Matthew 11:28-30
This morning I brought my book bag to be blessed, because I use it on a day-to-day basis, and it carries papers and to-do lists that always can use a blessing. Just for show, I brought along my big backpack, even though it doesn’t get much use these days. It is in a place of honor on a basement shelf, for it holds many memories.
I bought this piece of luggage when I was a junior in college, just before I went away on a semester trip to Kenya. It is an “internal frame” pack, which means that the metal supports are inside the fabric. The Appalachian Outfitter salesman fashioned the supports to fit my back perfectly, so I could carry the maximum weight with the least amount of stress. I used the pack during my trip that semester, and also during a year of traveling after I graduated.
What I loved the most about this backpack was that it made me feel independent. I carried everything I needed for an entire year on my back. I didn’t need a porter to carry my bags at the train station; I didn’t need a taxi to the hotel. Only on a few occasions have I used this backpack for its intended purpose–backpacking. During my semester abroad a group of students decided to climb Mount Kenya, or at least as high up the mountain as we could go without ropes and picks. We took a bus to the base camp, and the next morning began our climb. It was possible, at the camp, to hire a porter–a young man who had grown up in the high altitude who would jog up the mountain barefoot carrying our packs for us. We opted to do it ourselves. I, of course, had my new backpack, in which I carried my clothes, food, water, sleeping bag, and the canvas part of a two-person tent. The metal poles were being carried by my tent-mate, Kana.
We hadn’t gone very far before the trail got steep. Kana began to fall behind. She was a heavy smoker, and the altitude was taking a toll. I was doing just fine at this point, so I volunteered to carry the tent poles. “Are you sure?” Kana asked. No problem, I replied–after all, I had my new backpack.
I should explain about my relationship with Kana, lest it sound as though I was carrying the tent poles to be nice. Kana and I didn’t particularly like each other. Only a week before, she had paid me the back-handed compliment that I wasn’t nearly as much of a nerd as she had originally thought. I have no doubt that I returned the compliment–letting her know, in one way or another, that she was not quite as flaky as she appeared.
I got pleasure out of carrying those tent poles–knowing that Kana needed my help to make the climb. Several times that day, she asked whether I was getting tired, but each time I said “no, I am doing just fine.” The truth is, those tent poles were heavy, even with my wonderful backpack. When we stopped for the night and set up our tents, I ate my peanut butter sandwich and collapsed into my sleeping bag.
The next morning, I woke up sick from exhaustion. We headed up the mountain. It took three hours to climb a skree slope–a steep section composed of small rocks; with every step we took, we slid back half a step. I was miserable, but I made it to the end of the gravel section. There was only an hour to go to reach the glacier, our ultimate destination.
I couldn’t do it. I simply did not have the strength. I waited, along with a few others, while the rest of the group climbed up to the glacier.
Even 36 years later, when I hear this scripture about carrying heavy burdens, I think of that perfectly fitted backpack that was nonetheless too heavy for me to carry up a mountain. No matter how hard we’ve worked to put our lives in good order, no matter how carefully we’ve fitted the metaphorical backpacks of our lives, there are time when the burdens are simply too heavy.
I invite you to think about what you carry on your back. Health concerns. Worries about family. Job stress. Financial anxiety. As if those weren’t enough, we add to them the tent poles–the burdens of our neighbors we take on as our own. Concern for a friend who is sick. Additional responsibilities we accept to help out someone who is overwhelmed. Fear about global warming, outrage at the treatment of our immigrant neighbors, worry about what’s next for our nation.
The backpack gets heavier and heavier, as we list out our worries and our cares. My back gets tired just thinking about it. The mountain becomes insurmountable.
And then Jesus says to us: “Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest…..For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.” An easy yoke? A light burden? Isn’t that like saying “jumbo shrimp?” When I am overwhelmed with the load I am carrying, I long for someone–Christ, God, another person, anyone–to take it away. But that is not what Jesus offers here. Instead, Jesus asks us to take on an additional yoke, and then promises that our burdens will become light. How does that happen? What does this mean? Who is going to carry the tent poles?
The question leads me back again to my aborted Mount Kenya climb. When I took Kana’s tent poles, the burden was not lightened at all–it was simply shifted from one back to another. I felt resentful, and Kana felt guilty. We both felt we had failed–Kana because she could not carry her fair share, me because I did not make it to the top.
What would have happened if, instead of taking the tent poles and rushing ahead, I had slowed down my pace and walked with Kana? What would have happened if, rather than insisting on my own toughness, I had admitted my exhaustion and sat down to rest with her?
Maybe the other eight people on the hike would have taken a turn with the tent poles–neither of us ever asked them. Maybe Kana and I would have actually talked to each other. We might have discovered that we were not as different from each other as we liked to think. Maybe, if we were very fortunate, we could have laughed together.
Had I been able to let go of my need to carry an overstuffed backpack, had I been willing to slow down and rest with Kana, would we have both made it to the top of the mountain? I have no idea. But I suspect we would have touched something much more important than that glacier. We would have touched each other’s humanness–and our own humanness. We would have discovered that we were not alone–not alone in our need, not alone in our weakness, not alone even in our loneliness. Perhaps those tent poles would have seemed a little bit lighter–lighter as we traded them off, lighter as conversation got our minds off the packs, lighter as we allowed ourselves to sit down together on a rock and rest.
My memories of Mount Kenya–and my imaginings of how it might have happened differently–point me toward an understanding of the lighter burden Jesus offers. As much as we would like our faith to take away the heavy loads we carry, Jesus does not promise to be a porter, someone we hire to take our luggage and jog up the mountain ahead of us. Instead, Jesus promises that our burden will be transformed by companionship. Jesus walks beside us as we climb whatever mountain we must face, perhaps taking an occasional turn with the tent poles when we are desperate for a breather. Jesus promises to stay with us, no matter how often we stray from the path, no matter how many times we stop to rest. When we cry in despair that we will never make it, Jesus cries with us and then dries our tears. When we are too angry at the weight of the burden even to make conversation, Jesus walks with us in silence. We are not alone.
As the church, we are Christ’s body in the world. Even as Jesus offers us a lighter burden, he calls us to offer that lighter load to an overburdened world. Jesus doesn’t ask us to stack tent poles in our backpacks until we collapse in exhaustion. Instead, Jesus calls us to be companions–companions who take a turn with a heavy load, who walk beside our neighbor, companions who admit our own exhaustion and stop to rest together.
Friends, hear again the promise of Jesus: Come to me, all you that are weary and 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.: Amen