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- Written by: Don Goulding
Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, 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. (Matthew 11:28, 29)
A crack from the whip split the air next to the young ox’s ear.
“On, ya rascal. Why can’t ya be like ol’ Max?” The farmer bellowed.
The yearling, Georgy Boy by name, was having a rough go. The farmer put him in the same yoke with Maximilian. Max pulled straight on, even when sweet meadows beckoned or the lovely cows mooed. Near the end of the day, Georgy Boy panted from straining after this mouthful or that gate.
His thoughts were simple. “Tired … huff. Must rest. Lean on Max. Go where Max go. Ha, Max carry yoke, Georgy Boy rest.”
I spent so much of my life straining to be a prosperous businessman and philanthropist that I wore myself out. More for me, for my family, and for the kingdom of God—such worthy goals. But my agendas were mine, not from the Lord. When I looked back on my row, there were nothing but zigzags. I needed rest from myself.
“Come to me and learn,” Jesus said. “Walk close, touch me, and rest. My yoke will be on you, but I’ll shoulder the burden.”
My own yoke—the corporation I founded, the belongings I acquired, and the pride I boasted—was exhausting. I traded it for the yoke of Jesus and became a pastor and missionary. To my surprise, the burden was even heavier. The yoke of Jesus, after all, pulls people out of eternal hell.
Attempting to carry the yoke of Jesus, or steer it one direction or another, feels much like when I made zigzags under my own yoke. It exhausts me to the core. So I can’t wear my yoke, and I can’t carry his.
My new goal is a contemplative life, in his yoke with him. I want to learn Georgy Boy’s lesson and walk alongside, feel Jesus’s touch, and let him do the work.
Prayer: My friend, Jesus, thank you for the companionship and rest.
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- Written by: Don Goulding
… and thus to know the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge, so that you may be filled up to all the fullness of God. (Ephesians 3:19)
The breeze tickled the surface of the lake, gained the shore, and made the bare oak trees giggle. It blew across my upturned face, and I praised the Lord for another day of his living gifts.
How could it be that I sinned daily, yet my heavenly Father rushed to forgive, pulled me to his heart, and promised heaven? Astounding. I was adopted through grace, and joy swirled about me, taking the form of the morning wind.
The breeze continued until it reached the dock, and pressed a man shivering in his wheelchair. He looked empty.
“I’m stuck here, and can’t go up the hill.” He pointed to a dilapidated trailer.
“I’ll push, but may I pray for you first?” I said.
“Oh, you’re religious are you?”
I explained that religion was manmade, I had friendship with Jesus. He consented to prayer, but as I opened my heart to heaven, the middle aged cast-off stared like I was some other species.
“Wow, I wish I could pray like that,” the empty man said.
When I stop to ponder on the truth that Jesus purchased my place in God’s family, then even the lakeside breeze becomes holy to me. It enters my heart with love that surpasses knowledge until I burst with all the fullness of God.
But when apathy seduces me into taking my adoption for granted, or even doubting it, the holy wind rushes out of me. I become like the empty man. The difference between full and empty is a single breath of the love of Jesus.
Prayer: Sweet Savior, I inhale your sacrificial love.
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- Written by: Don Goulding
… the head steward tasted the water that had been turned to wine, not knowing where it came from (though the servants who had drawn the water knew) … (John 2:9)
Jesus changes me into wine. Not tasteless water, but heady, sweet wine—cranberry-red, party enlivening liquor.
Like the servants at the wedding in Cana, my job is to fill the jars with water. I pour in a few buckets of kind words, and whatever generous acts I can muster. I often spill and leave the jars half full. It’s nothing miraculous as I struggle to dump in faithfulness during trials. Mine are quite unremarkable contributions.
Then Jesus comes to the party. There are no flashes of supernatural light, no angels singing the Hallelujah Chorus, but he turns my water into wine. I can’t name the exact moment of transformation. At some point, he simply raises a brow, or bends a smile, and my haphazard obedience is changed into the effervescence of love. My countenance sparkles with robust joy, finished in peace, and with hints of generosity. Heaven applauds and angels want a taste.
Like the wedding servants, only I know where the wine comes from. I’m certain that it’s nothing but a watered-down belief that I pour into the jars. Jesus causes the transformation. I can no more claim authorship of the beauty in my life than the servants in Cana claimed to be winemasters. They knew that turning the water into wine was all Jesus’s doing. I know that turning my callus heart into one of loving kindness is all Jesus’s doing.
I still have a few containers of plain water—trials that plague me. My assignment is to top the jars with faithfulness—and wait. The day will surely come when those, too, will be distilled into glory.
Prayer: Blessed Lord Jesus, make me into wine.