I need to tell you about the dogs, Cotton and Lola. Now Cotton is still with us and is a black-mouth cur (though that black mouth is pretty white now). He is the gentilist, most loving dog you could ever want. He has soulful brown eyes that you know actually see some goodness in you that you may not even be able to see yourself. Cotton is smart, so smart that sometimes I think he is on the verge of speech. He is that kind of dog.
Now Lola is no longer with us physically. But she is still with us in a very real, spiritual way. She was a big, bulky pit bull, and she was...well, she was Lola. Loving when she wanted to be; loyal when she remembered to be; but man, oh, man was she stubborn and self-centered. While you can see sadness in Cotton's eyes if YOU are ever sad, Lola would look at you with an expression that said, “Is it time to eat, yet?” While Cotton will sit by your side as long as you are sitting and be perfectly content, Lola would jump on the couch with you. . . and then slowly stretch all of her heavy, muscled body out until you found yourself pushed to the floor. She was just that kind of dog.
And there were some times when Lola's Lola-ness got to be so bad, so off the chain, so out of control, badgering Cotton, stealing his toys, pushing him out of the way, that Cotton would finally growl, bark, and then look up at you with an expression that said, “What are you going to do about this? I have had it.”
It's hard to live in community, even if you're the most loving creature on the planet.
Moses was NOT the most loving creature on the planet. And the Israelites, the people of God, don't seem to have been all that easy to live with.
In our Old Testament reading today, Moses has had it. He slams his letter of resignation on the desk. He hands over the keys to the world's largest station wagon. He's ready to give someone else his compass and map to the Promised Land. He's seriously considering just picking up his staff and his cloak and march back off to Sinai ALONE.
"These aren't even my kids!" he shouts. “Why am I having to raise them? Ungrateful brats! Meat? Where am I supposed to find meat in the middle of the desert?
God is angry, but Moses is livid. He is spent, dried up, running on fumes. In today's world, he'd complain of burnout. Moses is burned out. He's thinking of engaging in quiet quitting. He barges into God's office and lets fly with a few choice words: "I cannot carry them all alone. They are too heavy for me!"
Too heavy. Too heavy. Sometimes we are faced with callings that are too heavy to carry. To abolish slavery. To give comfort to the poor when they just seem to be multiplying. To stand up to powerful people when we are just little nobodies. To care for sick or dying loved ones. To raise a kid. Any of us who has been called by Jesus to a life of faithfulness, no matter what kind of work we do, will find ourselves here in this space eventually. With the best of intentions and all the faith in the world, we try to raise ourselves to meet that calling, try to lift that burden, but our knees buckle beneath the weight. And we are stalled. There in the Wilderness.
It would be easy for us to walk away. Right? And fun, maybe. To live for ourselves. But oh, my goodness. What is it about us? What is it about those of us who live in faithfulness to God? Or at least are trying. How many of you, right now, over the next few weeks, could really just drop the load and walk away? Head for the shore? Go hide in Disney World?
Probably none of us.
It's the most remarkable thing, isn't it? The burdens God gives us are too heavy to carry, and impossible to leave.
But here's the thing: those burdens? Hidden in them you will often find our purpose. The burnout? Hidden in it, you will often find God.
Look at this reading again and see one thing we don't always see. It is this: Moses has never been this close to the heart of God than right now. Imagine that! To be so angry and self-centered, and self-pitying. And then to suddenly hear God sidle up to you and say, “Boy, you got that right!” To be so close to God that God confides in HIM! That's close. And that's a blessing.
And if there is blessing in the burden, there is also blessing in the burnout. It makes us stop and take off our backpacks and see just what we're carrying in there. Because while our calling might be a holy one, we often carry things God never asked us to carry in the first place.
The blessing in the burnout is finding out that beneath all that extra weight we carry in our packs, there is still, at the bottom of it all, a calling. It is God-given, and it is supposed to be heavy because it is a piece of God's big dream for the world. God longs for the day when every mouth is fed, when every slave is set free, when every tear is wiped away, when every child is loved. Where everyone follows God, not idols. Where faith rules our lives and not hypocrisy. Where Jesus leads, not charlatains.
Nothing short of that will do. And all of us living faithfully are carrying slivers of that heavy dream, walking with God...and each other...toward freedom.
Moses may burn out, you and I may burn out, but God will never burn out. There is at the heart of God a fire as inexhaustible as the dream it carries – relentless energy for the pursuit of justice, strength enough to move mountains of possibilities, a deep wellspring of love for the broken world. In the flickering of that burning bush, Moses met the everlasting God who does not grow weary. And a thousand miles later, Moses is still learning the same lesson as Israel grumbles about its manna: God is sufficient.
So whatever load you carry, whatever burden you bear, rest assured that you are not alone.
God is here to help shoulder the load.
"Gather 70 of the elders," says God to Moses, "bring them to the tent of meeting. I will take some of the spirit that is on you, and put it on them, so that you will not bear the burden of this people all alone."
It's God's answer to Moses' resignation letter – 70 people to help him carry the load. And God gives us people to share the load as well – we call it church. We sometimes grumble and bicker in the back seat, we sometimes act like Lola – all id – but we pull together as church to share our lives and our loads, our prayers and tears, coffee hours, and hot dogs, and communion. With each other and with the world. Our loads are bigger than any of our own lives, but so is our church, for we're surrounded by the great communion of saints, joined in our work by all the faithful who have come before. Together across the ages and places there are thousands of us, walking (maybe stumbling) toward that heavenly throne, shouldering together God's big dream for the world.