Hello my friends,

I hope you had a safe and wonderful weekend.

I don't know about you, but sometimes the weight of the problems facing others, our country, and our world can feel so heavy and crushing. I hear the exhaustion from that weight expressed by many of you. I feel it too. So today, I wanted to reflect on the impossible weight individuals can feel in working for change, the unhelpful narratives that define personal responsibility, and how we can manage that weight better together.

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The Heavy Yoke: Reflecting on Personal Responsibility in an Unjust World.

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Serving my very first church pastor, there was someone I met with more times than I can count. We’d sit together, week after week, month after month. They’d pour their heart out. Tell me everything—what was falling apart, what was hurting, what they feared, what they regretted. They shared how so much came from decisions they were making that they knew were wrong. And I’d listen. Pray. Offer counsel, gently and honestly. I tried to speak truth. I tried to offer a better way.

But nothing changed.

Every conversation seemed to circle back to the same places. The same patterns. The same decisions. They nodded in agreement, sometimes with tears, sometimes with resolve—but when they left, nothing shifted. I would watch them continue in a destructive pattern. It was painful to watch.

After a while, those conversations stopped being just conversations. They became weights I carried. I’d lie awake at night replaying the words I’d said, wondering if I should’ve said something different. More forceful. More convicting. More compassionate. More something.

The burden grew. It began to feel like I was failing them. Like somehow their refusal to change reflected my own inadequacy as a pastor. That if only I could get it just right, maybe they’d finally turn toward healing. Maybe they’d finally listen.

But that illusion—because that’s what it was, an illusion—nearly broke me.

And then, slowly, painfully, the truth broke through.

I am not their savior.

I never was.

That role is already taken.

My role is something different.

I am called to love them. To walk with them, listen patiently, speak truthfully, and call them toward life. But I am not the one who can ultimately heal their wounds. I am not the one who can make them choose freedom. That’s between them and Jesus. My job is to be faithful to point to that freedom. To plant seeds. To water when I can. And then to trust that God is the one who makes things grow.

And here’s another part of that realization: Jesus doesn’t leave people alone. He’s at work in ways I can’t see. He surrounds people with communities, with moments of clarity, with new chances, with other voices who might say what I couldn’t. I’m not the only person God is using in their story. I never was. And thank God for that.

This realization didn’t make the disappointment disappear, but it did lift the crushing weight. It freed me to keep showing up without measuring my worth by outcomes I don’t control. It helped me let go of the sleepless nights, the silent guilt, the pressure to be someone’s "Messiah."

I am a pastor.

Not a savior.

I point to the savior.

Not try to become one.

What was at the root?

As I reflected on this realization, I began to ask what it was that compelled me to operate this way. Because it wasn't just this isolated situation. I also felt tremendous guilt when it came to state, national, and global issues. As if I wasn't doing enough in those areas and failing to "meet the moment." I still catch myself felling that way.

I've discovered that this compulsion stems from rugged individualism—the belief that people should be entirely self-reliant and personally responsible for their success or failure. While this may sound admirable on the surface, when it is applied to all areas of life as if it is the only "gospel truth," it can become deeply harmful.

Rugged individualism can deeply undermine our sense of shared responsibility. It tells us that poverty is just a "personal failure," with no connection to systemic issues. It dismisses social safety nets, healthcare, public education, and climate action as unnecessary because, as the logic goes, “everyone should just take care of themselves.” It discourages collective action and fuels apathy in the face of injustice. When people are taught to believe that they are solely responsible for their outcomes, they may feel justified in ignoring the suffering of others. They were taught to believe that relying on others is somehow morally wrong, so they deny any collective endeavor that may include someone being supported by them or their resources. It erodes empathy and solidarity, and replaces the common good with the pursuit of personal gain.

But this is only one all too familiar side effect of rugged individualism. The other side may not be as familiar.

The Other Side of the Coin

It is a deeply familiar feeling now—this heavy burden of responsibility. Recycle more. Drive less. Buy ethically. Give generously. Volunteer often. Vote. Stay informed. Speak out. Shop local. Avoid plastic. Eat organic. Live simply. And while doing this ongoing list, somehow remain hopeful.

These are good and necessary calls. But for many of us, the list reads not as a guide to faithful living, but as an indictment. A sign that says "you are not doing enough." A yoke not shared, but one heaved upon our shoulders alone. We are told, explicitly or implicitly, that the future of the planet and the well-being of the poor rest squarely on the choices of individuals—on your choices and mine. And if the world continues to burn, if injustice remains entrenched, if the poor go hungry and authoritarianism prospers—it is because we did not do enough.

But in the background of this moral noise, a quieter truth screams to be heard: collective problems need collective solutions, not rugged individualism.

We live in a world where multinational corporations poison rivers, exploit labor, and accelerate climate collapse in pursuit of growth; where governments prop up unjust systems; where wealth hoards power. These engines of harm will not change unless it is profitable or "efficient" to do so. And so, the burden on the individual to change these things becomes cruel—not just heavy, but disproportionate. It is as though we are asked to mop up the flood while the pipe remains broken and gushing.

Scripture gives us language for this weariness. The psalmist cries out, “How long, O Lord?” (Psalm 13:1). Paul writes that all creation groans (Romans 8:22), as if bearing labor pains under the weight of decay. Even Jesus, when carrying the cross, stumbled under its weight and required the help of another. The gospel does not pretend we are strong enough on our own.

Yet, neither does the gospel leave us in despair. It speaks a counter-word to the tyranny of individualism. The Bible was not written to autonomous consumers, but to communities. The Church, the Body of Christ, was meant to function not as a collection of heroic individuals, but as a living organism, animated by the Spirit, where each part supports the other. The burden was never meant to be borne alone.

Moreover, the gospel dares to say that our worth is not measured by the magnitude of our impact. Faithfulness is not the same as success. Jesus fed crowds, yes—but he also retreated and rested. He healed—but he was also wounded. He raised the dead—but he was also subjected to death. If the Son of God did not fix every injustice on earth during his ministry, perhaps that tells us something about what it means to live faithfully in a broken world. That salvation isn't found in fixing every possible problem ourselves in the world, but to love the world—deeply, fiercely, and patiently.

Resting Isn't Resigning

This love is costly. It requires repentance from apathy, courage to act, and humility to recognize our limits. It demands that we advocate for systemic change even when our voices tremble. But it also frees us. Because it reminds us that we are not God. That the weight of the world does not rest on your shoulders or mine. It reminds us that we are called to participate in healing, not to carry the whole.

And this is why the words of Jesus matter: “Come to me, all you who are weary and carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me… For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light” (Matthew 11:28–30). Jesus doesn’t remove the call to action—but he reframes it. His “yoke” is shared. It’s grounded not in frantic striving, but in love. Not in guilt, but in grace. His burden is light because we are not meant to carry it alone. This includes mentally and emotionally.

I think this is why it is deeply encouraging—holy, even—to witness people rising up in solidarity, not out of fear or shame, but out of love and hope. Massive rallies for justice, bold organizing, communal protest, and creative acts of nonviolent resistance are a living visible witness that we do not bear this weight in isolation. They are signs that the Spirit is still moving among ordinary people who refuse to bow to authoritarianism or despair.

And so, we compost. We donate. We vote. We protest. We build. We pray. Not because it will solve everything, but because love refuses to sit back and do nothing. We do this because Christ is risen, and therefore no act of mercy, no cry for justice, is wasted. Even when the powers seem unmoved, the kingdom is still coming. Slowly, like yeast in dough. Quietly, like a seed in the ground. We know that nothing can withstand the power of love and it will eventually break through.

Action Steps

So what do we do with the heavy yoke we still feel?

We name it.

We resist the lie that we must do everything.

We rejoice in every act of collective courage.

We rest without shame.

We do what we can and encourage others to do what they can.

We give what we can, knowing that even the loaves and fish were enough when placed in the hands of Christ.

We keep showing up—not to fix completely, but to love completely.

And when we stumble under our heavy load and need support from another, we remember that even Jesus did too.

Saving the world isn't only up to us. We are not alone in this saving and healing work. Thanks be to God.