Imagine a marriage. Imagine various possible expressions of love within that marriage. Which of these would be more meaningful: a spouse who once a year rents out a marching band to spell out “I LOVE YOU!” in a giant sporting stadium as tens of thousands of onlookers cheer on in approval and delight . . . but remains silent the rest of the year? Or a spouse who comes up in a quiet moment and says, “How are you?” or “How was your day?” or offers an unprompted hug . . . every day, ’til death do you part?
What’s the meaning of the small, the insignificant, the humble? Today’s readings contain one of the shortest Gospel selections in the entire reading cycle. At 54 words, there are only two Gospel selections I’ve found that are smaller: the 44-word observation from Luke we had in October, and the 41-word anecdote you’ll hear next month. (And if you want to chop a few words off, there’s even a 51-word version of today’s reading that’s been used previously.)
I was trying to summarize the selection, but realized my efforts were longer than just pasting it. So, without further ado, here you go: “Come to me, all you who labor and are burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am meek and humble of heart; and you will find rest for yourselves. For my yoke is easy, and my burden light.”
My eyes were drawn to that last bit: For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light. At times I’ve read that and reflect on it over the years, and I find myself yelling, “How can you say that?! I need to give up all my possessions, and forsake my family, and be persecuted and spat upon, and lose my life, and even then, it’s easier to get through the eye of a needle than it is to get into Heaven, and somehow I’m supposed to think of this as a light, easy burden?!”
As short as it is, this one passage gnawed at me, and I thought, prayed, and reflected on it. And I thought of the idea of marriage. Look at a marriage from the point of view of objectivity. You’re forsaking all other companionship until one of you dies. You’ve entered into a promise before God that — no matter what happens — you will be chained to this person. Debilitating illness? Cancer? Loss of limbs? Alcoholism? Adultery? Emotional cruelty? Crippling poverty? You’ve promised to stick it out. If you’re a woman, you specifically pledged to remain open to the possibility of motherhood (one of the most-common causes of death for women aged 20-34).
In a bad marriage, that pledge is one of the hardest things to imagine . . . and, indeed, many marriages end up failing, their participants miserable nearly from the beginning.
In other marriages, that “yoke” is easy — trivial, even. I’ve been married to my wife for 12 years, and they’ve glided by so quickly I can scarcely believe it. I’ve heard about marriages failing after six months, and I’ve said, “HOW?! We were still unpacking six months into the marriage!”
One reason that marriage has been so “effortless” for me is because it hasn’t been a heavy burden of grand gestures, but an endless series of tiny sacrifices, of living in the moment, of spending time with my spouse. The patient ear in hard times. The quip amid happy moments. Doing the chore that neither one of us wants to do. Calling people. (We’re introverts; we really don’t like telephones.)
No single act of love is insurmountable. No single moment of compassion is a gargantuan sacrifice or an unimaginable surrender. But, together, I’m hoping that these nearly 5,000 days of tiny moments have helped build a marriage that will last a lifetime.
I think our lives with Jesus are built the same way, moment by moment. Sure, we can have a “road to Damascus” moment of total conversion, or sacrifice our lives among the lions (physical or virtual). But I suspect that Christ works just as well in those tiny moments, where the burden is lightest and the yoke easiest.
When Sunday Mass ends, my son runs ahead to hold the door open for people leaving, serving as an unofficial doorman until we catch up several minutes later. We didn’t tell him to do so; he just got the urge one day to do it. What others might see as a “chore” — getting stuck holding the door — is a light, easy way to practice being a Christian in a quiet moment before we leave church.
It’s an example that has grown with me as well. The patience with a nonbeliever. The moments chatting with an elderly shut-in who’s checking the mail. The handful of change donated when the opportunity arises above and beyond your weekly offerings. Those tiny moments with Christ add up to a lifetime commitment that, ideally, will let the years with him feel effortless . . . if you let the Spirit carry your heart along the path of kindness.
Advent season is when we prepare ourselves for the coming of Christ, born as a child in the most humble of circumstances. How can such greatness be brought into the world by something so small? If you can answer that, then Christ may be closer to you than you realize.
Today’s readings: Is 40:25-31; Ps 103:1-2,3-4,8 and 10; Mt 11:28-30
