“Rest in Resistance”
Sixth Sunday after Pentecost
July 5, 2026
Zechariah 9:9-12
Matthew 11:16-19, 25-30
Jesus said, “Come to me, all you who labor and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.” “"Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”
This second quote are words by Emma Lazarus are carved into the book held by Lady Liberty in New York City. Both quotes are words of hope for the hopeless—words of opportunity for those with nowhere left to go. They are words that describe what it means to be a safe harbor in the midst of a storm. They are words that continue to either be misconstrued or forgotten, altogether, in the chaos of what it means to be a citizen and a Christian in this country.
Yesterday, millions of people gathered with family and friends to celebrate the 250th birthday of our nation. Those celebrations ranged from full-on patriotism, pride, and excitement to melancholy, disgust, and disappointment. Neither are right or wrong. They are faithful. It is good to celebrate a nation that has, in all of its good and bad ways, explored the experiment originally designed 250 years ago. It is also good and right to challenge the corruption and express dismay at how badly that experiment continues to turn out for the marginalized in our communities—for the homeless, tempest-tost, wretched refuse that seek justice and peace.
These same expressions—pride and dismay—are true of Christianity, itself—in what we’ve done and what we’ve become. And, to be sure, the nation and the faith are inextricably linked. It was in the name of the Christian God that ideas such as Doctrines of Discovery and Manifest Destiny took hold, suggesting that it was God’s will that nations expand and force their ways and their religions upon indigenous people in other lands. So, it’s no wonder that people want to believe that our nation was built on Christian principles.
In some ways, it was. The genocide of Native Peoples and the slavery of African people are justified by quasi-Christian ideology. But labeling it Christian doesn’t make it so. Saying hate is biblical doesn’t make it Christ-like. Even using ‘biblical’ ideology in the construction of a nation doesn’t make it Christ-like. In fact, much about this nation is anything but Christ-like. Nations and empires are, really by definition, un-Christian.
Hate. Violence. War. Racism. Transphobia. Misogyny. Even patriarchy. These are not only things practiced by this country. They are things practiced by Christians. And those of us who recognize how un-Christ-like they are have become weary. Heavy-laden. Fighting hate with love, fighting misinformation and disinformation and down-right lies with Truth is not for the faint of heart. It’s exhausting. And the last thing our nation and our faith need are weary warriors of love who have been worn down to nothing, with little left to give.
“Come to me, all you who labor and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.”
You see, resistance and resilience are not a sprint. It’s a marathon. A triathlon. The African-American community can attest. Even after all this time—after hundreds of years of slavery and racism and civil rights activism and small wins, the work still remains. In her book, “Resistance, Resilience, & Radical Love,” Regina Shands Stoltzfus points out, “We are not only working against the effects of systemic violence but also the forces that keep it in place because it benefits [those resistant to resistance.]”[1]
As long as there is resistance to justice by those who benefit from injustice, the work will never end. And if we are to be in this for the long haul—if we are to follow Jesus all the way to the cross and to resurrection—we also need to care for ourselves. Ironically, the resistance doesn’t need more self-martyrs. What good are we if we can no longer participate in the work to be done? What good are we if we place the whole load on ourselves and then try to sprint to the end, finding ourselves collapsed shortly down the road, weighed down with defeat and seeing no change at all?
“Come to me, all you who labor and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.”
Jesus calls to all of us who are feeling defeated right now—all who desire peace and justice—who long for the rights promised in this great experiment. He calls us not to push through by sheer will and our own strength but to link ourselves to him. He uses an metaphor of the yoke because it is a symbol of work done by a team. Two oxen or two horses would be teamed together to pull the plow. They would rely on the person behind them to guide and direct. And they would work the ground. Together. Gathering strength from one another. Helping each other.
Stoltszfus quotes Audre Lorde who said, “Caring for myself is not self-indulgence, it is self-preservation, and that is an act of political warfare.” This African-American poet recognized that our nation relied upon her to continue to be exhausted. It is the idealism of the American Dream—work hard enough, and you’ll get good things. Be good enough, be smart enough, and you’ll have everything you need and want. Of course, the reality of that statement is that if you don’t have what you need, if you don’t achieve good things, it’s because you aren’t enough. You aren’t worthy.
We, as a society, place highest value on the people who have much. We idolize the wealthy, the famous, the successful—as if they are somehow more worthy of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Those who have little, we label as lazy. Unworthy. Unworthy of healing and wholeness. Unworthy of life. That may be the American way, but is absolutely not Christ-like.
“Come to me, all you who labor and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.”
The work of justice as a Christian practice is the work of Truth-telling. And while the Truth may set us free, it’s going to piss us off, first. It’s going to be uncomfortable. We can’t have an honorable nation if we whitewash our history and remove the stories of our unsavory past from public consumption. We can’t be Christ-like and not talk about the ugliness of who we have been and who we are.
Telling the Truth of ourselves isn’t self-hatred. It is simply Confession. It is honesty. It is the path to life. It is to recognize how we are living in the consequences of our past—a past most of us are not responsible for. And yet, a past that has created our present. Telling the Truth will not be popular. It will be met with resistance. It is a long and difficult road to walk. But we do not walk it alone.
Jesus told the Truth—the Truth of God’s love, the Truth of God’s hope for the whole world, the Truth of empire and religious oppression. That Truth put him on a cross because those who heard it didn’t like what they saw in the mirror he held. He took the cross. He took the death. And he received the resurrection. He went there for us—to show us not only what following him will do, but also what God can do in response.
Being Christ-like in this world will never be popular. It will never be easy. It will never be nice. But we are yoked to the only One who knows the way to true Life.
“Come to me, all you who labor and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.”
Pastor Tobi White
Our Saviour’s Lutheran Church
Lincoln, NE
[1] Stostzfus, Regina Shands, “Resistance, Resilience, & Radical Love: Reflections on Blackness and Teaching Peace,” Tehom Center Publishing: 2025, pg. 36.
