When Life Feels Too Heavy

Hey everyone! If you're used to Kyle doing these sermonettes, you probably weren't expecting this. What's going on?

First of all, you're used to Kyle's hands and face popping up—not this face made for radio, you know what I'm saying? Kind of a jump scare. And Kyle is normally in a very well-lit, beautiful Lutheran sanctuary. Meanwhile, here I am in a basement with a deconstructed bed, boxes everywhere, and just a mess because we're moving. But this is the messiness of life that we choose to travel through together. So here we are, traveling together.

Let's jump into this week's sermonette.

I'm wondering if you've ever noticed that your brain loves to become productive right when you're trying to fall asleep. Maybe you've experienced something like this. It's late at night, and suddenly your mind starts replaying conversations, worrying about the future, calculating bills, thinking about work, wondering if you're a good enough parent, spouse, or friend. Nothing has changed, but your mind begins trying to carry the whole world.

If you've ever felt that way, you're in good company, traveling through the messiness of life.

This summer we're walking through the Psalms, Israel's ancient prayer book. Many people think the Psalms are peaceful poems meant to calm us down or refresh us. But they were written by people living through war, exile, grief, uncertainty, and loss. These aren't prayers from people who had life all figured out. They aren't written by desert monks or spiritual superstars. They're prayers from people who barely knew how to keep going—people who were barely holding on and decided to bring all of that mess to God anyway.

Psalm 13 begins this way: "How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever? How long must I bear pain in my soul?" In fact, four times the psalmist asks, "How long?"

I love that because the Bible doesn't pretend faithful people never struggle. The psalmist teaches us that faith doesn't begin by pretending everything is okay. Faith begins by telling God the truth. It begins by naming your anxiety.

But the psalms don't leave us there. Psalm 46 reminds us that God is our refuge and our strength. It contains that famous verse: "Be still, and know that I am God."

When this was written, Israel wasn't just having a stressful week. They weren't simply moving clutter around their house. Their world was falling apart. They were experiencing a geopolitical catastrophe as the Assyrian army exiled the northern kingdom of Israel and threatened the southern kingdom of Judah and Jerusalem.

So the phrase "be still" doesn't simply mean, "Relax. Chill out." It literally means to let go—to put down what was never yours to carry in the first place. The psalm gently reminds us that we are not the ones holding the universe together. We never were.

Finally, Psalm 131 gives us a picture of what trust actually looks like. The writer says, "I have calmed and quieted my soul, like a weaned child with its mother."

I think that's such a beautiful image. It's certainly top of mind for my wife and me right now as we have a newborn at home. A hungry infant is constantly demanding, grasping, crying, and grunting. Honestly, I think my wife could write a lament psalm about all the grunting throughout the night. But a weaned child simply rests in its mother's presence—not because the child no longer has needs, but because the child has learned that, through relationship, they are safe.

I think this is what spiritual maturity looks like. It's not becoming someone who never worries, conquers anxiety, or simply prays it away. It's becoming someone who knows where to bring their worries, anxieties, and stresses.

The Psalms teach us that trust isn't just an intuitive feeling. It isn't something you simply decide to give or withhold. Trust is a muscle. You have to build it. You have to train it. Trust is a discipline. It's a practice that grows over time.

Every time we turn toward God instead of trying to carry everything alone, we're slowly becoming that weaned child, formed by the steady presence of God.

So here's one simple practice for this week. The next time anxiety spikes—and I mean when, not if, anxiety spikes—before you reach for your phone, before you begin mentally reorganizing your life, pause and slowly pray Psalm 131:2:

"I have calmed and quieted my soul, like a weaned child with its mother; my soul is like the weaned child that is with me."

Say it three times. Say it slowly. Say it out loud if you can. Not because there's some magic formula behind it, but because it's an act of turning toward God. It's an act of courage, vulnerability, and choosing to trust God in whatever anxious moment you're experiencing.

Anxiety is not the opposite of faith or the absence of faith. It is often an invitation to practice trust.

That's exactly what Jesus invites us into when he says, "Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest."

You don't have to come to God with your anxiety already fixed or resolved, or with a perfect plan. You simply have to turn toward Him. Trust Him. You simply have to come into His presence.

Peace, my friend.