5 July 2026 6th Sunday after Pentecost.
Genesis 24:34-38, 42-49, 58-67; Psalm 45:10-17; Romans 7:14-25; Matthew 11:15-19, 25-30
A leader from IBM once stated that the fastest way to succeed is to double your failure rate. And that may sound like a very strange thing to say, when you think about it, unless we occasionally fail, we will never learn, we will not grow, we will not do anything ‘new’. The best inventions in our world came about because someone failed at doing something. Risk taking and failure are essential elements of success. Unfortunately, human nature tells us to avoid failure; that it is a sign of weakness; and we do everything in our power to cover it up because we do not want to be seen as ‘less than’ or not ‘good’ or ‘worthy’. But failure-tolerant people are able to look beyond definitions of success and failure and accept them as ‘part and parcel’ of a healthy life, they are also able to empathise with others who express failure and celebrate with those who express success.
So let’s look at what a failure-tolerant Christian looks like. Because many of those we see as significant in the story of God have failed spectacularly. Moses was a murderer; David an adulterer; Peter denied even knowing Jesus; Paul describes himself as ‘chief among sinners’. This week Paul admits his fierce struggle with his deeply divided self. He does what he does not want to do and does not do what we wants to do. He goes on to describe the ‘war’ within himself that ‘imprisons’ him and laments the fact that he does not understand what he does. And I am tempted to say that what Paul is expressing could easily be also expressed, to varying degrees, by me, and maybe you too.
If we look at the ‘desert mothers and fathers’, we see fourth century monastics who ‘escaped’ the corruption of society and the church in order to seek Christ in the solitude of the Egyptian desert. These desert dwellers were not abstract theoreticians, they were practitioners of healing. They did not seek theological information, they sought personal transformation. They modelled what has been described as a ‘spirituality of imperfection’ where they did not hide their brokenness, their wounds, their darkness or inner demons. Because, for them, this difficult and painful struggle was necessary to develop Christian maturity. Their desert journey shines a light on the interior struggle of Paul. In the vast nothingness of the Egyptian desert they found a cacophony of voices in the geography of the heart. They looked for wholeness and found brokenness. Anthony the Great – the father of monasticism concluded that we should ‘expect trials until your last breath’. A scary and challenging thought, yet also quite comforting. It tells us - ‘this is normal’, ‘what I am feeling is normal, it is ok to feel overwhelmed and unprepared’. The desert fathers, and Paul, encourage us to embrace our failures and our struggles.
And that is not an easy ask. And Jesus highlights it in our gospel. No matter what they did, someone found fault. John neither ate nor drank, and he was thought to have a demon; Jesus shared hospitality and was called a glutton and drunkard. No matter which way we go, someone will find fault, and sometimes that someone is myself. In today’s society, many question what we believe, and why. We may be challenged to explain the difference between being a Christian and just being a ‘good person’ committed to equality and justice. We may satisfy ourselves by answering this challenge with all sorts of ‘nice’ things like being a Christan assures me I am known and loved by a self-giving generous God; it means I am not alone when I am suffering because Jesus is with me; it gives me hope; it gives me a specific sense of purpose and vocation – to do justice, love mercy and practice humility before God and other people.
But somehow those answers can seem shallow and ‘empty’. Because what those answers lack is – being a Christian gives me my Sinfulness, with a capital S. Christianity liberates me with a truth that cuts before it heals. A truth that Sin is a deadly destructive force that I am powerless and helpless to overcome – apart from the death and resurrection of Jesus. Being a Christian gives me the robust and unflinching language needed to confess what Paul articulates so eloquently today. But the thing is, most of us prefer not to use that Sin word, because it brings with it a heap of baggage. Guilt, shame, punishment, hellfire. Sin can be a word that pulls us away from God rather than leading us into God’s arms. Paul’s take on sin tells us we are both beautiful and broken, we are both made in God’s image and enslaved to something that fights against our efforts to ‘be’ good and ‘do’ good. We are simultaneously sinner and saint, 100percent of the time.
And the words Jesus concludes his parable with are some of the most comforting words found in Scripture. ‘Come to me, all who 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’.
The idea of being ‘yoked’ to someone is not an easy concept to internalise. It implies I am no longer ‘my own person’, I am ‘attached’ to someone, and they are ‘in charge’ of me. We don’t use the term ‘yoked’ much in modern society or language, but the concept is one of nurture, guiding, and learning. Young beasts were paired with older beasts so they could learn how to pull the load. When we are yoked, the load is shared, the journey is shared. And that thought is very comforting. No matter what is going on in my life, there is someone there to share it with me, who will guide me and show me the right pathway. They do the ‘heavy lifting’ while I follow, and learn, and walk in their footsteps.
May we celebrate our brokenness, yoke ourselves to Jesus, and find rest for our souls.