Exodus 20:8-11, Matthew 11:25-30

It’s been documented by those observing human behavior that our world is run by tired people. Many long for a way of life that has periods of true rest and relaxation. Society is obsessed with competition, work and productivity. Even our leisure time is scheduled and goal-oriented.

“No one needs a vacation so much as the person who has just returned from one,” Elbert Hubbard said.

How does it make us feel that the pilot in the plane on which we travel 600 miles per hour in the busy skies, is tired? How does it make us feel that the surgeon who will perform the operation on a family member, loved one—or possibly us—is tired? How does it make us feel that the teacher who spends more hours a week with our children or grandchildren than they do with their parents, is tired? How does it make us feel that the leaders of our world with power to promote peace or launch a cruise missile are tired?

Postmodern, 21st-century culture offers a smorgasbord of solutions to all who are weary and worn down. Online servers seduce us with stuff guaranteed to make our lives easier. Global Positioning Systems talk us to our destinations. The new Lexus LS460 flagship sedan, equipped with the optional Advanced Parking Guidance System, parallel parks itself while the driver downloads the latest email messages from her Blackberry.

Our senses are bombarded with befuddling amounts of stimuli. In a world so shrunken by satellite feeds that we are capable of simultaneously feeling a part of events in Iraq, Lebanon, France and New York, it’s hardly surprising that small amenities of courtesy and consideration are in danger of becoming casualties of technology.

Wellness centers promote personalized fitness programs designed to make us thinner, firmer and friskier. Digital television blitzes us with mindless entertainment, endless sporting events, annoying infomercials and a few educational opportunities.

And with all this stuff, we are tired. How many magazines can we consume before we’ve seen them all? How long can we cruise the Internet before the chat lines all start to sound the same? How many times can we climb the Stairmaster before our bodies remind us, “This just ain’t working”? How long can we keep our thumb on the remote, only to conclude that after 250 channels flip past our eyes nothing really captures our interest?

One of postmodern culture’s fantasies that feed our inherent weariness is the notion we must all be “self-made.” So we expend enormous amounts of energy trying to decide what image we will make ourselves into this day, this week, this month, this year, this job, this marriage, this friendship. And we are tired; worn out.

Underneath all this push for self-sufficiency is a deep unrest, a chasm of fear and distrust. It is the fear that we’re not good enough, not competent enough. We are driven by a desire for love; for approval.

Jim Forbes, pastor at Riverside Church in New York City, calls this fundamental unrest our “advanced secularity.” Put simply, we all believe in God. We just believe God can’t really heal us, can’t really do anything. So we all pursue idols—especially our incessant activity and production and consumption—produce and consume and produce and consume. We keep the engines running because we believe our own hard work is the only way to health and security. We believe in God. But deep down we fear idleness because we don’t really believe God can do anything without us. If we stop producing and consuming, what will happen? What will happen if we stop? The result? We are tired.

In her book Practicing Our Faith, Dorothy Bass writes, “Americans … need to be reminded they do not cause the grain to grow, and that their greatest fulfillment does not come through the acquisition of material things. Moreover, the planet needs a rest from human plucking and burning and buying and selling.”

“Six days you shall labor and do all your work. But the seventh day is a Sabbath to the Lord your God” (Exodus 20:9-10a).

God, busy creating for six days, took a day off. Here is a God who rests, who in the words of Walter Wink, says, “I’m not going to the office tomorrow. I’ve put in long hours every day all week. Tomorrow I’m putting up my feet and enjoying what I’ve accomplished.”

But if we stop, what will happen to us? Barbara Brown Taylor, one of our great American preachers, said the call to Sabbath rest is a call to lie fallow, to stop, to be useless, idle. We don’t take Sabbath rest so we can then work harder. It is rest for God. The practice of Sabbath, she continues, is a practice of death and resurrection. Sabbath is lying inert in death. It is to suffer the death of uselessness, to be raised up to one’s true nature. It is a day to do nothing but worship God; a day to mop up the residue of the week.

One day each week I live as if all my work were done. I live as if the kingdom has come. When I do, the kingdom comes—for one day at least. Sabbath is my regular date with the Divine Presence that enlivens both body and soul.

Alice Walker, best known for The Color Purple wrote, “Anybody can observe the Sabbath, but making it holy surely takes the rest of the week.”

It’s been said that our great-grandfathers called it the Holy Sabbath, our grandfathers called it the Sabbath, our fathers called it Sunday. Today, we call it the weekend.

The word “Sabbath” comes from the Hebrew “Shabbat,” which means rest, or cessation of activity. Another meaning of Shabbat identified by Rabbi S.R. Hirsch means to put everything in its proper place, which can only be done when we step back from our material pursuits, and look at life from a different perspective.

“Great wisdom,” wrote C. Welton Gaddy, “resides in knowing when to work and when to rest, when to speak and when to listen, when to be active and when to be still.”

Most of us do not do enough sitting, except when we are forced to and, therefore, resent it. It’s a cultural problem; the rushing, the reluctance to sit.

Genuine rest is given when we stop. So near to stopping as the one who said, “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 … and you will find rest for your souls.”

These warm words of wisdom have comforted Christians for centuries. But they are puzzling words too. A yoke was used on work animals and prisoners of war. It was a common metaphor for submission and obedience. Yet here the yoke would seem to symbolize rest, freedom and liberation. And so we want to know, how can a yoke be easy?

It’s helpful to look at the context of these words from Jesus. Just prior to this invitation, Jesus shocks us with some servant/cross theology: “Don’t think I have come to bring peace … but a sword … I have come to set children against their parents … those who find their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it” (paraphrase of Matthew 10:34-39).

For the orthodox Jew, religion was a thing of endless rules and burdens. Jesus said of the scribes and Pharisees, “They tie up heavy burdens, hard to bear, and lay them on the shoulders of others; but they themselves are unwilling to lift a finger to move them” (Matthew 23:4).

Jesus’ invitation to rest was addressed to people desperately trying to find God, people desperately trying to be good, people who were driven to weariness and despair.
What about us? Are we tired? Do we go to great lengths trying to find God? Have we established routines, good routines in our attempts to be “good people,” only to be driven to fatigue and despair?

“Take my yoke … learn from me … and I will give you rest.” The rest assured by Jesus is not some kind of magical cure for all the misfortunes in our lives. It’s not to make us immune from pain, fear, failure, disappointment or rejection. Jesus was no stranger to any of these emotions himself.

Jesus’ cure for exhaustion and frustration is giving you and me something significant to do: participation with him in ministry. The invitation from Jesus is to come to his “Yoke Shop” and be fitted for service. Jesus assures us the task is not a burden to gall or gore us. Our tasks are tailor-designed to fit us.

The “light and easy” yoke we bear and wear is one of submission to God’s commands and directions for our lives. And we are assured that being yoke-mates with Jesus, is not as difficult as bearing the burdens placed on us by postmodern gadgets.

What might that something significant be?

We find yoke stuff as close to us as Jesus was to the people of his day. It could be as difficult as attempting to redirect the life of a family member or friend caught in addictive behavior. It could be as simple as sharing a smile with the person we meet in the hallway, corporate office, warehouse or kitchen. It could be as difficult as remaining silent when we would normally speak, or as simple as speaking when we are normally silent. Yoke-mating with Jesus is in the day-to-day, ordinary stuff of life with people as close as family, friends and coworkers.

Because of who he is, Jesus is able to ease the burden of our tired and overwhelmed world. His words are an invitation for us to be his yoke-mates, to discover the will of God that transforms the world.

Several years ago I stood by my brother Sam’s bed at Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center in New York City. Marian, Sam’s wife, was by his side during the one-week regiment of chemotherapy. Physically and mentally exhausted, Marian suggested we go for a walk.
A bitter-cold December night in Manhattan, the city was ablaze with lights, traffic and energy. Marian directed us to a small Catholic church on York Street. The warmth of the sanctuary and beautiful symbols were an instant comfort to me.

Along with about 10 other people scattered throughout the holy space, we sat in silence. Scanning the beauty of the building, my eyes stopped on a very powerful and moving sculpture of the body of Jesus. Without saying anything to Marian, I got up from the pew, walked to the figure and knelt in reverence. It was then I saw inscribed above the outstretched arms of Jesus, words that bathed my troubled spirit, “If you are tired from carrying heavy burdens, come to me and I will give you rest. Take the yoke I give you. Put it on your shoulders and learn from me. I am gentle and humble, and you will find rest. This yoke is easy to bear, and this burden is light.”

Through my tears I observed that the figure, Jesus, was wearing a crown. It was not an emerald-studded halo, but one of ugly thorns. There was makeup on his face—not a hue blended into skin tones but drops of blood dripping from the thorn-pierced skull. There was something in the hands—no pass for a five-day cruise down the Mediterranean. No. Rusty spikes were driven through the swollen palms.

The broken, bloodied, body of Christ, hanging on a cruel cross and these words of comfort? Yes. Yes.

I don’t know how long I was there. Standing, I lit four candles: one for my brother Sam, his wife Marian and two daughters. I returned to the pew beside Marian. We sat together in silence, a silence interrupted only by the sobs of a weary and burdened spouse. Not a word was spoken between us. But it was a sacred and holy moment. The weight of a killer disease, the burden of trying to be a good brother, shifted from my shoulders to that of yoke-mate, Jesus.

Each of us has become weary of carrying too much weight over terrain that has long ceased to be interesting. To a “weary and heavy-laden” community of faith, Jesus offers something radically new. Rest. Real rest. Rest from disappointment of needing to bring closure to a lifelong dream, from the untimely death of one very near and dear. It is rest from weariness, shame, loss associated with failure.

The next time someone invites you to an event—or to add something to an already scheduled life—allow God’s Spirit to bring before you the invitation from Jesus. Knowing you want to say No, but uncertain how to do so, consider this response: “Sorry, but I have an appointment at the yoke shop to have my yoke adjusted.” It could be the beginning of an interesting conversation.

Are you tired? Worn out? “Come to me. Get away with me,” is the invitation from Jesus, “and you’ll recover your life. I’ll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me. Watch how I do it. Learn from the unforced rhythms of grace. I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me, and you’ll learn to live freely and lightly.” (from The Message)

Mel Thomas is chaplain and director of pastoral care at Mennonite Home Communities, Lancaster, Pa. This article is adapted from a meditation at an October 2007 retreat for board members.