You Were Never Meant to Ride Alone

My final sermon at Nativity, a celebration of ordination, and an invitation to remember those who have helped carry you.

There are seasons in life that quietly shape you long before you realize what they have given you.

This past Sunday I preached my final sermon at Nativity before beginning my new call this fall. Over the past year, first as a Postulant and then as a Deacon, this little congregation has taught me something I’ll carry for the rest of my priesthood: the Church has never belonged only to clergy. It belongs to the faithful people of God who keep showing up, praying, serving, loving their neighbors, and trusting that Christ is still at work.

Nativity is a lay-led community without a permanent Priest, and yet week after week I witnessed resilience, faithfulness, and hope. They reminded me that the work of the Gospel has always depended on ordinary disciples willing to say yes. My prayer for them is that they continue to trust what God is doing in and through them. Their community, and the wider community around them, needs their faithful witness.

This sermon was also my third time presiding at the Eucharist as a Priest. The week before, I had the privilege of celebrating at Holy Comforter Episcopal Church, where I served as a chaplain intern with the Friendship Center. Those nine months profoundly shaped the kind of Oriest I hope to become, teaching me to listen more deeply, to meet people where they are, and to recognize Christ in every story. I left with a beautiful handwoven stole and an abundance of love that I will carry into this next chapter.

I’m also sharing the wonderful article the Diocese of Atlanta published about the eight of us who were ordained last month. It includes photos, video from the service, and a short reflection from each of us. If you weren’t able to be there—or would simply like to revisit the day—I hope you’ll enjoy it.

As I prepare to begin ministry at St. Paul’s next month, I find myself deeply grateful for every community that has helped form me along the way. None of us becomes who we are alone.

If you have a few minutes to read the diocesan story or listen to the sermon, I hope they’ll invite you into your own reflection.

Who are the people and communities that have shaped your faith?

Who has helped you become who you are?

And where might Christ be inviting you to trust that you were never meant to make the journey alone?

Sermon: In Tandem

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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Eky5nxJ67d4

Listen

In Tandem

13:25

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I’ve been thinking recently about a bike ride my family took several years ago through one of the most beautiful places we’ve ever visited.

We were moving home after living in Bangladesh and knew we needed a soft place to land before stepping back into life in the United States. So, we flew through France and spent a week in Paris. There was so much to see in so little time that we set aside one day to explore Versailles by bicycle. We knew there was simply no way to take it all in on foot.

There was just one problem. Our oldest, Nadia, hadn’t learned to ride a bike yet. Living in Dhaka, with its crowded streets and relentless traffic, simply hadn’t given our children the opportunity to learn. Aidan had picked it up during a vacation in Thailand, but Nadia still wasn’t confident on two wheels. Thankfully, the bike rental shop had tandem bicycles, so she climbed onto the back while Lee took the front.

We spent the day winding along cobblestone paths, through manicured gardens, and past the grandeur of Versailles. There was something quietly beautiful about watching the two of them learn to ride that tandem together. Lee provided the confidence and direction Nadia didn’t yet have, but she couldn’t simply coast. If she stopped pedaling, the ride became harder for both of them. It required trust. The rider in the back couldn’t steer and could barely see the road ahead.

Nadia would also tell you she felt a little embarrassed that she didn’t know how to ride a bike, even though she had never really been given the chance to learn. Everything about our culture tells us we’d rather have our own bike. Independence is celebrated. Self-sufficiency is admired. We are taught from an early age that success means standing on our own two feet and earning our own way.

I haven’t been able to shake the memory of that bike lately as I’ve been thinking a great deal about dependence in our life with God as I take my own wobbly first steps into the priesthood. It’s easy for me to feel scared as I navigate this uncertain road ahead. It certainly feels much bigger than something I can do on my own.

I suspect most of us imagine discipleship through the lenses our culture has handed us. We assume Jesus gives us a bicycle, points us toward righteousness, and says, “Good luck.” Even when we say we know we need God’s grace, it’s remarkably easy to live as though the Christian life is a solo ride—one we simply have to pedal harder and muscle our way through.

That assumption isn’t new. In many ways, it is the story Paul is telling today in Romans. We often hear these verses as Paul’s private confession: “I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate.” And certainly, they describe an experience all of us recognize. Who among us hasn’t promised ourselves we would be more patient or generous or faithful, only to find ourselves slipping back into old patterns?

But Paul is doing something bigger here than telling one person’s story. He is telling Israel’s story, and through Israel, the story of all humanity.

Paul had spent years walking the streets of the Greek and Roman world. He had heard philosophers like the Stoics argue that if people simply knew what was right, they would eventually learn to do it. He knew Jewish teachers who believed deeper obedience to God’s law would overcome the evil impulse within. Different traditions offered different solutions, but they all assumed the same thing: if we became wiser or more disciplined, we could become the people we longed to be.

Paul says no. The problem was never the law. Paul tells us the problem is sin. When we hear the word sin, we usually think of individual bad choices, as though Paul’s concern were simply that we lie, lose our temper, or make poor decisions. Those things matter, of course. But Paul is talking about something much larger.

He writes the word Sin almost as though it were the name of a power, a tyrant, or an occupying force. Sin is not merely something we occasionally choose. It is something that has enslaved humanity. That is why he says, “I am of the flesh, sold into slavery under sin.” We are not merely people who sometimes fail. We are people who cannot free ourselves.

That is why trying harder cannot finally make us better. You cannot out-effort captivity.

Israel discovered this first. The harder they tried to become the holy people God had called them to be through the law itself, the more they discovered they shared the same fractured humanity as every other nation. The law had done exactly what it was meant to do. It had revealed the truth. The law could diagnose the illness. But it could not heal it.

Imagine that somewhere along those winding paths at Versailles, Nadia had decided she didn’t need Lee anymore. She asked him to climb off the bike and insisted she could do this one on her own. What do you think would have happened?

Trying to ride a bicycle that was never designed for one rider, she would have not been able to do it. That’s the tragedy Paul is describing in Romans 7. Humanity keeps trying to ride alone. We think our problem is that we need more determination. Paul says our problem is much deeper than determination. We were created for communion with God. Trying to live apart from Christ isn’t simply difficult. It is contrary to the way we were made.

We sometimes imagine modern people invented self-help. We didn’t. Human beings have always believed that with enough knowledge, enough discipline, enough willpower, we could finally become the people we long to be. Paul’s world believed it. Ours does too. The names have changed. The confidence in ourselves has not.

Which is why Paul’s cry is not, “What discipline or tool or law will rescue me?” but, “Who will rescue me?” and Paul answers his own question: “Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord!”

The answer has always been a person.

Which brings us to today’s Gospel. If Romans 7 asks the question, “Who will rescue me?” Matthew 11 introduces us again to the One who does. These two readings are not saying different things. They are telling different parts of the same story. Just before today’s Gospel, Jesus has been lamenting the towns around the Sea of Galilee. He has healed their sick. He has proclaimed the kingdom. He has invited them to repentance. Yet many have refused him. The problem wasn’t that they lacked religious knowledge. They simply wanted a Messiah on their own terms. Isn’t that the same struggle Paul has just described?

Humanity keeps trying to reach God on its own terms. Israel tried through the law. The philosophers tried through wisdom. We try through self-improvement, productivity, or sheer determination. Different paths. The same assumption. We believe we can get there ourselves.

And it is there that Jesus turns toward the crowd and utters some of the most tender words in all of Scripture: “Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, 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.”

Jesus’ invitation would have surprised those listening. They knew the language of the yoke. For generations, faithful Jews had spoken about taking upon themselves the yoke of the Torah, the privilege and responsibility of living under God’s law.

The law itself was never the enemy. As Paul has already reminded us, the law was holy and good. But over time, what had been given as a gift had become, for many, experienced as a burden. Not because God desired to weigh people down, but because the law could reveal sin without freeing people from its power.

So, when Jesus says, “Take my yoke upon you,” he isn’t inviting them to carry one more burden. He is offering an entirely different way of belonging to God. “Learn from me,” he says, “for I am gentle and humble in heart.” Notice that he doesn’t first describe the yoke. He describes himself. The rest he offers flows from who he is. His yoke is not rooted in striving but in relationship with him.

And perhaps that’s why I couldn’t shake the image of that tandem bicycle. A yoke and a tandem have something important in common. Neither is about carrying a burden alone. Both are designed to join two together.

Lee wasn’t simply pulling Nadia through the gardens of Versailles while she coasted along behind him. She was pedaling. But she wasn’t steering. She wasn’t choosing the route. His strength made her participation possible.

That’s what grace looks like. Grace is not doing nothing. Grace is not doing everything. Grace is discovering what only Christ can do, and what he lovingly invites us to do with him.

There’s something else the tandem taught me that day. The rider in the back mostly sees shoulders. The rider in the front sees the road. Isn’t that what faith often feels like? We keep asking God to show us the whole journey. Instead, Christ usually gives us enough grace for the next stretch of road. Enough light for the next turn. Enough strength for today’s hill.

And it’s the rider in front who determines the pace. I wonder how much of our exhaustion comes not from following Jesus, but from insisting on setting our own cadence. We hurry where Christ is patient. We cling where Christ is inviting us to release. We rush ahead when Christ simply says, “Learn from me.” Notice he doesn’t first say, “Work for me.” Discipleship begins not with achievement but with companionship.

At my ordination a few weeks ago, Bishop Wright said something I’ll never forget. Looking at the eight of us becoming priests, he said, “If Jesus is your co-pilot, you’re in the wrong damn seat.”

Jesus shouldn’t be riding beside us, offering occasional advice. He should be the one steering. The question isn’t whether we’re working hard enough. The question is whether we’ve surrendered the handlebars.

Over these past nine months, I’ve had the gift of watching this congregation ride. I’ve watched you carry responsibilities that larger churches spread among many more people. I’ve watched you walk through uncertainty and keep showing up. I’ve watched you continue believing that Christ isn’t finished with this place.

It has been a gift to ride alongside you for this stretch of the journey. But our hope has never rested on who happens to be riding beside us for a season. Christ has always been the one leading the way. So, wherever the road leads next—for me, for you, for this congregation—may we resist the temptation to ride alone. May we keep our place right with Christ, learning his pace, trusting his direction, and discovering again and again that his yoke is not another burden to bear, but the gift of never traveling alone.