Amen. [1] Robinson, Marilynne, “Gilead,” Picador Press, 2006.