Sermons

The Yoke of Freedom
The Very Rev. Tracey Lind
Proper 9A
July 6, 2008

Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of our teeming shore,
Send these, the homeless tempest-tost, to me,
I lift my lamp besides the golden door!
"The New Colossus" by Emma Lazarus (Inscription on the Statue of Liberty)

Come to me,
all you that are weary and heavy-laden
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.
Matthew 11:28-30

Do you hear the similarity? The promise of America is a promise of freedom. The promise of the Gospel is also a promise of freedom.

A number of years ago, while working on a proposal for an immigrant ministry at my former parish in New Jersey, I made a visit to Ellis Island in search of inspiration. As I walked around looking at vast the empty spaces, broken windows and photos on the walls, and listening to tape-recorded voices, I heard and saw echoes of the past. On that field trip, I was reminded of the stories of what people were willing to sacrifice for freedom, hope, prosperity and peace.

All those immigrants who have settled on these shores we call America - whether they were 17th century British pilgrims on the Mayflower; masses of European immigrants in the steerage of 19th century steamships; recent arrivals from Asia, Africa, and the Americas landing at Miami, Newark and Los Angeles airports, or crossing borders in Texas, Arizona and New Mexico - have come to these shores bringing new hopes, new dreams, and new lives in search of freedom.

Others came to this land in chains, shackled in the bottom holds of slave ships. For them, freedom became the quest after they arrived. And for some, as the old spiritual reminds us, freedom only came with death.

What makes us all Americans, I think, is our quest for freedom. When we're trying to get, it's all we can think of, and once we have it (especially those who have had it all our lives), most of us tend to take it for granted, and some of us want to deny it to others.

The promise of Christ is also a promise of freedom. As Paul reminds us in his letter to the Galatians, "For freedom, Christ has set us free." (Galatians 5:1) Or as he suggests in his letter to the Romans, in Christ we have the freedom to actually do the things we ought to do, and through Christ, we have the freedom of forgiveness and grace when we do the things we ought not to do.

So what did Jesus mean when he said: "Take my yoke...and you will find rest for your soul? For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light." What kind of freedom was he talking about?

A yoke is a wooden or iron frame for joining two beasts of burden so that they can pull a plow, a cart or some other heavy load. A yoke must fit well so that when it pulls, it will not hurt - like a good work boots or running shoes. If the animal pulls in an uncooperative manner, the yoke will run and become uncomfortable - like a collar on a new puppy. The yoke is designed to help the animal work obediently - like speed limits on the highway. And sometimes, a yoke is used to protect us from ourselves - like parental controls on the television or Internet.

Jesus' yoke is a metaphor for love. His burden is a symbol of freedom. The yoke and burden of Christ is the promise of a space where we can start again where we can find new hope, new dreams and a second chance. The yoke and burden offered to us by Jesus are an invitation to a new community grounded in freedom, love, compassion and acceptance for one another. It is a community beyond religion and yet it is what the church can and should be.

Real freedom - the freedom that money can't buy, the freedom that is worth even more than gold - is freedom of the soul. As Janis Joplin once said, "Freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose." It's the freedom of the spirit that in fact keeps people alive, even under the most adverse conditions of imprisonment. This is the kind of freedom that Jesus and Paul are talking about - the freedom to be who God is calling each of us to be. And the church, at its best, is a place to practice freedom: to admit that we are heavy-laden; to say out loud that we need God and each other; to be vulnerable enough to share both our burdens and our blessings; and in doing so, to find compassion, love acceptance and freedom.

Yes, my friends, it's both bondage and freedom that unites us and calls us into being one with Christ. And when we are called into the oneness of Christ, we are also called into action - the action of compassion that is expressed in both our private lives and public policies.

This leads me back to those famous words of welcome and comfort engraved upon The Statue of Liberty:

Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to be free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shores,
Send these, the homeless tempest-tossed to me,
I lift my lamp besides the golden door.

One of the things that I've learned about the history of immigration in America is that when times are good, our doors of welcome are open wider; and when times get tough, it's harder to squeeze through the doors and gates of entry into this nation.

As we experience a tough economy and more concern over national and personal security, our immigration debate becomes more heated and hate crimes against immigrants become more vicious, violent and insidious.

Last Friday, I stood at a gas station on the corner of Superior and East 78th Street with neighborhood residents in a vigil for a middle-aged man who, after receiving verbal attacks, was brutally shot in front of his son just for no apparent reason other than the fact that he was a foreigner speaking in his native language. Invited to watch the surveillance videotape over and over again with the gas station owners, I thought to myself, "This is hate enfleshed in the human body."

As I stood at the vigil with a small but concerned crowd of neighborhood residents, faith leaders and community activists, I wondered: Is this the lamp of charity, the light of welcome, the fire of hospitality, and the torch of freedom we light for the stranger at our borders and our gates?

As people of faith we must speak up. Undocumented immigrants, disparaged as "illegal aliens" by some who want them out of this country -- and out of our schools, hospitals and jobs -- present a moral dilemma for people of faith. Raids at workplaces, and the arrests, detentions and deportations that follow, devastate families and divide communities. Employers who need workers find themselves pitted against taxpayers who resent increasing costs of social services. This nation of immigrants, once proud to be a "melting pot," now builds prisons and detention centers to remove those it sees as a threat.

Reflecting on the immigration dilemma in a recent issue of Episcopal Life (1/7/08), long-time director of Episcopal Migration Ministries, Richard Parkins lamented that, "Hospitality is becoming an endangered trait at the official level." He went on to say: "We are developing a culture of fear and suspicion. It permeates the community...and we begin to close our doors...the official voice is 'Keep them out. They are a liability.' I think the voice of the church has to be the counter voice."

Our Presiding Bishop Katharine Jefferts Schori agrees. In September, after Congress failed again to pass an immigration reform bill, our chief pastor wrote to the church:

I call on all people of faith to vehemently insist that immigrants be protected from inhumane treatment...I would urge our government, in the strongest terms, to cease these incursions into workplaces, homes and other venues where migrants gather until we have comprehensive immigration reform. This one-sided approach to addressing our immigration problems neglects the tenets of justice and compassion which define us as Christians and as a church which embraces the marginalized and the defenseless. (Episcopal Life, 1/7/08)

Brothers and sisters, on this Independence Day weekend, let us heed the call of not just our presiding bishop, but of the Son of Man who came eating, drinking and dancing with tax collectors and sinner saying: "Come to me, all you that are weary and heavy-laden and I will give you rest." Let us drop not only our burdens at his feet, but let us also take on his yoke of compassion, love, acceptance and welcome for the least of our brothers and sisters. And let us express this radical hospitality in our homes, our workplaces, and our schools, our letters to the editor, and yes, our voting booths.

Friends, this is the price of freedom - the freedom for which our parents lived and died. And as we pay this price, let us remember that unless you are an indigenous Native American, all of us come from immigrant roots. And, in the big scheme of things, all of us, each and every one of us - no matter what our native land - are resident aliens, sojourners in search of a place to call home. Amen!