Thank Who?

a sermon by Rev. Daniel S. Schatz

BuxMont Unitarian Universalist Fellowship

November 19, 2006

We’ve begun a new ritual around our dinner table in which each member of the family takes a minute or two to name what he or she is grateful for. No matter how yucky our day has been, we try to offer our gratitude in a spirit of kindness and real thankfulness. Often, the ritual’s nicest effect is to calm the troops who may be feeling a bit rowdy or punchy. That’s on a good evening. Other times, well....

“Today,” said I one evening, trying to model appropriate behavior (usually a ludicrous pursuit), “I am thankful for the wonderful rain we had this afternoon, which watered all the trees and grass and flowers so they can grow.”

“Today,” said Daughter Number One, “I am grateful for the rain and the trees and the flowers. And I am grateful for Mom and Dad and Sister and Brother and Dog.” (A not-so-subtle attempt at ingratiating herself, as her sly smile implied, but spoken with heartfelt emotion, nonetheless.)

“Today, said Daughter Number Two, “I am grateful for Mom and Dad and Brother and Dog.” A smirk.

“What?” Dad and Mom were stunned. “What about your sister?” Daughter Number One immediately recognized the implications of Daughter Number Two’s statement, which pointedly left her out. She burst into tears and ran from the table.

We continue to work on gratitude circles at our house. Some of us find it hard to be thankful when we would rather be angry. Sometimes even I (who like to consider myself closer to perfect than many) would rather give my husband a swift verbal kick than words of appreciation.

Yet, there is something sacred about our gratitude circles. Gratitude has a healing power at our table that is more tangible than forgiveness or even ice cream. We can’t honestly nourish a grudge at the same time that we nourish gratitude.

So we try. Daughter Number One came back to the table and we talked about forgiveness as well as gratitude, and we wondered aloud about pain and healing in words a child might be able to fathom.

And we grown-ups gave a silent sigh of gratitude for yet one more chance to do our job again and go on.

Last night I stole away alone, to find
A mellow crescent setting o'er the sea,
And lingered in its light, while over me
Blew fitfully the grieving autumn wind.

And somewhat sadly to myself I said,
"Summer is gone," and watched how bright and fast
Through the moon's track the little waves sped past, --
"Summer is gone! her golden days are dead."

Regretfully I thought, "Since I have trod
Earth's ways with willing or reluctant feet,
Never did season bring me days more sweet,
Crowned with rare joys and priceless gifts from God.

"And they are gone: they will return to more."
The slender moon went down, all red and still:
The stars shone clear, the silent dews fell chill;
The waves with ceaseless murmur washed the shore.

A low voice spake: "And wherefore art thou sad?
Here in thy heart all summer folded lies,
And smiles in sunshine though the sweet time dies:
'Tis thine to keep forever fresh and glad!"

Yea, gentle voice, though the fair days depart,
And skies grow cold above the restless sea,
God's gifts are measureless, and there shall be
Eternal summer in the grateful heart.

I have wonderful neighbors who delight in garish inflatable yard decorations. We love these neighbors, but would question their taste if they did not question it for us. The other day, as we walked past their front yard and saw them plugging in the rotating Winnie the Pooh, Tigger and Piglet inflatable Christmas globe, they turned to us, grinned, and said, “That’s right – we’re THOSE kind of neighbors.” They also told us that they might have held off on the Christmas decorations if they’d only been able to find anything for Thanksgiving.

Thus began a curious odyssey in holiday schlock. Wondering if we might be able to help in these efforts, I began to research Thanksgiving decorations. What I found was, unfortunately, too expensive for a random gift, but did go a long way towards opening my eyes to the popular image of Thanksgiving in America.

I found an eight foot tall inflatable turkey dressed as a Pilgrim. I found a six foot tall goose that came with four sets of holiday clothes – one of which was a turkey. I found dinner candles in the shape of Pilgrims and Indians, so you, too, can burn the head off the colonist or native person of your choice. I found pilgrim turkey windsocks and turkey shaped hats. I found a set of four Thanksgiving rubber duckies – two Pilgrims, a turkey and an Indian. And I found something called an Autumn Jiggler Turkey Wobble Bobble – dressed, of course, as a Pilgrim.

The truth is that these images of Thanksgiving – happy Pilgrims and happy Indians feasting together on turkey after a bountiful harvest, and possibly playing touch football afterward – are largely mythical. To be sure, they have become the symbols of the day, but they tell only part – and a dubious part – of the real story.

What we think of as “the first thanksgiving” was really more of a harvest festival than a religious observance, and there was little to be thankful for. Dozens of colonists had lost their lives to cold, disease and malnutrition, and most of the crops brought from England had failed. The deprivation was so severe that the Wampanoag guests had to return home and bring the food to the pilgrims. The peace between the Wampanoag and the colonists did not last, and although various Presidents in times of war had declared days of Thanksgiving, the regular observance of the holiday was spotty until the time of the Civil War.

It was Abraham Lincoln who created the Thanksgiving tradition we know today, and he did it during one of the worst years of American history. In 1863, the young nation had been rent in two by civil war, the violence had already claimed the lives of half a million people – nearly 15% of the American population. Even if the North managed to win this terrible war, nobody knew what victory would look like, or if the country would ever be whole again.

“I do... invite my fellow citizens... to set apart and observe the last Thursday of November next, as a day of Thanksgiving.... And I recommend... they do also, with humble penitence for our national perverseness and disobedience, commend to [God’s] tender care all those who have become widows, orphans, mourners or sufferers....”

The real Thanksgiving has its origins not in plenty but in deprivation; not in peace but in hardship. The real spiritual discipline of thanksgiving is not to ignore suffering, but to fully acknowledge it, work to alleviate it, and yet still give thanks. It is to find reason for gratitude even in pain or chaos. It is to look deeper into the fabric of our world then we ever have before and see blessings where we though none could exist.

True Thanksgiving is born of hardship as much as joy, for it is in hardship that we realize and appreciate the foundations of our lives – the community and spirit that keep us going, the smallest blessings now thrown into relief, the tiniest seeds of hope that unfold in us when we thought all hope to have fled. True thanksgiving looks at life in its fullness and finds reason for gratitude.

During my chaplain residency I prayed with hundreds of families – many of whom were dealing with the death or imminent death of their loved ones. At first I wasn’t sure how to pray, or to whom. So I muddled through the best I could, and then invited the families to pray in their own words. Sometimes they would pray to Jesus, sometimes to God, occasionally they would dispense with the address and just pray, but almost always their prayers were of thanksgiving.

Thank you, God, for our mother’s life. Thank you for this hospital and its caring doctors and nurses. Thank you for the family that has gathered together in this waiting room. Thank you for our pastor who came all the way from Roanoke to sit with us here. Thank you for every good thing about my husband. Thank you for sixty-three years of marriage. Thank you for the love that we shared. Thank you for bringing our family back together after so long. Thank you for that presence we cannot describe but yet can feel. Thank you.

Time after time, in the moment of the most tender loss, families would give thanks.

Most were Baptist or Pentecostal or African Methodist Episcopal, and I stand here today as a Unitarian Universalist Humanist who readily admits that these are the people who taught me how to pray. It didn’t matter that I did not believe in the God to whom they prayed. It didn’t matter what we thought about Jesus or God or evolution or gay rights. All that mattered was that we stood together in some of the worst moments of their lives holding hands and giving thanks.

We Unitarian Universalists have much to learn from families like these. We, who sometimes hesitate in our gratitude because we don’t know whom to thank, or how to thank a divinity that is amorphous or complicated or non-existent, nevertheless can find and feel the gratitude in our hearts. We need that gratitude; we need that seed of hope found in the giving of thanks. We need the perspective that gratitude gives, and not just any gratitude. We need to allow ourselves to feel grateful for that which we cannot control, which cannot be controlled by any person or group of people. We need to be able to feel gratitude in a universe that is as chaotic as it is ordered. We need that sense of thankfulness to the larger reality that is.

We need such thanksgiving not only because it gives us cause for humility, but also because it gives us perspective that we might otherwise miss. It is thankfulness for a good meal, even when food is scarce. It is thankfulness for small steps toward peace even in a time of war. It is thankfulness for the distance our society has journeyed toward justice and freedom for all, even when there are many miles of that journey before us. It is thankfulness for the good in one with whom we have quarreled. It is thankfulness for the grass that grows through cracks in the sidewalk, for the robin that sings in the city slums, for the sun that yet shines, the sky that is yet blue, for the resilience of life, for the beauty of a child – any child.

When I lived in New Hampshire I had the privilege of getting to know the Unitarian Universalist author Phil Simmons, who lived in the next town over. Phil had been a college professor until he was diagnosed with ALS – Lou Gherig’s Disease – and returned to live with his family in the White Mountains. Phil died a few years back after nine years of living with the disease, but his book, Learning to Fall, is still in print and remains one of my favorites.

Toward the end of his life Phil began to receive a fair amount of attention for his book, and he frequently gave talks, sermons and interviews. He told the story of one radio interviewer who asked him to describe the highlights of his life since being diagnosed with ALS. “Highlights,” thought Phil, “You’ve got to be kidding.” But he answered as best he could, realizing days later what he should have said: “Getting my fingernails cut this morning.”

“Here was Susan,” he said, “my friend and nurse, trimming my nails as I sat warmed by the morning sun reflecting off snow covered fields, my wife beside me writing postcards and sipping coffee. If we’re looking for what’s sacred, what’s holy – why look any further? The sacred world is before our eyes and in our nostrils and beneath our feet. What I should have told the radio interviewer is ‘if you’re looking for highlights, you’ll miss your life.’”

Thanksgiving is not about the highlights. Gratitude is not about big successes, personal triumphs and giant celebrations – though to be sure, these are things for which we may be thankful. But the deeper kind of thankfulness is that which does not demand perfection or glory or even happiness. It is that which sees the world as it is, in all of its messiness, and finds simple blessings, gentle moments, unasked for gifts.

Lincoln found reason for gratitude in bountiful fields and “healthful skies,” in the productivity of the nation’s mines and farms, in the keeping of peace with other nations, even as brutal war raged in our own. Phil Simmons found it in the simplicity of a moment when he was not looking ahead or behind, but simply existing as he was. Henry David Thoreau once expressed his gratitude that he did not know the species of the birds that sang in the morning: “The birds I heard today, which, fortunately, did not come within the scope of my science, sang as freshly as if it had been the first morning of creation.”

I find reason for gratitude whenever I look into a human face and see complexity, when I witness people who have been kept down by injustice rising to proclaim their dignity, when I share an honest and open conversation with someone who tells me when they do not appreciate what I have to say. I find reason for thankfulness whenever I capture a glimpse of new truth.

Our gratitude will be no less if it is given to an anonymous universe or to a loving God. The recipient of gratitude is not what we need to worry about. Who we thank is not so important as that we thank.

The words “Thank you” are not really necessary. What is more important is the feeling of gratitude, the wonder and appreciation that come even when life is not easy. If we can find moments like that and hold on to them, they can help to carry us through whatever hardship and suffering we face. They won’t make everything better, but they will teach depths of reality that we do not always recognize. The expression of gratitude moves us out of despair and into the world as it is –goodness as well as hardship. At its best it inspires us to do something about the hardship, to better the lives of other people.

Authentic thanksgiving is not blind gratitude to a world that provides only joy and beauty. Authentic thanksgiving acknowledges hardship and gives thanks anyway.

Christians define grace as unsought blessing, a spiritual gift that may come even when it may not be deserved. We tend to think of grace in divine terms, if we think of it at all, but there is no reason to limit its use. Any unsought gift, any blessing given in spite of imperfection may be grace.

As we enter the season of family feasts and table blessings, what will our grace be? How will we look at the world around us, with all of its imperfections, and express our gratitude – even our love? How will we bless the good even when we do not see it? How will we give voice to the spirit within us that yearns to find the hidden hope, the invisible beauty? How will we then reach from the comfort of our Thanksgiving tables and give ourselves to that hope and that beauty? How will we nurture those tiny seeds through the winter ahead?

There are as many ways to express our gratitude and our grace as there are human souls and human thoughts. Words are unnecessary. We do not have to say anything or do anything – although there is much that we could say and do. All that we need is the calmness of gratitude, the wonder of a moment, and the deep thanksgiving of our souls.

We never did buy the eight foot turkey for our neighbors, though I suppose we might yet, if we’re feeling flush one day. But we do feel gratitude for their presence – neighborly helpfulness when we have needed it, friendship offered without reservation, the happy energy of two daughters and the laughter of the girls’ father, returned safely from tours of duty in Iraq and Afghanistan just in time to see each of his children born.

It is a world of grace, and each of us brings our own grace to the world. As we look into one another’s faces and out into that world this Thursday, may we know and give true thanksgiving.