November 27, 2014 – Thanksgiving
Day, Year A
© 2014 Evan D. Garner
Audio of this sermon can be heard here.
Lately, it seems as if
God is working on me in a strange and somewhat scary way. I haven’t quite
figured out why, but he certainly has my attention.
It started a few weeks
ago when I was at the Episcopal conference center in the Diocese of
Mississippi—the Gray Center just north of Canton. I was there for Credo, which
is a program designed to help clergy focus on wellness. The idea is that
healthy clergy make for healthy parishes. Anyway, I spent six days there,
listening to presentations on physical, financial, spiritual, and vocational
wellness. I met with experts in those areas, and I spent time reflecting on my
life and ministry with some peers. It really was a wonderful experience—down to
every last detail.
One day, instead of
eating a typical lunch, a member of the Credo staff led us in an exercise
designed to help us appreciate the spirituality of eating. When we arrived at
the dining hall, the doors were closed. We were asked to wait outside. So we
waited. And waited. Finally, when everything was ready, we were escorted into a
room that had been transformed from a camp-style cafeteria into a banquet hall.
Each place had been set with a beautiful plate. Perfectly arranged, colorful
strips of bell pepper accented a carefully designed palate of hummus, fruit,
and salad. The guide asked us to look at the food before eating it, to smell
the food before tasting it, to consider where each piece came from, and to
appreciate how it had found its way onto our plate. Finally, we were invited to
indulge ourselves and taste the meal.
After a few final words
of instruction, we began to eat in silence. A few minutes later, someone broke
the trance-like experience with a word of admiration. Soon the conversation
swelled, and we all ate until we were content—a modest but appropriate amount
of food. More important than the quantity was the careful, deliberate, loving
care with which each plate had been arranged. The men and women who had been
providing all of our meals had clearly gone to great lengths to make this a
feast to remember.
But the meal wasn’t
finished yet.
The leader announced that
the Gray Center staff had decided on their own to prepare a second course. I
was astounded that any more could be enjoyed. I had already experienced so
much. But the kitchen staff wanted to do this for us. We learned that they had
prepared shrimp cocktail over a mango salsa with a side of jambalaya and some
bread pudding for dessert. It was like finishing a fabulous meal only to
discover that the meal had not even begun yet. It was literally too much to
take in—both physically and emotionally. Still, we all began to eat again, and
the conversation at every table centered on the staff who had done so much for
us. We were astounded.
When everything was finished, the kitchen staff came out to let us thank them with a standing ovation. Although pleased with the offering they had made, they were humble and looked mostly at the floor while we cheered and clapped. I took time to look at the face of every one of the men and women who had given so much to me in that meal—and not just in that meal but in every meal we had enjoyed during our time there. These were the faces of people who called that place home, who took pride in their work, and who understood that even serving a meal in a cafeteria is a ministry in God’s kingdom. As I looked at them, I started to weep. I was surprised—even alarmed. Tears continued streaming down my face, flowing so freely that I didn’t even try to wipe them away. Their generosity, their love, their selflessness was so magnificent that it shook me to my core.
And that’s what’s been
following me around ever since. Tears are right below the surface. In everyday
conversations, I can tell my heart is on my sleeve—that my emotions are living
up here in my throat rather than down here in my gut. Casual moments with my
children bring me to tears. Recalling stories of friends and mentors who have
supported me makes me weep. What is wrong with me? I’m not a sentimental
person. I’m a cold, hard, factual, rational person who doesn’t have time for
tears. What is this all about?
One day, while he was
making his way to Jerusalem, Jesus was approached by ten lepers. Keeping their
distance—as was required by religious and social etiquette—they called out to
him, “Jesus, Master, have mercy on us.” Without otherwise engaging them—never
touching them or conversing with them—Jesus told them to go and show themselves
to the priests. According to the Law of Moses, a leper, when cured, was to show
himself to a priest in order to be readmitted to society. So the ten turned and
went on their way, just as Jesus had asked them to do, and while they were
walking they were healed.
“It’s a miracle!” one of
them exclaimed. “This is what we’ve been waiting for! We can go home to our
families. We can go back to work. We can get our lives back!” Indeed, to be
diagnosed with leprosy was a fate worse than death. Lepers lived in total
isolation. They were kept at a distance. As a result of the rash on their skin,
they gave up everything. And Jesus had given them their lives back. All they
had to do was go and find a priest who could verify that they had been cured.
With that certification, they would be allowed back into society. They would be
normal again. Naturally, they raced off to find what they had been praying for
for so long.
But one of them stopped
and let the others keep running. His heart wasn’t drawn to Jerusalem, where the
priests could look him over and send him on his way. He was a Samaritan, which
means that he didn’t belong in the holy city along with the others. He could
have gone to find a Samaritan priest at Mount Gerizim, his people’s holy site,
but that didn’t feel right either. Instead, his heart belonged somewhere else. So
he turned around and started running back to Jesus. Exhausted, out of breath,
he collapsed onto the ground at Jesus’ feet and cried out, “Thank you! Thank
you! Thank you!” Even more powerful than the desire to resume the life he so
desperately wanted was the desire to express the gratitude of his heart and to
give it where it belonged—at the feet of the one who had healed him.
Then, Jesus looked at him
and said something as surprising as the man’s return: “Were not ten made clean?
But the other nine, where are they? Was none of them found to return and give
praise to God except this foreigner?...Get up and go on your way; your faith
has made you well.” Wasn’t he already healed? What did Jesus mean? What did
this man get that the others missed out on? The word translated for us as “has
made you well” can also be translated “has saved you.” In response to the man’s
soul-filled gratitude, Jesus looked at him and said, “Now, you are truly
healed. Now, you are saved.”
Gratitude has the power
to change everything. It is the foundation upon which faith is laid. It is the
avenue through which God’s power can work. It is how we present ourselves to
God and say, “Here I am, Lord. What will you do with me?” It all starts with
gratitude. That is the lesson I have been learning these last few weeks. Like
ground tilled and made ready for new plantings, my heart has been turned over
by gratitude, and I sense that something new is about to grow.
What about you? What is
gratitude doing in your life? What doors to new opportunities might
thankfulness open for you? The other day, as I walked into the cafeteria at my
son’s school to enjoy a traditional Thanksgiving lunch, again, as I joined the
line, I started to cry. I don’t know why, but the experience I had in
Mississippi is still with me. And I believe that it’s just the beginning of
something. When you sit down for your Thanksgiving meal today, will you weep
with gratitude for all that God is giving you? Will you return to him and throw
yourself down at his feet? Don’t let this day go by without making the
connection between the blessings you enjoy and gratitude for the one who
bestows them. Be thankful and, through your thanksgiving, give God a piece of
your heart and invite him to take it and use so that you might never be the
same. Amen.
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