On Second Thought
Advent is a season that trains the soul to wait, to watch, and to discern the difference between what feels heavy and what truly matters. As the Church slows its pace and fixes its gaze on the coming of Christ, Scripture gently but firmly reshapes our understanding of burden and blessing. Paul’s words, “For every man shall bear his own burden” (Galatians 6:5), arrive not as a harsh command but as a clarifying truth. In a world eager to offload responsibility or inflate inconvenience into martyrdom, the gospel invites us to consider what our true “load” actually is.
The reflection’s plain language—“tote your load”—cuts through spiritual fog. Yet it immediately challenges our assumptions. The load Paul speaks of is not the accumulation of irritations, personal slights, or daily frustrations that so often consume our emotional energy. Scripture is clear that these are not meant to be carried endlessly. “Cast thy burden upon the Lord, and he shall sustain thee” (Psalm 55:22). The Hebrew word yahab suggests handing something over, relinquishing it into God’s care. Many believers struggle here, confusing grievance with calling and irritation with obedience. We invent crosses of our own and then congratulate ourselves for bearing them.
The cross Christ gives us is altogether different. It is not self-chosen suffering but Spirit-wrought surrender. Jesus’ call to take up the cross is a call to identification with Him—death to self, not death by inconvenience. Paul describes this cruciform life as the mortification of the old man, the steady surrender of ego, entitlement, and self-rule. This is not glamorous suffering, nor does it earn admiration. It is hidden work, often misunderstood, but deeply formative. As Dietrich Bonhoeffer wrote, “When Christ calls a man, He bids him come and die.” That dying, paradoxically, is where true life begins.
Advent deepens this understanding by placing the Incarnation at the center of our reflection. Christ enters the world not by grasping power but by emptying Himself. The eternal Son assumes flesh, vulnerability, and obscurity. In doing so, He reveals that God’s redemptive work is not accomplished by avoiding weight, but by bearing it rightly. The burden Christ shoulders is not only the cross of Calvary, but the ongoing concern for a lost and wandering world. Love always carries weight. Compassion is never passive. To share in Christ’s life is to share in His concern, His intercession, and His costly love for others.
Paul complicates matters further by adding another dimension: “Bear ye one another’s burdens, and so fulfil the law of Christ” (Galatians 6:2). At first glance, this seems contradictory. How can each person bear their own burden while also carrying the burdens of others? The answer lies in the distinction Paul makes between phortion (a personal load) and barē (crushing weight). Each believer is responsible for their own obedience, faithfulness, and accountability before God. Yet within the body of Christ, there are seasons when another’s weight becomes too heavy to bear alone. Love steps in where strength falters.
The reflection’s image of the “main line” rather than the “sidetrack” is particularly insightful. Christian community is not meant to be a place where burdens appear occasionally, to be addressed reluctantly. It is the main thoroughfare of shared life, where sorrow, weakness, and need regularly pass through. The rails are shiny not because the burdens are light, but because they are borne often. A church that avoids burden-bearing in the name of convenience has misunderstood the law of Christ, which is love expressed through sacrificial presence.
Yet the gospel refuses to end in heaviness. Jesus Himself declares, “My yoke is easy, and my burden is light” (Matthew 11:30). This is not denial of suffering, but redefinition of it. The Greek word chrēstos, translated “easy,” also means kind or well-fitting. Christ’s yoke does not chafe because it is borne with Him, not apart from Him. The weight that crushes is the weight of self-rule. The weight that frees is the weight of shared life with Christ.
The reflection closes with a striking phrase: Christ came not to give us weights, but wings. This image captures the essence of sanctification. When self is reckoned dead and Christ truly lives, obedience no longer feels like drag but lift. The believer is not relieved of responsibility, but is reoriented toward grace-enabled faithfulness. Advent whispers this truth quietly but persistently: the One who comes to us in humility also comes to lighten what truly burdens us, even as He teaches us to carry what truly matters.
On Second Thought
On second thought, perhaps the most surprising truth in this reflection is that spiritual freedom does not come from laying down all burdens, but from learning which ones are actually ours to carry. We often assume that maturity means a lighter load, fewer concerns, and less cost. Scripture suggests otherwise. Maturity clarifies weight rather than eliminating it. The self-made burdens—resentment, comparison, control, and anxiety over outcomes we were never meant to manage—are rolled onto the Lord. But the holy burden remains: faithful obedience, shared suffering, love that stays when it would be easier to leave, and identification with Christ in a world that resists Him.
This reframes how we approach discipleship. The question is no longer, “How can I make my life easier?” but “What weight is producing life rather than exhaustion?” Advent teaches us that God enters our burdened world not to remove all heaviness, but to dwell within it and transform it.
The paradox is this: the load Christ assigns is the very thing that lifts us. When self is crucified, when love bears another’s pain, when faith remains steady under pressure, the soul finds unexpected buoyancy. Wings grow where weights once dragged us down. In Christ, responsibility does not imprison; it empowers. What once felt like loss becomes life, and what once felt heavy becomes holy.
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