Thanksgiving Week: Day 4--Habitual Thanksgiving

November 28, 2013 – Thanksgiving Day, Year C

Deuteronomy 26:1-11; Philippians 4:4-9; John 6:25-35

© 2013 Evan D. Garner

This is the text of today's sermon. The audio can be heard here.

I’ve made a mental note to be sure to work on something with my kids over the next few weeks. Before Christmas gets here, I need to help them practice pretending to be thankful. Last weekend, my parents and Elizabeth’s parents came into town to celebrate Edison’s birthday. An unusually patient four-year-old, Edison waited all morning and well into the afternoon before finally asking if we could open his presents. We all gathered in the den, and he tore into the box that Elizabeth’s parents had brought him. After opening the top, he reached inside and pulled out…some pajamas. “Say thank you!” Elizabeth told him. “Mumble mumble,” he barely eeked out. “No, Edison, look at GG and Papa Vic and tell them thank you.” He sighed heavily. “Thank you,” he breathed out in a monotone expression of thankless boredom.

Turning back to the box, he pulled out his next gift—a winter coat with gloves and a hat. Then a book. Then he opened my parents’ present to him—more clothes and some sheets for his bed. With each new gift, his already absent gratitude waned. Finally, his face lit up as he received one toy—nothing special but at least it wasn’t more clothes. A boisterous “thank you” confirmed two things: 1) he really was grateful for the Batmobile and 2) he didn’t care at all for anything else he had received. Even the grandparents said to each other, “Well, I guess he wasn’t looking for clothes, huh?”

The truth is that with a little practice you can fake gratitude, but you can’t make yourself grateful. You can pretend. You can smile. You can say a convincing, “It’s just what I always wanted!” But you can’t choose to be thankful. You can’t manufacture thankfulness. Either you’re grateful for what you have, or you’re not. Sometimes, when you open up a package of socks on Christmas morning, the best you can do is fake it. So why, then, do I make my son say “Thank you” for presents he clearly doesn’t like? Is it just to be polite, or is there a more important motive here?

During the month of November, lots of people on Facebook have been posting something that they are thankful for each day. Day one: my family. Day two: my job. Day three: my church. At first, I didn’t like it. It felt like all of these people were pretending to be thankful just because it’s November. It seemed like they were more interested in being a part of a fad than really being grateful for the blessings in their lives. I mentioned my skepticism and cynicism to a colleague who said, “Well, at least they aren’t using Facebook to complain about what’s wrong with the world like they usually do.” Good point. Score one for a month of thanksgivings. But there’s something more important going on here.

We can’t choose to be thankful, but we can practice thanksgiving until it takes hold in our hearts, which is exactly what today’s Old Testament reading is about.

The Book of Deuteronomy is a story of great transition in the history of Israel. After being set free from slavery in Egypt, God’s people journeyed through the wilderness for forty years. And, during those forty years, they discovered what it meant to have a relationship with the God of their ancestors. Moses was given the Law on Mt. Sinai. God fed them with manna and gave them water to drink. He protected them and guided them toward the Promised Land. And, now that they had forged an identity as God’s chosen people, they prepared to enter the territory that had been promised to Abraham so long ago. Yet, before they set foot in their new home, Moses had some important instructions for them:

When you have come into the land that the LORD your God is giving you as an inheritance to possess, and you possess it, and settle in it, you shall take some of the first of all the fruit of the ground, which you harvest from the land that the LORD your God is giving you, and you shall put it in a basket and go to the place that the LORD your God will choose as a dwelling for his name. You shall go to the priest who is in office at that time, and say to him, ‘Today I declare to the LORD your God that I have come into the land that the LORD swore to our ancestors to give us.’ (Deut. 26:1-3)

In other words, after you get settled and have a chance to till the ground and plant your crops and harvest them, don’t forget to say thank you. It doesn’t matter whether you mean it. And it doesn’t matter that everyone else will be doing it, too. No matter what, set aside that time to give thanks to God for all the blessings he has given you. Isn’t that what’s happening on Facebook? Aren’t the people who are posting their daily thanksgivings doing exactly what Moses told his people to do. A week or so ago, when I read that this was the lesson for Thanksgiving Day, I left my cynicism behind. We are all supposed to tell our story of gratitude—even if it’s just because it’s the month of November—even if it’s just because it’s the cool thing to do for Thanksgiving. Do we really need a better excuse than that to be thankful?

We know that we’re supposed to be thankful—not just on Thanksgiving but all the time. But sometimes, like when everyone keeps giving us clothes for our birthday, being thankful isn’t easy. But we’ve got to start somewhere, and the fourth Thursday in November is as good a place to start as any. We can’t simply decide to be grateful, but we can practice until it comes naturally. So what should we do? Give thanks whether we mean it or not. Say thank you. Write a thank you note. Smile and say that you love that ridiculous sweater.  Make a list of all the things in your life that you’re supposed to be thankful for, and then post it on Facebook. Even if we’re simply going through the motions or doing what everyone else wants us to do, habits can make a difference.

Become a habitual thanker. Tell God what you’re grateful for every single day. Share that appreciation with others around you. Let the practice of Thanksgiving take root in your heart so that it might grow into a real spirit of gratitude.

Thanksgiving Week: Day 3--Who You Calling Rich?

What does your preacher preach on more often than anything else? I used to think that only Baptist preachers talked about money every week, but I’m beginning to think that I preach on being rich more than anything else. Why? Because Jesus keeps talking about it. It’s hard to preach on something else when Jesus is always talking about money.

It’s Thanksgiving Week, and I’m writing each day about being thankful. The gospel lesson in today’s Daily Office is Matthew 19:23-30. That’s the passage in which Jesus declares, “It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of God.” Lately, I’ve been accused by my congregation of “beating up on rich people,” which I take to include myself and I take to be a compliment. So, instead of doing that and talking about squeezing our fat wallets through heaven’s narrow gate, I want to talk about the disciples’ reaction to Jesus’ statement.

Matthew tells us, “When the disciples heard this, they were greatly astounded and said, ‘Then who can be saved?’” As I read the lesson this morning, I thought to myself—THAT’S where thanksgiving happens. Let me explain…

In congregations like ours, I think that there are two basic responses to Jesus’ “it’s hard for rich people to enter the kingdom” talk. Either we 1) shrug our shoulders and assume Jesus is talking about someone else or 2) we wring our hands and wonder what we’re going to have to do to get in. In other words, some of us assume that this gospel lesson doesn’t apply to us, while the rest of us take it to heart, and I think that’s where the message of thanksgiving comes in. We can’t be grateful for something we don’t acknowledge to be ours.

The disciples aren’t really rich by the world’s standards. As Peter says a little later on, they have given up just about everything to follow Jesus. Jesus talking to them about rich people entering heaven is like me going down to the Salvation Army shelter and preaching about giving up everything you’ve got and giving it to the poor. Yet still the disciples’ response is astonishment and humility. “Then who, Jesus, is going to be saved?” Amazing.

How easy it would have been to say, “Gosh, Jesus, I’d hate to be rich! Glad you’re not talking about me!” How tempting it would have been to say, “Ha! You said it, Jesus. About time they got what they deserve!” Instead, the disciples recognize that Jesus is talking about them—about all of us. We are all rich. How, then, will any of us be saved? With mortals it is impossible, but with God all things are possible.

And so thanksgiving. Thank you, gracious God, for making me rich in so many ways and for loving me anyway. Don’t take it for granted—either the riches or the surprising salvation that comes despite them. Be a disciple. Be astounded at the sharpness of Jesus’ words and recognize that they’re said to you. Thanksgiving can’t happen until we admit what we should be thankful for.

Thanksgiving Week: Day 2--Who's Hungry?

Since this is Thanksgiving Week, I am spending some time each day writing about thanksgiving—not just the holiday but the practice, the mindset, and, as one person put it yesterday, the “state of being” that is gratitude. What does it mean to be grateful? What does it mean to be thankful? I am forcing myself to ask those questions because, as the fourth Thursday in November approaches, confusing the spiritual practice with the holiday has become a little too easy.

The gospel lesson appointed for this year’s Thanksgiving Day is John 6:25-35—the passage that concludes with Jesus declaring, “I am the bread of life.”  Those words seem to pop up fairly regularly throughout the church’s three-year lectionary cycle, but I suspect that they sound a little different on the one day out of the year when Americans eat more food than on any other. On Thursday, as we pass the rolls and dressing and potatoes and corn pudding and all the other starchy foods that none of us really needs, what does it mean, as Jesus says in John 6, to work not for the food that perishes but for the food that endures to eternal life? How do we distinguish between our daily bread and the bread of life?

As we read through John’s gospel account, we discover that one important theme is the difference between those who were fascinated with Jesus’ miracles and those who recognized them as “signs” of something bigger. Some in the crowds were drawn to Jesus only because of his impressive powers, while others were drawn to what those powers represent. John 6 opens with one of the most compelling miracles in the gospel—the feeding of the 5,000—but the reading for Thanksgiving Day reveals what happened next. Perhaps overwhelmed by the demands of ministry, Jesus escaped by boat to the other side of the sea, but the crowd pursued him. When they found him and engaged the miracle-worker in conversation, Jesus revealed their true intention: “You are looking for me, not because you saw signs, but because you ate your fill of the loaves.”

Over and over during his earthly ministry, Jesus tried to connect people with his heavenly father. The “signs” that he performed were supposed to point the crowds to the fact that God had sent him into the world for its salvation. The few who made that connection were those who sought not a full stomach but a satisfied soul. They were the disciples, the faithful women, and the other followers who discovered what it meant to partake of the bread of life. Many others enjoyed the miraculously multiplied loaves and experienced the countless other feats of wonder that Jesus performed, but, at the end of the day, they went home impressed but not transformed. With them, something important was missing.

This year, as you prepare to sit down at your Thanksgiving table, ask yourself for what you are really thankful. When you hold hands and say the blessing, what will you include in your list of thanksgivings? As the aroma of our favorite foods wafts over from the buffet, we are almost certain to remember to be thankful for the bounty we wait to devour. As we look around the table and see members of our family gathered from far and wide, surely we will remember to thank God for those we love. But we will remember to thank God for sustaining us every day? And will we remember to thank God for including us in his own family? In other words, does the holiday of Thanksgiving actually obscure our appreciation for the blessings God bestows upon us on the other 364 days a year?

Let this Thanksgiving be an opportunity to look beyond the holiday table. Do not let the turkey and trimmings be the reason you forget to thank God for everything else he has given you. Remember what it means to hunger for the food that endures to eternal life. Yes, Thanksgiving leftovers will probably last a week or more, but Jesus calls us to look far beyond that. We are loved by a God who has created us, who sustains us, and who promises to care for us always. This year, celebrate more than a day of thanksgiving. On Thanksgiving Day give thanks for a lifetime of God’s blessings.

Thanksgiving Week: Day 1--Leanness of Soul

It’s Thanksgiving Week—maybe my favorite week of the year. Time with family. Elaborate preparations. Thanksgiving Day Eucharist. Seeing Elizabeth get excited about the Parade—not my thing but definitely hers. Favorite foods. The Iron Bowl. The beginning of Advent. Shopping. All-around fun.

In honor and celebration of all this, I’m posting each day this week on thanksgiving. What does it mean to be thankful? How is thanksgiving a fundamental aspect of faith? How can we grow in our gratitude?

How often do you read the Psalms? Do you pay attention to them? Are they mere “filler” that takes up space between the first and second lessons? The Daily Office—the services of scripture and prayer that are observed at various times during the day—always puts the Psalm reading before the other lessons. Because of that, it’s easy to skip over it. Those of us who say Morning Prayer using our computer, tablet, or smart phone screens and Mission St. Clare’s website can easily scroll down to the first lesson. Having become too focused on reading the lessons with a blog post in mind, I had fallen into the habit of skimming through them without letting them sink in—until this summer.

During one morning’s breakfast while I was in Africa, a clergy colleague asked if I read the Daily Office each day. I told him that I did, and a conversation about the slow but delightful progress we were making through one of the Old Testament books ensued. Then, he said something that convicted me: “Don’t you love the Psalms, though? They capture so much of life. Every situation, every circumstance is reflected in those prayers. They really sustain me.” I realized that I didn’t really know what he was talking about. Having studied the Psalms and even taught Sunday school classes on them, I knew that he was right, but it had been too long since I’d let those ancient words sink into my bones. I had forgotten the power that they contain.

This morning, we read the first eighteen verses of Psalm 106. And what a story they tell! The opening line is a shout of thanksgiving: “Hallelujah! Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good!” The verses that follow recall the Exodus story—how God delivered his people from slavery in Egypt—but they tell them in a convicting way: “We have sinned as our forebears did…In Egypt they did not consider your marvelous works, nor remember the abundance of your love.” The Psalmist knows that his people often forget God’s saving help. They take his blessings for granted—much as their ancestors did. God, however, remains faithful: “They defied the Most High at the Red Sea. But he saved them for his Name's sake to make his power known.”

As I made my way through the Psalm this morning, I was already thinking about Thanksgiving Day. I’m preaching at Thursday’s service and then on Sunday, too, so I’ve needed to do some early work this week putting proverbial pen to paper. We forget to be grateful. That’s human nature. The Psalmist captured that sentiment in beautiful, ironic words. But I think he is most powerful when he describes the consequence of Israel’s ingratitude:

13   But they soon forgot his deeds *

and did not wait for his counsel.

14   A craving seized them in the wilderness, *

and they put God to the test in the desert.

15   He gave them what they asked, *

but sent leanness into their soul.

God sent leanness into their soul. Those haunting words have been tumbling around in my mind all morning. They forgot God’s goodness. They craved that which they did not have. God put them to the test by giving them what they asked and sending leanness into their soul.

Leanness of soul. Thin, scarce, inadequate and the deepest level. Perhaps you have a different understanding of how God works in the world, but I don’t believe that God reaches down from heaven and punishes people for making bad choices. (I don’t think he rewards people for good choices, either.) I think this leanness of soul is the consequence of their ingratitude. When you give a whiny kid what he’s whining for and never help him develop a sense of thankfulness, you’re setting him up for a life of want rather than a life of plenty. And that kind of longing—the kind that comes from leanness of soul—isn’t easy to satisfy.

How has leanness crept into our souls? We’ve got just about everything we want. What we don’t have is just as far away as another credit card. Where does it all come from? When we forget the true origin of all our blessings—when we forget the story of salvation that God has wrought in our own lives—the accumulation of wealth undermines our faith. Are we wealthy? Yes. Are we grateful? Let’s hope so. And, if not, let’s work on it. We can’t afford not to be.

Endurance Revisited

The gospel lesson for today—the Feast of Edmund, King ofEast Anglia—is Matthew 10:16-22. Sound familiar? This past Sunday I preached on the epistle lesson (2 Thessalonians 3:6-13) and pretty much ignored the gospel (Luke 21:5-19). So, when I read the gospel appointed for today and found that it was pretty much the exact same lesson I skipped over on Sunday, I felt like God was giving me another chance…or telling me to get it right this time.

Matthew 10 is a wonderful chapter in scripture. As the chapter opens, Jesus calls his twelve disciples to himself and gives them “authority over unclean spirits, to cast them out, and to heal every disease and affliction.” But then he sends them out, instructing them to stay in Jewish territory, ignoring the Gentiles and Samaritans, and carrying very little with them. “Live on what you have and on the generosity of those whom you meet on the way,” Jesus seems to be telling them. “And those who accept you and take care of you will be blessed, and those who reject you, well, it would be better for those in Sodom and Gomorrah than for them.” Nice pep talk, huh?

But then we get to today’s gospel lesson. “See, I am sending you out like sheep into the midst of wolves…” Imagine how nervous and excited and ramped-up you would have been after Jesus gave you that kind of authority and then described your mission in such amplified terms. “Wow!” the disciples must have said to themselves. “This is going to be amazing.” Until he got to the second part. “They will hand you over to councils and synagogues; and you will be dragged before governors and kings…You will be hated because of my name.” It sounds like a David and Goliath story without the happy ending. “You want me to do what?”

Insulated by almost two-thousand years since Christians like these were dragged before councils and put to death, I have no idea what it was like to hear that warning from Jesus. For me (and I think for most other 21^st-century American Christians), identifying as a Christian has more to do with stating my assent to a defined set of beliefs (the Creed, the bible, or some other doctrinal statement) than actually following Jesus. But that’s not right. We are disciples. We are followers of his way. We are also apostles or “sent-out-ones.” Simply saying some magic words, “Jesus, come into my heart and be my savior,” isn’t good enough. When we say them, what we’re really saying is, “Here I am, Lord. What would you have me do?” And sometimes the answer we get looks like Matthew 10.

Why did you become a Christian? Or, if you grew up in a Christian household and can’t really remember making a decision to become a Christian, why are you still a Christian? I doubt any of us signed on because we wanted authority over unclean spirits and the power to heal people of any disease or infirmity, but I bet a lot of us became Christians because salvation—heaven, forgiveness, eternal life—sounded like a good idea. In that moment, how many of us accepted the call to give ourselves up in the same way the disciples were asked to?

The life of a Christian is more like Matthew 10 than we might expect. Sure, we’re excited when the opportunity to follow Jesus presents itself. But eventually we discover the challenging part. Maybe it happens right away. Or maybe it happens much later. But I’m convinced that most of us reach a moment when it isn’t easy being a Christian—when it’s easier to give up than to hang in there. Few of us will ever be dragged before councils and synagogues or governors or kings. More likely hardship will strike—addiction, still birth, estrangement, tragedy, death, heartache. Will we persevere? Will we remember that being a Christian isn’t an express ticket to heaven? There is still suffering here, but as Christians we know that suffering is not the end nor is it empty or meaningless.

Jesus says that salvation comes to those who endure. Salvation is endurance. Salvation is perseverance. What it means for God to save us is for us to soldier on despite hardship with our focus still on his promise of glory. It might not be easy to see—especially if we think being a Christian is simply the good parts. But still that hope is out there. 

With Me in Paradise

I can’t quite remember in what medium I said it, but I’m 98% sure I’ve gone on record as saying that Luke’s crucifixion account (Sunday's gospel lesson) is my least favorite. Why? Because of that sappy line spoken to the repentant thief: “Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise.” Really, Jesus?

I’ve never liked that line because it seems so out of place. The other synoptic versions are far less chatty, and John’s version focuses instead on a conversation between Jesus, his mother, and the beloved disciple. I’ll admit that I’m being overly cynical, but this last-minute conversion reminds me of death-bed evangelism, which I’ve never liked. (I don’t like puppies or cotton candy, either.)

Recently I’ve been forced to give this line another shot. (And it’s driving me crazy.) I taught a class on the peculiarities of Anglican theology, using the 39 Articles as my starting point. One of the classes was entitled, “Did Jesus Go to Hell?” Article III states, “As Christ died for us, and was buried; so also is it to be believed, that he went down into Hell.” Like most of the Articles, it’s pretty simple and ambiguous—trying to hang onto Catholic, orthodox theology without upsetting the Protestants within the English Church. I’ve always taken that doctrine at face-value. Christ really died, which means he went to that place where dead people go. But apparently that causes some problems for other Christians.

This isn’t the place to get into the whole “harrowing of hell” debate—a doctrine I would describe as adiaphoric—but it is worth mentioning that some Protestants completely throw out that line of the Apostles’ Creed (“he descended into hell”) because of this line from Sunday’s gospel: “today you will be with me in paradise.” 

Maybe they have a point. Today does usually mean today—not tomorrow, not in three days, not when I come back and raise everyone from the dead. But I don’t buy it. I’m not saying I disagree with Jesus (that would be asking for even more trouble than this post already is), but I am saying that I don’t think this is the sentence in the bible to base one’s rejection of a fundamental, ancient, ecumenical statement of faith like the Creed upon.

So what does it mean? Today you will be with me in paradise. Imagine what that sounded like to the man hanging on the cross. Imagine what it would sound like to a woman lying in a hospital bed in absolute agony as she prepares to take her last breath. Imagine what it sounds like to a man who answers the door in the middle of the night and sees a State Trooper standing there with his hat in his hand. What’s the point? You can’t say that…unless you mean it. And I’m not sure anyone other than Jesus can mean it enough to say it.

This is a shocking statement that no one else can justify. “Hey man, you in agony over there? Facing a certain, tortuous death? Good news, though: today you’ll be with me in Paradise.” That’s the kind of total, absolute, unequivocal reversal that only Jesus and the power of resurrection can convey. Do we believe it? Absolutely. Does today mean today? I’m not sure. But I do believe that the power of the resurrection means that even the most terrible moments have signs of redemption. Just remember to let Jesus do the talking. 

Ride On, King Jesus!

There’s an old episode of Seinfeld in which Jerry’s new girlfriend has a terrible, hideous, ear-splitting laugh. Of course, she’s beautiful, funny, and likeable in every other way, but Jerry—a comedian—can’t date someone whose laugh he cannot stand. It just won’t work for them to be together. (I can't get the YouTube clip integrated, but you can watch it here.)

I am no comedian, but I am playful, and I make regular use of sarcasm and irony. Being around someone who doesn’t appreciate that kind of humor is tiresome—for both of us. I routinely say the most outrageous things (almost always with my tongue in my cheek), but the straight-laced individual I’m with can’t see through the sarcasm. Explaining one joke after another is agonizing.

I kind of feel like that when I read Sunday’s gospel lesson (Luke 23:33-43). This Sunday is the last Sunday after Pentecost—the last week before Advent starts—which means that most of us are observing the Johnny-come-lately festival of “Christ the King,” a designation for this Sunday that didn’t come about until Pope Pius XI instituted it in 1925. The point is to contrast Christ’s kingship with that of world leaders—the kingdoms of the earth that lead to the horrors of the Great War. Of course, that comparison is still apposite, but I worry that most of us (especially me) miss the irony of making it.

Christ the King. Those words go together without needing any explanation. Christians understand that Jesus Christ is God’s king (even if we don’t really get the theological significance of God having a king). And people who aren’t Christians probably aren’t surprised to hear that we would call the central figure of our faith a “king.” We’re always talking about how special Jesus is and how much we love him. Why not call him King Jesus? But go back and read Luke 23:33-43 and ask what in there seems even remotely monarchical.

I remember a seminary professor making a great deal about the Titulus—the sign that hung on the cross. It is attested by all four gospel accounts, and it seems so unusual and unexpected that even the most critical historians seem willing to accept its veracity. As a follower of Jesus who is so accustomed to talking about him as king, that sign seems to belong there. But of course it doesn’t. It’s ridiculous. It’s the most terrible, biting political satire of its day. “You want a king?” the Roman Empire asks. “Here’s your king. This is what we do to kings.” The sign that declares Jesus’ kingship is the blinking neon light of defeat. A king who is executed on a cross is not a king.

But, of course, we stand at the cross and gaze upon our king. Jesus’ kingship isn’t like that of the kingdoms of this world. The cross isn’t a mistake. It’s not a story of the Roman Empire or the Jewish hierarchy killing the one who belongs on a throne. Jesus belongs on the cross—not because of anything he deserved but because of who he is. This king accepted the cross as the sign of his kingship. The Titulus is doubly ironic. The Romans hung it there as a warning sign. And the gospel accounts leave it there to embrace the irony it declares.

It’s easy for me to look at Luke 23 as an accident—a temporary detour between Jesus’ feats of wonder (like the Transfiguration story from today’s Daily Office) and his triumphant resurrection. But I have to learn that we worship a king who not only happens to have died on the cross but whose very nature is to have died on the cross. What does it mean for Jesus to be king? It’s not just that he rose again. It’s also that he died first. That is the nature of his kingdom. That is the nature of the king whom we worship.