What does weariness sound like?
A young man asked me to lunch not long ago. An
impressive guy, he has achieved a great deal for
someone still in his early thirties. He’s successful
in business. He’s a leader in his church, respected
in the broader community, on the fast track for
promotion and advancement. Others in his group
of young professionals would call him successful,
perhaps even describe his life as “perfect.” At lunch,
I learned otherwise. Almost as soon as we sat down
together, he began to share with me the restlessness
in his heart, that grating, gnawing, fraying sense
that something is missing in his life. He described
with some degree of frustration how he has done
everything he is supposed to do, checked every
box, and none of it had brought deep fulfillment.
Quite the opposite—he described the emptiness
of his professional life, the loneliness of constant
competition, the constant anxiety, the sense that
perhaps it’s all meaningless in the end. Before we
paid the tab, he asked for a place in scripture where
he might turn for hope.
Come to me, all who are weary.
It is an invitation. The invitation of Jesus is not issued
to the satisfied or the successful and certainly not to
the self-sufficient. No resumés or reference checks
are needed. Jesus knows better. He knows that we
are the weary ones. Now, I understand that it is
natural for us to compare ourselves to those whose
struggles are more obvious, those whose lives are
more tenuous, those whose futures are less certain.
But this morning, perhaps only for this one hour, I
wonder if you might be able to imagine yourself as
one to whom Jesus, gentle and humble in heart,
offers his invitation:
Come to me, all you wearied ones.
So, what wears on you? What wearies you?
Is it the physical exhaustion of not enough hours
in the day and too much to do? Is it the mental
fatigue of consequential decisions and high stress
situations? Is it the spiritual depletion of trying to hold
it all together on your own?
Weariness takes many forms. It is deeply personal,
but it is always communal. It affects our emotional
health. It erodes our relationships with those closest
to us. It causes us to lash out in anger or hunker
down in fear. It steals our joy and frays our trust.
When we are weary, we tend to lose sight of what
nourishes our souls and recharges our spiritual
batteries. And so, we keep running and running. We
keep pushing and shoving. We keep trying, and it is
never enough.
Come to me…
A group of pastors gather around a pot of coffee
to share encouragement. That morning we were
discussing a recent study ranking nine leadership
positions that impose the greatest burdens on those
who pursue them. Interestingly, at least to me, pastors
landed at number five, situated just between coaches
and mayors. To relieve the suspense and save you the
Google search, number one: stay-at-home parent.
(Can I get an Amen to that one?) That morning, our
conversation turned to the poor example we pastors
set if we ourselves are constantly stressed out, overly
anxious, plagued by fatigue, wearing at the edges.
We described our efforts to be all things to all people
and the resulting disappointment when this proves
impossible. We commiserated about unmanageable
paces of life, resulting in an epidemic of exhaustion.
And one member of the group observed wryly that
our most routinely and unapologetically broken
commandment is the fourth one—remember the
Sabbath and keep it holy.
My name is Chris, and I am a Sabbath breaker.
I imagine many of you can relate. It is one of the
most common struggles I hear voiced by people
of all ages—this frenetic busyness that leaves little
time for reflection or rest. Or perhaps a list of too
many obligations and options compete for our
time, and so we struggle to prioritize or find a little
room to exhale. From children whose schedules are
already packed with activity, to teenagers whose
stress level is through the roof, to parents whose
daily grind begins well before sunrise and extends
late into the evening, to older adults whose lives
center on caring for a loved one around the clock,
we hear a cacophony of discordant cries claiming
so much of our time and energy that we are left
feeling drained, lifeless. Indeed, the roars are so
loud, our weariness so severe, that we might miss
the simple voice of the savior…
Come to me, all who are weary…and carrying
heavy burdens.
The words of Jesus are an invitation, not an altar
call but a call to an alternative form of life, rooted
in God’s grace. He offers it not to the content or
the comfortable, but to those shouldering, carrying
heavy burdens. This morning, as you entered the
sanctuary, every single one of you was dragging
something, dragging behind you the weariness,
the heaviness that threatens to overwhelm. I don’t
know which burdens you carried with you, but I can
make some educated guesses.
Some of you are carrying the burden of worry—worry
for tomorrow, worry for the future, for your children,
your grandchildren, your parents, yourselves. Worried
for our nation or the world.
Others among you brought along the burden of
stress—the deadlines that are looming, the bills that
are due, the exams just around the corner, more to be
done than time to do it.
Still others shouldered a heavy load of pain—physical
pain perhaps, the pain of broken relationships,
regretful pain over harsh words spoken in anger, a
heart heavy with grief and loneliness.
The burdens we bear are legion, each unique to
the circumstances of our lives and yet collectively
common to the human condition. The weight of the
burdens we bear adds to the weariness we feel.
And the more we are plagued by weariness, the
more anxious we become. And anxiety becomes a
burden we bear. We seek release from anxiety by
working a little harder, sleeping a little less, cutting
off relationships, bearing down or lashing out. And
that vicious cycle of weariness and burden-bearing
tragically draws us farther and farther from the rest we
desperately seek but don’t feel we deserve to receive.
A couple comes home at the end of a long day. It’s
been weeks since they had a conversation about
anything other than managing the schedule and
sharing the responsibilities. The distance between
them has grown into a chasm, and the energy
necessary to rebuild that bridge is fading fast.
Silently, they brush their teeth and prepare for bed.
So many words left unspoken, so much pain left
unexpressed. Just too tired to talk tonight. Exhausted
by the demands of the day. Maybe we’ll find time
tomorrow. Weariness.
A high school student pours over math homework
well after midnight, remembering the carefree
days of elementary school, when life seemed so
simple. But now the stress of class, the demands of
extracurriculars, the struggle to keep up with it all, the
fear of disappointing parents and teachers, has taken
all the joy and left only a sense of apathy. Weariness.
Can you relate? Have you in your own life felt the
backbreaking weight of weariness?
Come to me, all who are weary, all who carry heavy
burdens….and I will give you rest.
This invitation Jesus offers is an invitation to
himself. Come to me. Imagine this. The rest you so
desperately seek will be found not by ceaseless
grasping, but when you finally let go. Listen to this.
You will never earn Sabbath rest. You will never
achieve Sabbath rest. You can only receive it as a gift.
Finding rest for your soul involves trusting deep in
your bones that the world does not depend on your
effort to keep spinning. Perhaps deep down you, like
me, prefer to think otherwise. Perhaps you prefer to
think of yourself as indispensable. Maybe you have
one of these devices that tells you over and over
again how indispensable you are and how much this
world spins around you, how desperately everyone
is waiting for your communication, your perspective,
your input. But the truth is that God’s providence is
not dependent on your efforts. Come to me. You will
find rest.
In her book, An Altar in the World, Barbara Brown
Taylor describes Sabbath-keeping as “the practice of
saying no.” She encourages us to honor the Sabbath
this way:
“At least one day in every seven, pull off the road and
park the car in the garage. Close the door to the tool
shed. Turn off the computer. Stay home not because
you are sick but because you are well. Talk someone
you love into being well with you. Take a nap, a walk,
a whole hour for lunch. Test the premise that you are
worth more than you can produce—that even if you
spend one whole day being good for nothing you will
still be precious in God’s sight.”
Whenever we are weary, when we carry heavy
burdens, our inclination might be to try harder, to drag
that weight around, or some of us even wear it as a
badge of honor. After all, the whole world is weary. We
might as well relentlessly drive ourselves to do more,
to push and plow our way beyond weariness.
Here’s a helpful tip from one who has tried: it will
never work. Try this instead:
Come to me, all you who are weary…and I will give
you rest.
These words of Jesus are preceded by a prayer. In
that prayer, Jesus thanks God that the truth has
been hidden from the wise and the intelligent and
has been revealed to infants. Infants. Those who do
not rely on their own efforts, the very ones whose
lives are characterized by an innate trust. Anyone
who has ever held a baby knows something of the
vulnerability that Jesus describes here.
This is the invitation. Come to Jesus and believe—
trust to the very core of your being—that you will be
held. You will be embraced. You will be loved. Not for
what you can do, but simply for who you are. Amen.