“A Deeper Thanksgiving”

Luke 18:9-14

First Presbyterian Church of Jamestown , New York

The Reverend Thomas A. Sweet

November 18, 2007

Thanksgiving Sunday

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             Text:  “…give thanks in all circumstances, for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.”  (I Thessalonians 5:18)

 

Several weeks ago when Ross Mackenzie was preaching here and the gospel text that we are using today was read that day, too, an aha moment broke in on me as I was listening to it.  The Pharisee in the story, while attending to his daily devotions, said as the centerpiece of his prayer:  “God, I thank you that I am not like other people: thieves, rogues, adulterers, or even like this tax collector standing here.”  As those words passed into my hearing, it occurred to me that much of my gratitude, too much, arises from the accident of my fortunate circumstances relative to others.  While not devoid of compassion for people whose lot in life seems less than mine, still, it was discomfiting to me to realize how often my feelings of thanksgiving are evoked by a favorable comparison of my life to others’ lives.  Perhaps you know by your own experience what I mean. 

 

“God, I thank you that I live in my part of town and not their part.”

 

“God, I thank you that I have my job and not his job.”

 

“God, I thank you that we do not have tsunamis, cyclones, and earthquakes where I live.”

 

“God, I thank you that I am not sick like she is.”

 

Perhaps “comparative thanksgiving” is just a part of human nature, but it seems to me a second-class thanksgiving.  I would like to think that I and we can move on to a deeper thanksgiving, one that moves closer to the spirit of Paul’s counsel to the Thessalonian church when we wrote… “give thanks in all circumstances, for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.”   

Paul is not saying, of course, to be thankful for all circumstances.  There are some events and situations in life for which thanksgiving is not only next to impossible, but also inappropriate.  Yet, Paul says, even in the midst of circumstances for which we cannot be grateful, we can still be thankful.  How?  Why?  Because, as one commentator puts it, “We all are pensioners on God’s bounty.”  A reader of our website who lives in Iowa sent me a note last week in which he quoted a few lines from the poet, Rumi, beautiful lines that say,  

                                                            Like salt resolved in the ocean

                                                            so I was swallowed in God’s sea

                                                            past faith, past unbelief,

                                                            past doubt, past certainty.

 

“…so I was swallowed in God’s sea…”  Or, as Paul puts it, “In God, we live and move and have our being.”  That we belong inextricably to the universe, to the cosmos, to the creation, to God is the cause and reason for what should be our unrelenting and ceaseless gratitude.  That is what Mary Oliver seems to be saying in her poem called Bone.                                                                      

 

    Bone

                                                                                1.

                                                    Understand, I am always trying to figure out

                                                                     what the soul is,

                                                                   and where hidden,

                                                                   and what shape –

 

                                                                   and so, last week,

                                                             when I found on the beach

                                                                        the ear bone

                                                        of a pilot whale that may have died

 

                                                           hundreds of years ago, I thought

                                                                     maybe I was close

                                                               to discovering something -

                                                                       for the ear bone

 

                                                                                2.

 

                                                            is the portion that lasts longest

                                                         in any of us, man or whale; shaped

                                                                    like a squat spoon

                                                               with a pink scoop where

 

                                                          once, in the lively swimmer’s head,

                                                                         it joined its two sisters

                                                                  in the house of hearing,

                                                                         it was only

 

                                                                     two inches long - 

                                                                and I thought: the soul

                                                                    might be like this –

                                                                 so hard, so necessary –

 

                                                                                 3.

 

                                                                    yet almost nothing.

                                                                          Beside me

                                                                         the gray sea

                                                      was opening and shutting its wave-doors,

 

                                                                unfolding over and over

                                                                  its time-ridiculing roar;

                                                        I looked but I couldn’t see anything

                                                               through its dark-knit glare;

 

                                                        yet don’t we all know, the golden sand

                                                                   is there at the bottom,

                                                          though our eyes have never seen it,

                                                            nor can our hands ever catch it

 

                                                                                 4.

 

                                                                 lest we would sift it down

                                                                 into fractions, and facts –

                                                                           certainties –

                                                                  and what the soul is, also

 

                                                             I believe I will never quite know.

                                                         Though I play at the edges of knowing,

                                                                          truly I know

                                                                 our part is not knowing,

 

                                                       but looking, and touching, and loving,

                                                             which is the way I walked on,

                                                                                   softly,

                                                        through the pale-pink morning light.  

 

While it is not wrong by any means, of course, to give thanks for particular things – a beautiful sunset as the day is dying in the west, a daughter standing beside you in the popcorn line in a movie theater and out of nowhere saying, “I love you, Dad,” the rare sighting of a bald eagle perched in a tree by the side of the road between here and Erie – the gratitude that transforms our lives is more profound than that, a deeper thanksgiving that rises up within us as we become more and more aware of our part in the oneness of everything…in the all-encompassing oneness of God.  

I don’t think I ever have heard it put any better than the way our friend Angus (Watkins) said it in a note to me on the first anniversary of my daughter’s death:  

“Even as the trees ringing the clearing where I live let go their colored leaves, I am pleasantly surprised that the understory of trees still offer a beautiful screen of yellows and reds, closer to the earth.  Isn’t that ironic – that in churches we used to think that the loftier (heavenly?) phenomena were to be more revered as the sites of what is grand and lovely…as if the farther from where we are, the better?”  

“In the short time that I knew your Katy, what made her most beautifully wonderful was her down-to-earthiness, in so many ways.  So, for me, a fitting memorial to your dear daughter on the anniversary of her death will be to scoop a big handful of leaves from the ground and hold them up before releasing them in a breeze, to rejoice in the beauty of their hanging there for a short time, and then tumbling and raining earthward to become a good soil for new things.”  

“In the Great Story of Life, isn’t that how it is for all things and for all of us?…to be some part of the understory for some shorter or more lengthy moment, to dance in brief suspensions, before tumbling in all poignant loveliness into the eternal mix of it all?”  

Being a part of the understory of life, even in the most difficult of situations and the saddest of days in addition to all of the good and happy ones, trusting that my life is located in God and kept by God, that is the deeper thanksgiving that gives joy to my living.  I find it harder and harder to be thankful for my own privileged life while too many others around me live in poverty of soul or substance.  I find that the kind of thanksgiving that makes me glad I do not share the circumstances of those we call “less fortunate” serves to distance and isolate me from them and from the pain of the world rather than carrying me more intimately to those who suffer and more deeply into the hurt of life.  But when my thanksgiving derives from being a part of the eternal mix of it all, that we are now and forever given to one another and all things within the mystery we call God, then I feel connected more profoundly to the world, to life, to God, even to the truth of myself.  

As I told our children a few minutes ago, the Eucharist table is set with Christ’s thanksgiving supper to which each and all of us are invited, a table and a humble meal at which we are reminded of how Jesus, filled with gratitude for life and his life, spent it in the service of love, and invites us to do the same.  Until we do that, it seems to me, our thanksgiving is a little hollow, a little self-interested, a little selfish.  The greater part of thanksgiving is thanks-living.  

So, sure, it is fine to be thankful for specific things in our lives so long as we remember the larger context that God is one, that life is one, and that our thanksgiving ought not to remove us from the beautiful, terrible, frightening, exhilarating mix of the world, but carry us more deeply into it.  

Amen. 

© Copyright 2007 First Presbyterian Church

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