Three windows into the same mystery

Sermon for the Fifth Sunday after Trinity, preached by Jenny Pittaway
Zechariah 9:9–10; Romans 8:9,11–13; Matthew 11:25–30

May I speak in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen

Today our readings open before us like three windows into the same radiant mystery: the meek King who comes in peace, the Spirit who dwells within and reshapes our very being, and the gentle Lord who calls the weary to rest.

This is one great movement of divine tenderness:
God comes to us not in domination but in humility;
dwells in us not as a taskmaster but as life-giving breath; and invites us not to strive harder but to rest deeper.

In our first reading Zechariah stands at the threshold of hope and cries out:

“Rejoice greatly, O daughter of Zion; behold thy King cometh unto thee: lowly, and riding upon an ass” (v9)
This is not the king Israel expected. No warhorse. No chariot. No glittering display of imperial power.
Instead, a king who comes towards his people, not towering over them. A king who draws near in vulnerability, not in threat.  Zechariah goes on to say:
that this king will “cut off the chariot from Ephraim, and the battle bow shall be cut off:  and he shall speak peace unto the heathen” (v10)

The peace he brings is not the fragile quiet that follows violence, but the deep shalom that flows from God’s own heart. It is the peace that disarms us, not only our weapons, but our fears, our defences, our self-protections.

This is the king who enters Jerusalem on Palm Sunday. Who enters the Eucharist at every Mass, and who enters the soul whenever we dare to open the door.

And this king is gentle. He does not force his way in.
He comes riding on the smallness of a donkey,
on the humility of bread and wine, on the quiet whisper of grace.

In our Epistle, Saint Paul, writing to the Romans, takes this vision of the gentle king and brings it into the very interior of the Christian life.

“But you are not in the flesh,” he says, you are in the Spirit, if the Spirit of God really dwells in you.” (v9)

Paul is not contrasting body and soul, as though the physical were bad and the spiritual good.
He is contrasting two ways of living:
the way of self-enclosure, self-reliance, self-protection,
and the way of openness to God’s indwelling life.

To live “in the flesh” is to live as though everything depends on us.
To live “in the Spirit” is to live as though everything depends on God.

And then Paul goes on to say:

“If the Spirit of him who raised Jesus from the dead dwells in you, he who raised Christ Jesus from the dead will give life to your mortal bodies also through his Spirit who dwells in you”. (v11)

The resurrection is not only a future hope; it is a present power. The same Spirit who breathed life into the tomb
breathes life into the weary heart, the anxious mind,
the burdened soul.

This is not self-improvement, or moral effort
This is resurrection life rising from within.

And because this life is a gift, Paul urges us not to fall back into the old patterns of fear and striving.
“We are debtors,” he says, not to the flesh, to live according to the flesh,  for if you live according to the flesh you will die but if by the Spirit you put to death the deeds of the body you will live”(v12-13)

The Christian life is not a burden to carry; it is a life to receive.

In the Gospel, Jesus lifts his eyes to heaven and prays:

“I thank you, Father, that you have hidden these things from the wise and understanding and revealed them to little children.” (V25)

This is not a rejection of learning or wisdom. It is a revelation of the Father’s heart. God is not found through achievement, but through openness.

Not through mastery, but through surrender.
Not through cleverness, but through trust.

The “little children” Jesus speaks of are those who know their need. Those who come with empty hands.
Those who do not pretend to be self-sufficient.

And then Jesus turns from prayer to a most tender invitation:
“Come to me, all who labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest” (v28)

This is the voice of the king in Zechariah, who comes in humility, riding on a donkey.
This is the voice of the Spirit in Romans, who gives life to our mortal bodies.

This is the voice of God made flesh,
calling us not to achievement but to rest.

“For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light” (v30)

A yoke is a strange image for freedom.
A yoke is something placed upon an animal to guide it,

to direct it, to bind it to another.

But Christ’s yoke is not a burden; it is a bond of love.
It is the yoke that joins us to him, so that he bears the weight with us, the yoke that aligns our will, our steps, and our hearts with his.

The world tells us that freedom means doing whatever we want. Christ tells us that freedom means becoming who we were created to be. The world tells us that rest is escape. Christ tells us that rest is communion.

The world tells us that peace is the absence of struggle.
Christ tells us that peace is the presence of God.

His yoke is easy because it is the yoke of love.
His burden is light because he carries it with us.

For us in our Anglo- Catholic worship this invitation of Christ is not abstract. It is sacramental.
Christ gives us rest not only in words but in signs, gestures, sacraments, holy things.

He gives us rest in the confessional, where sins are forgiven. Rest in the Eucharist, where he feeds us with his very life.  Rest in the quiet flicker of a sanctuary lamp.

In the scent of incense rising like prayer. In the stillness of adoration before the Blessed Sacrament.

He gives us rest in the rhythm of the liturgy, in the beauty of holiness.  In the communion of saints, in the fellowship of the Church, in the prayers of Our Lady who bears us in her heart.

He gives us rest in the simple act of kneeling, of opening our hands, of receiving what we cannot earn.

The rest Christ offers is not the rest of inactivity.
It is the rest of being held.

Let us hear his voice anew, and bring him our weariness, our contradictions, our sins, our hopes.
Let us take his yoke upon us, and lean on him that we may find rest for our souls.

For his yoke is easy, and his burden is light,
and his heart is meek and lowly, and his mercy endureth for ever.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.