“Bear One Another’s Burdens”

Something y’all should know about me is that I love to grill and I love to BBQ. Those are two different things, by the way. A few months before we moved to Midland, I decided I was going to move my smoker and my griddle from the back patio to a new, special spot on the side of my house by myself. Yvette was inside, and I figured, “No need to bother her—I’ve got this.” A few shoves later, gravity said, “Not today,” and my smoker’s wheels disappeared into that South Texas sand that was my backyard. I didn’t call for help. I just stood there “thinking,” which is code for too proud to admit I needed help. That’s how a lot of us are wired out here—handle your business, pull your weight, don’t ask for help unless it’s code red.

That works for grills; it doesn’t work for souls. And Jesus cares about souls.

Some of us walked in carrying discouragement; others carry guilt that still whispers, “Disqualified.” Some carry caregiver exhaustion—parent, spouse, child—and your strength is leaking. In Midland we’ve mastered “I’m fine.” But many of us mean, “I’m falling apart.”

And it’s not just personal — it’s spiritual. Churches suffer the same way. People sit shoulder to shoulder on Sunday, each one weighed down by something heavy, but no one knows because we’ve learned to smile and soldier on. And over time, that independence turns into isolation.

Paul knew this when he wrote to the Galatians. They were arguing, comparing, competing — trying to outdo each other in spiritual performance. But Paul says, “No, that’s not how the body of Christ works.” He says, “Bear one another’s burdens.” In other words: if you see someone bent under a load, get under it with them.

Because in the kingdom of God, strength isn’t shown by how much you can carry alone — it’s shown by how much you’re willing to carry with someone else.

That’s what today’s message is about. The gospel calls us out of the myth of self-reliance and into the beauty of shared dependence. Because the truth is this: you weren’t made to carry life by yourself — and neither was anyone sitting near you.

Let’s look at

Galatians 6:1 ESV

Brothers, if anyone is caught in any transgression, you who are spiritual should restore him in a spirit of gentleness. Keep watch on yourself, lest you too be tempted.

Restore the Fallen

Paul starts this whole conversation about bearing burdens by addressing the hardest one first — the burden of sin. He’s not talking about minor inconveniences or bad days; he’s talking about when someone has fallen flat spiritually — caught in a pattern, trapped in a sin, stuck in shame. And his first word isn’t “criticize,” or “avoid,” or “talk about them at lunch.”

It’s “restore.”

That word “restore” comes from a term used in the ancient world for mending a fishing net or setting a broken bone. It’s not quick work. It’s careful, patient, gentle work — the kind that requires steady hands and a soft heart. If you’ve ever broken a bone, you know that resetting it hurts, but it’s the only way to heal. Paul’s saying, that’s what grace does in community. It hurts a little to face the truth, but it leads to healing when it’s done in love.

Now, this is where it gets real for church life. Because we tend to swing to one of two extremes. Some of us, when we see someone fall, run to help — but we come in with a toolbox and a tone that says, “Let me fix you.” Others, we avoid the situation altogether — “That’s not my business.” But Paul says neither approach is right. Restoration isn’t mechanical and it isn’t passive. It’s relational. It’s one Christian coming alongside another and saying, “You’re not done. Let’s walk toward Jesus together.”

Notice, he says, “you who are spiritual.” That doesn’t mean super-saints or professionals. It means those who are walking in step with the Spirit — people who remember they’ve needed grace too. That’s why he adds, “Keep watch on yourself, lest you too be tempted.” Because the moment you forget your own weakness, you stop being gentle.

I’ve seen this in real time — someone falls into sin, and instead of restoring them, the church rushes to react. But the Spirit’s way is different. Restoration takes prayerful timing, careful words, and a posture that says, “I’m not above you; I’m beside you.”

If you think about it, this is exactly how Jesus treated the fallen. Remember Peter? The disciple who swore he’d never deny Jesus and then did — three times. After the resurrection, Jesus didn’t scold him. He didn’t shame him in front of the others. He built a fire on the shore, cooked breakfast, and simply asked, “Do you love Me?” Three times. One for each failure. Jesus restores with truth wrapped in tenderness because the same hands that cook breakfast are the hands that were pierced for him.

That’s the pattern Paul’s painting here. When someone stumbles in sin, the church doesn’t throw stones; we build bridges. And that’s a challenge for a city like ours, where people value privacy and pride. Because if you’re going to help restore someone, you’ve got to get close enough to see the break. You can’t restore from a distance. You can’t set a bone from across the room — and you can’t restore a heart through gossip.

Church family, one of the greatest tests of whether a church is healthy isn’t how we celebrate success, but how we handle failure.

Do we write people off, or do we reach out?

Do we cover up, or do we care enough to confront with grace?

Paul says, “Restore them in a spirit of gentleness.” That’s not weakness — that’s the strength of the gospel. Because every one of us has been that person in need of restoration. Every one of us has had Jesus come find us, lift us up, and say, “You’re not too far gone.”

So before we move on, let’s remember this: bearing burdens begins right here — not by fixing the broken, but by walking beside them until they’re whole again. We restore because we’ve been restored—by Christ, to Christ, for Christ.

Because the church that restores the fallen is the church that looks the most like Jesus.

Let’s look at

Galatians 6:2 ESV

Bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ.

Carry One Another’s Weight

If Galatians 6:1 teaches us how to respond when someone falls, Galatians 6:2 tells us how to live when everyone’s carrying something heavy — and that’s all of us.

The word burden here refers to a crushing weight — something that’s too heavy for one person to lift. Paul’s saying, the Christian life was never designed to be a solo sport. You weren’t meant to carry your load alone.

Now, that hits right at the heart of our West Texas mindset, doesn’t it? We admire people who can handle their business, drive the truck, pay the bills, fix what’s broken, and never complain. There’s something good in that grit — but when it comes to the family of God, that kind of independence can quietly turn into isolation.

Because no matter how strong you are, life will eventually hand you something you can’t carry by yourself — a diagnosis, a loss, a temptation, a disappointment that won’t go away. And when that happens, the gospel doesn’t say, “Toughen up.” It says, “You’re not alone.”

Paul’s command to “bear one another’s burdens” is not just about pity; it’s about presence. It’s the ministry of showing up. Burden-bearing sounds like a prayer in a hospital waiting room, looks like a casserole on a Thursday, and feels like a hand on a shoulder at H-E-B that says, “You’re not alone.”

Think about the people who’ve done that for you. Maybe it was a Sunday School teacher who checked in when you drifted. Maybe it was a deacon who stopped by the hospital at just the right moment. Maybe it was a friend who didn’t have the answers but had time. Those are the people who carry burdens, and they often don’t even realize how Christlike they’re being.

Paul says, when you do that — when you lift someone else’s load — you “fulfill the law of Christ.” What’s that law?

Jesus said, “A new commandment I give to you, that you love one another as I have loved you.” Love one another — that’s the law of Christ. And Paul’s saying that burden-bearing is how we actually obey that command. Love isn’t proven by words; it’s proven by weight.

If you think about it, Jesus fulfilled his own law first. He saw the weight of our sin — a burden too heavy for us — and he stepped beneath it. The cross was the ultimate act of burden-bearing. He didn’t just sympathize; he substituted. And now he says to his people, “Do the same. Lift what others can’t.”

Here’s where this gets practical for us as a church family. Some burdens are visible — sickness, loss, financial strain — and those we usually rally around. But others are invisible — depression, anxiety, addiction, loneliness. Those take more than casseroles and cards; they take courage. Because to bear someone’s burden, you have to be close enough to feel its weight. You can’t bear burdens at arm’s length.

That’s a challenge to our rhythm as a church. We can’t just gather once a week, sing a few songs, hear a sermon, and call that community. We’ve got to know each other well enough to notice when someone’s struggling. That’s why Sunday School matters. That’s why prayer groups matter. That’s why showing up matters. Because you can’t help carry what you can’t see.

And maybe this morning, the Spirit’s nudging you — there’s someone you’ve noticed slipping away, someone who’s been missing, someone whose smile doesn’t reach their eyes anymore. Maybe it’s time to check in. Maybe God wants to use you to lighten their load.

I’ll tell you something: I’ve seen people in this church do this so well. Meals delivered after surgeries. Late-night phone calls. Notes of encouragement. Quiet prayers in hospital waiting rooms. That’s what it looks like when a church starts carrying one another’s burdens. It’s not flashy — it’s faithful.

And when we live that way, something beautiful happens: the watching world starts to see Jesus. Because when a community of independent people starts carrying each other’s weight, it doesn’t make sense apart from him.

That’s why Paul says this fulfills the law of Christ — because burden-bearing is love in motion, and love in motion always looks like Jesus.

Let’s read the rest of the passage together:

Galatians 6:3–5 ESV

For if anyone thinks he is something, when he is nothing, he deceives himself. But let each one test his own work, and then his reason to boast will be in himself alone and not in his neighbor. For each will have to bear his own load.

Examine Your Load

Now, if you’re paying close attention, it almost sounds like Paul contradicts himself. In Galatians 6:2 he says, “Bear one another’s burdens,” and in Galatians 6:5 he says, “Each will have to bear his own load.” So which is it — carry each other’s or carry your own?

The answer is both, because Paul’s using two different words. In Galatians 6:2, “burdens” means a crushing weight — something too heavy for one person. In Galatians 6:5, “load” means a backpack — something small and personal that you’re expected to carry yourself.

In other words, Paul’s reminding us that community doesn’t erase responsibility. We’re called to help each other with the burdens that crush, but not to hand off the responsibilities that shape.

That’s a timely word for us, isn’t it? Because we live in a culture that swings between hyper-independence and hyper-dependence. Some folks won’t accept help from anybody. Others want someone else to do the spiritual heavy lifting for them. Paul says both extremes miss the mark. He’s saying, “Carry your own pack, but help your brother with his boulder.”

Now, before he says that, Paul warns us about something that keeps us from doing either — pride.

“If anyone thinks he is something, when he is nothing, he deceives himself.”

In other words, pride keeps us from helping others, and it keeps us from admitting we need help ourselves. And if we’re honest, pride’s the real reason most burdens stay hidden in the church. We don’t want to look weak. We don’t want people to think less of us. So we smile, shake hands, and carry quiet loads that are slowly breaking us down.

But pride also keeps us from compassion. When we see someone stumble, pride says, “I’d never do that.” When we see someone struggling, pride says, “That’s not my problem.” But humility says, “There go I but for the grace of God.”

That’s why Paul says, “Let each one test his own work.” He’s saying, do a heart check. Before you judge your neighbor’s load, take a good look at your own. Because comparison will always poison compassion. If you’re busy measuring yourself against everyone else, you’ll never stoop down to lift them up.

And if you think about it, that’s the beauty of the gospel — it frees us from comparison. We’re not trying to outdo each other; we’re trying to out-love each other. The gospel says your worth doesn’t come from how strong you are or how much you carry. It comes from the One who carried the cross for you.

That’s the posture Paul wants for the church — humble responsibility. Carry your own pack. Help your brother with his boulder. And keep your eyes on Jesus, not on the scoreboard.

Let me paint a picture for you. A a family went on a hike. It wasn’t too intense, but there was something funny as the family walked: the youngest started out strong — backpack, water bottle, snacks, the whole deal. But about halfway through, she slowed down and said, “Dad, this backpack’s heavy.”

Now, could she have made it the rest of the way? Probably. But would it have been good for her? Probably not. So the dad did what any dad would do — he carried it for a while. But he didn’t carry her the whole way — just the pack, until she could take it again.

That’s what Galatians 6 is describing. We all have packs — our daily responsibilities, our choices, our growth — that are ours to carry. But when those packs turn into burdens that crush, the family of God steps in to help for a while. And then, once strength returns, we hand it back, a little lighter, a little stronger, a little more like Jesus.

That’s how the church works when grace does the organizing. We don’t compete; we complete. We don’t compare; we carry.

And here’s the truth: the world doesn’t have a category for that kind of community. A church that’s humble enough to admit its own need and bold enough to lift others’ loads will always stand out. It’s countercultural. It’s supernatural. It’s gospel-shaped.

Because at the center of our faith is a Savior who carried the heaviest load of all — our sin, our shame, our judgment — and then said to us, “Come to me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”

That’s the invitation of Galatians 6.

Not to pretend we’re fine.

Not to carry alone.

But to walk with Christ — and with one another — until every weight finds rest in him.

Church family, when you put all this together, Paul’s message is simple — but it’s not easy: You can’t follow Jesus from a distance.

If you’re going to walk with him, you have to walk with his people — up close, in the mess, shoulder to shoulder under the weight of real life.

The gospel calls us to step into the weight — to bear burdens, not avoid them.

Now, that’s hard for us, isn’t it? Especially in a place like Midland, where we’ve probably been taught from a young age to “handle your own business.” It’s the Wildcatter mindset — pull your own weight, fix your own problems, don’t let anyone see you struggle. But that kind of rugged independence doesn’t work in the kingdom of God. The gospel invites us to a better way — a family where nobody carries alone.

That’s why Paul begins with “Brothers and sisters.” He’s reminding us: this isn’t just an organization; it’s a family. And in a family, when one person falls, we all help them back up. When one person grieves, we all gather around. When one person rejoices, we all celebrate. That’s what it means to bear one another’s burdens — to live like we actually belong to one another.

So, what does that look like in real life?

Sometimes it’s as simple as noticing. You see someone sitting alone in church — go sit beside them. You know a young family struggling to keep up — offer a meal or a night of childcare. You hear someone share a need — don’t just say, “I’ll pray for you.” Pray with them, right there in the hallway or the parking lot. That’s what burden-bearing looks like: ordinary people doing eternal work through ordinary moments.

And let’s be honest — sometimes bearing burdens is inconvenient. It interrupts your schedule. It costs you time, energy, sometimes even reputation. But that’s what makes it so Christlike. Jesus didn’t wait for an open spot on his calendar to carry our sin; he stepped in at the cost of his life. When we carry one another’s burdens, we walk in his footsteps — and that’s where the joy is found.

Now, I know some of us are thinking, “Pastor, that all sounds good, but I’m already carrying so much myself.” And you’re right — some of you came in today with more weight than anyone knows.

Here’s the good news: you don’t have to carry it alone either. You can bring your burden to the cross. You can let this church help you hold what’s heavy. Because that’s how Jesus designed his body to work — not self-sufficient individuals, but interdependent believers filled with the Spirit and bound by grace.

So if you’re here today and you’ve been trying to do life in your own strength, hear this: you don’t have to prove anything. You don’t have to pretend you’re fine. You can be honest about what’s heavy. And if you’re here and your shoulders are strong right now — good. That means you’ve got room to help someone else lift.

Because here’s the truth:

Burden-bearing is love in action.

It’s how the world will see that Christ is alive in us.

I want you to imagine something with me.

What if Fannin Terrace became known in Midland as that church — the one where people don’t have to fake it?

Where nobody walks in and hides behind a smile?

Where the hurting are noticed, the lonely are welcomed, and the weary find help before they even ask?

What if we became known as the people who carry one another’s burdens — not because we’re better, but because we remember who carried ours?

That’s what Paul is envisioning in Galatians 6 — not a perfect church, but a present church. A family so filled with grace that when one person stumbles, others rush to restore, not to judge. A community so shaped by Jesus that no one has to wonder if they’re walking alone.

That’s what Midland needs — not a louder church, but a lighter church, one that helps carry the weight of the world in the name of Jesus. Because when the people of God start bearing burdens together, the gospel becomes visible again. It sounds like laughter in the living room of a grieving family. It looks like prayer in a hospital waiting room. It feels like a hand on your shoulder that says, “You don’t have to go through this by yourself.”

And isn’t that exactly what Jesus did for us? He saw our sin, our shame, our exhaustion — and instead of turning away, he stepped under the weight. Isaiah 53 says, “Surely he has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows.” The cross wasn’t just the place of our forgiveness — it was the ultimate act of burden-bearing. Jesus didn’t wait for us to get stronger; he carried us when we couldn’t stand. The empty tomb means your heaviest burden can move today.

That’s what changes us.

That’s what makes us a different kind of people.

We don’t carry one another’s burdens because it’s polite — we carry them because it’s personal.

Because we’ve been carried by him.

So let’s bring this home. How do we live this out?

First —

Look around.

You’ll never carry burdens you don’t notice. Ask God to open your eyes this week to someone whose load is heavy — a widow, a parent, a coworker, a classmate, a church member. Don’t assume someone else will do it. You might be the answer to their prayer.

Second —

Lean in.

Move closer to people, not away. Sometimes the holiest thing you can do is simply show up. Don’t worry about saying the perfect words — your presence often preaches louder than your speech.

Third —

Lift up.

Carry what you can. Pray with them, not just for them. Be generous with your time, your encouragement, your resources. Love costs something — but it always multiplies when it’s given away.

And here’s what I want you to remember as you go:

Burden-bearing is love in action.

That’s our bottom line. That’s what this whole passage has been driving toward.

Love that never lifts a weight isn’t love at all. Real love bends down, picks up, and carries through.

So this week, when you see someone weary — at work, at school, in your neighborhood, in this church — don’t walk past them. Step toward them. Because when you carry someone’s burden, you’re not just helping them — you’re revealing him.

And when Fannin Terrace becomes a church full of burden-bearers, Midland will see what the love of Jesus really looks like.