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.