The burden of certainty
A homily based on the Book of Common Prayer daily office reading:
Matthew 11:25-30 (NRSV)
At that time 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.”
Humans need certainty. We crave it. We crave understanding—and I get this, I’m the sort of person who really sincerely mistakes understanding for control. I fight to understand, to know, to make sense of things, because I really, fully believe it will bring me rest once I get it. If I understand, I’ve arrived. I’ve made it. I don’t need, I don’t want—in my certainty, I am sufficient.
And also in that place of certainty, another thing happens to my mind, to our minds. Suddenly we’re standing in that place of knowing—of mastery, even. And if I already know this, there’s nothing for me to learn.
This is why Jesus says faith is hidden from the eyes of the wise and the educated. This isn’t about being intelligent—this is about being teachable.
Surely you know this concept: maybe you’ve encountered it in yourself, maybe in others—how when someone perceives herself to be an expert in a topic, teaching her something new is like pouring more coffee into a mug already filled to the brim. A scalding hot mess.
And so it goes for those of us looking for God. Whether we’ve grown up with our religious preferences, or have begun to create something new for ourselves, when we come from a place of certainty claiming “this is what I know,” we narrow our vision and miss the opportunities to see God as bigger and broader than that. People around Jesus stuck in this thinking missed the opportunity to know God through him—they missed the point.
When I demand answers, I create my life from a place of certainty, and the cost of that? is allowing myself to live an open, dynamic life of faith.
This is why the purest encounters with God happen when we let go of what we thought we knew—it requires faith to admit there might be more than I already understand. We’re so afraid of being wrong, but what if there’s just even more?
The enemy of our faith is rooting ourselves in a place of knowing—because the place where faith sees and believes in possibility is the same place where knowing is threatened.
When we think we already know, we’re closed off to what could be. And in our certainty, we declare our independence from God. When we attach ourselves to being sure, we burden ourselves like animals transporting loads on our backs. We create the work for ourselves. We create our own burdens by refusing a new way of seeing.
Jesus sees the burdens we take on our backs and says, “here is a new way: follow me. Let me guide you. Come stand beside me and trust me enough to strap in, even when you’re unsure how it will work—let the uncertainty relieve some pressure.
“And I will give you rest. The rest is in leaving your burden behind. You choose to carry it by looking around you for wisdom and understanding in the way everyone tells you this world works.
“But I am here to show you a better, freer way.”
Jesus’s heart is broken for the people who hold onto their old ways of living and miss the movement of God right in front of them. He travels town to town, healing and teaching and inviting repentance—inviting a turn towards God.
He’s saying “Repent of your knowing. Leave behind of your tangible sense of security and confidence. Repent of your disregard of God’s magnitude—of making God small. Repent of your lack of faith.”
“Repent of your heavy life. Repent of the burden you took upon your back and your mind and your spirit,
Because it’s keeping you from living! Leave it behind—lay it down—because it’s crushing you,
And I’m offering you a way to be free.
Not without guidance, and not without effort—but this burden is light.
This burden is faith. The task we’re meant to carry is the light of seeing God at work around us.
This is Jesus’s invitation—even his plea.
God is in you, among you, and beside you—there is nothing more for you to need to figure out. Just receive.
Can you trust that, when you step out of a place of knowing, you’ll find a new perspective that opens your eyes to more truth and more possibilities?
Can you trust that anything that challenges your understanding of how the world works—actually frees you of your burden?
Can you trust that it’s joy and love and abundant life to open your eyes with the wonder of a child—to ground in a place of not knowing, of curiosity, and mystery, and of a willingness to participate and find your place in the whole thing?
Come to me, all who are weary from trying to figure things out, who are burdened by the demands of a world that’s too small and too knowable,
All of you come to Jesus and find rest.
He is gentle and humble and the only risk is losing what you think you’ve known in the past. Learn from him. Find a new way of knowing. This burden is light—this burden is eternal life.