The time was … when we loved the king and the people of Great Britain with an affection truly filial; we felt ourselves interested in their glory; we shared in their joys and sorrows; we cheerfully poured the fruit of all our labours into the lap of our mother country, and without reluctance expended our blood and our treasure in their cause.
So declared the residents of the town of Malden, Massachusetts, unanimously, after having met in town meeting on May 27, 1776. They responded to a request from the Massachusetts House of Representatives that all towns in the province declare their views on independence. “These were our sentiments toward Great Britain while she continued to act the part of a parent state,” their statement continued.
We felt ourselves happy in our connection with her, nor wished it to be dissolved; but our sentiments are altered, it is now the ardent wish of our soul that America may become a free and independent state. … We long entertained hope that the spirit of the British nation would once more induce them to assert their own and our rights, and bring to condign punishment the elevated villains who have trampled upon the sacred rights of men and affronted the majesty of the people. We hoped in vain; they have lost their spirit of just resentment; we therefore renounce with disdain our connexion with a kingdom of slaves; we bid a final adieu to Britain.[1]
A few weeks later, the Declaration of Independence was signed by representatives of the thirteen colonies and publicly proclaimed, and that historic moment became a milestone, not only in the history of this nation, but in the world’s long struggle for freedom, justice, and the rule of law. Those “who trample upon the sacred rights of [humans] and affront the majesty of the people” can no longer sleep comfortably in their penthouses and palaces, dreaming dreams of autocratic rule, because in the summer of 1776 a bell was rung whose sound no tyranny can muffle for long.
This year, the celebration was much quieter, and not just because many fireworks and parades were canceled due to the pandemic. The celebration was quieter, perhaps a little more introspective than usual, because we feel with renewed urgency that the promise of these bold, founding declarations is yet to be fulfilled.
On July 5,1852, Frederick Douglas was invited to address the Rochester Ladies’ Anti-Slavery Society, and several minutes into his speech, he asked,
Fellow-citizens, pardon me, allow me to ask, why am I called upon to speak here to-day? What have I, or those I represent, to do with your national independence? Are the great principles of political freedom and of natural justice, embodied in that Declaration of Independence, extended to us? and am I, therefore, called upon to bring our humble offering to the national altar, and to confess the benefits and express devout gratitude for the blessings resulting from your independence to us? Would to God, both for your sakes and ours, that an affirmative answer could be truthfully returned to these questions! Then would my task be light, and my burden easy and delightful.[2]
We celebrate, not because we have arrived, but because we hope. We celebrate because the vision of human rights and democratic governance is always greater than the political realities of any given time. The greater vision is the one that aroused the imagination and courage of the townspeople of Malden, Massachusetts, and their fellow revolutionaries, as well as of Frederick Douglas and the many who are marching with him on the long road to freedom. It is a vision rooted in divine promise, and proclaimed by the prophets in dark times:
Is not this the fast that I choose: to loose the bonds of injustice, to undo the thongs of the yoke, to let the oppressed go free, and to break every yoke?[3]
Not every yoke, though.
“I am the Lord your God who brought you out of the land of Egypt, to be their slaves no more; I have broken the bars of your yoke and made you walk erect,” we read in Leviticus 26:13. This yoke God has broken. “With a yoke on our necks we are hard driven; we are weary, we are given no rest,” we read in Lamentations 5:5. That yoke must be broken.
But Jesus said, “Take my yoke upon you.” It was common Jewish practice to speak of the “yoke of Torah” or the “yoke of the commandments,” and always with praise.[4] To accept the yoke of Torah meant to serve no master but God alone. To accept the yoke of Torah meant true freedom as servants of God. When Jesus said, “Take my yoke,” he didn’t mean to suggest that he had something less demanding than Torah to offer. He was pushing back hard against religious authorities of his time whose interpretations fell way short when it came to walking erect and rest for the weary:[5]
The scribes and the Pharisees … do not practice what they teach. They tie up heavy burdens, hard to bear, and lay them on the shoulders of others; but they themselves are unwilling to lift a finger to move them. Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For you tithe mint, dill, and cumin, and have neglected the weightier matters of the law: justice and mercy and faith.[6]
Jesus’ own proclamation focused on these weightier matters, and the response he received was divided. “I thank you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth,” he prayed, “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.”[7] He was joyfully received by those who were hungry for justice, those thirsting for tangible mercy, those longing to belong. The little ones who knew nothing about the fine points of the law and the details of the rituals, those who were burdened, those who were known sinners – they were the ones who got the message. They welcomed and embraced the friend of sinners as their friend.
“Come to me, all you that 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.”[8] Jesus calls all who are weary and burdened to become his disciples. “Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me.” When he says, “learn from me,” he means it quite literally: he invites you stay very close to him, shoulder to shoulder, to listen to what he says, to observe what he does, to notice the things he pays attention to. Take my yoke, learn from me.
Here’s a way to look at this: Carol Borland is a pastor in Vermont, and she and her husband also run a maple sugaring operation. They use a team of horses to pull a large sled when they harvest the sap from the maples in the last days of winter. The horses are yoked together – not with a yoke, but through harnesses and their hitch to the sap sled. Together the two can pull incredible loads.
One of the horses, Tony, is much stronger than the other – both physically and in his own will, commonly known as stubbornness. The other, Jerry, is calmer, more reliable, and willing to listen to commands. So when the Borlands decided to train a younger team by hitching them one at a time with one of the older horses, they used Jerry because he would listen to the commands and do as he was instructed. The younger horse pulling beside Jerry soon learned the commands. The few times they tried using Tony, the younger horse learned how to be stubborn.
There seems to be a relationship between learning to obey and sharing that yoke. And maybe not only with horses. The yoke Jesus calls us to take upon us is one he already wears. It’s like he’s saying to us, “Become my yoke mate, and learn how to pull the load by working beside me and watching how I do it.”[9] Together we can pull incredible loads.
The burden is light because we’re pulling with him and we’re pulling in the right direction. With him, we’re on the road to the kingdom. Side by side we walk, we pull, watching and doing as Jesus does, like young horses in training. Side by side with him we learn the way of gentle humility, and discover the freedom that comes with aligning our path with his. Side by side with him we become who we’re meant to be, and do work that is real and worth doing.
This is a poem by Marge Piercy, titled, To be of use.[10]
The people I love the best
jump into work head first
without dallying in the shallows
and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.
They seem to become natives of that element,
the black sleek heads of seals
bouncing like half-submerged balls.
I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,
who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,
who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward,
who do what has to be done, again and again.
I want to be with people who submerge
in the task, who go into the fields to harvest
and work in a row and pass the bags along,
who are not parlor generals and field deserters
but move in a common rhythm
when the food must come in or the fire be put out.
The work of the world is common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums
but you know they were made to be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
and a person for work that is real.
Take my yoke, says Jesus. The work is real and it is worth doing. Together we can pull incredible loads.
[1] Instructions from the Town of Malden, Massachusetts, for a Declaration of Independence http://teachingamericanhistory.org/library/index.asp?document=238
[2] “What to the Slave Is the Fourth of July?” https://teachingamericanhistory.org/library/document/what-to-the-slave-is-the-fourth-of-july/
[3] Isaiah 58:6
[4] Aboth 3:5
[5] Lev 26:13 and Lam 5:5
[6] Matthew 23:2, 4, 23
[7] Matthew 11:25f.
[8] Matthew 11:28-30
[9] Hare, Matthew, 129.
[10] Marge Piercy, “To be of use”
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/57673/to-be-of-use