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The Great Thanksgiving

The Rev. Canon George M. Maxwell, Jr.
The Cathedral of St. Philip
Atlanta, Georgia
November 8, 2009 – Proper 27B

Sally and I love the high desert of the Southwest.  We have spent years walking its trails, sampling its food and learning about its culture. 

On one of our early trips to Santa Fe, we wandered into a little coffee shop.  We had read about this place and were looking forward to a break from our tour around the Plaza.  We ordered coffee and a pastry special that we had heard about.

They brought the pastry to the table just as I was getting up to wash my hands.  I noticed that the strawberry on top of my order was bruised and looked several days past its prime.  I was disappointed and wondered if I really wanted anything to eat after all. 

As I walked away, I saw Sally reach across the table and eat the bruised strawberry.  Then, I watched her replace it with a bright red, ripe strawberry from her plate.  She didn’t realize that I had seen her, and she didn’t say anything about it when I returned to the table. 

It felt so tender and caring.

I spent the rest of the day offering to carry her shopping bags, looking for turquoise jewelry that she might like and suggesting that we might linger a little longer in her favorite dress shop!

I suspect you can remember a similar experience – a moment when someone gave you something or did something for you.

It might have been as simple as realizing that he had given you the last piece of pie that he had been saving for himself.  Or, it might have been something more significant.  It might have been when she wrote the recommendation for your daughter to get into school, paid the tuition that you couldn’t afford, or gave your son his first job.  

When you look back on it, you realize what a gift it was.  They didn’t do it because you deserved it.  They did it because they could.  Maybe it cost them a little or maybe it cost them a lot.  But, they didn’t care.  They did it because they knew it would help you.

Sometimes these gifts can make me feel a little guilty.  They challenge my sense of independence.  They threaten my image of self-reliance.  It’s hard for me to claim that I completely deserve to be where I am when I had so much help getting here.    

I’m not saying that I haven’t earned some of the life I now enjoy.  I have worked hard over the years.  But, the truth is that I depend on other people.  The truth is that I began and, God willing, will end my life in total dependence on somebody else.  Even the good parts of my character really came about because of investments that other people made in me.  If I look at what I’ve done, I can see clearly the marks of my parents, and my teachers, and all of the others who held my hand along the way.  Their belief in me convinced me to believe in myself.

So, why did the poor widow put her last two coins into the temple treasury?

It’s not entirely clear to me that Jesus even approves of her donation.  He has just condemned the scribes for walking around in long robes, taking the seats of honor, parading their piety in public and devouring the houses of widows.  Is he condemning them again for leaving this widow destitute?

I imagine, though, that Jesus is making the point that she gave all that she had because she realized that she had been given all that she had.

I imagine that the widow looked on her life with a mixture of acceptance and rejection.

It isn’t hard to see her looking at the fine robes of those in front of her in line and wondering how many of their privileges she might have enjoyed if only her husband had lived.  His illness had been so unexpected.  They were still planning a family. She hadn’t been able to work while he was sick.  And, she had been forced to sell the vineyard just to pay the bills.

Yet, despite what had happened to her, she didn’t feel despair.  For reasons that I suspect she didn’t even completely understand, she felt only gratitude.  She saw her life as a blessing -- something that was good, something that was worth living.

She had met the final challenge.  She had gained true wisdom.  She saw her life as a gift and accepted it with thanksgiving.

This is, I think, our ultimate challenge as well.  Life is a gift.  Can we learn to accept it with thanksgiving? 

It seems that our identity depends on it.  And, I’m not the only one who thinks so.

In his letters and papers from prison, the German theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer observed that we rarely realize that we get a lot more than we give as we go through life.  Our lives are rich, he says, only to the extent that we experience gratitude for the gifts that we receive.

The Danish philosopher Soren Kierkegaard suggested that our very being depends on the self-awareness that we gain in thankfulness.

And, though we know him best for his defense of self-interest in the context of capitalism, the British economist Adam Smith also argued that gratitude was the first of a number of moral virtues that a society needed to flourish.

It’s hard to believe sometimes that something so little, so meek, and so unassuming can be so important.  But, it’s not just our identity at stake.  It becomes the identity of all whose lives we touch.

Gratitude, you see, is not just an emotion.  It’s a practice.  It’s a feeling that sparks generous acts.  It’s an awareness of ourselves that reminds us that we are connected to each other in mysterious ways.

It lures us in by making us thankful for what we take, but, in time, it teaches us to be thankful for what we are able to give.  Open hearts really do open hands.

I must admit that I am never so clear that life is a gift as I am when I am reminded of death. 

And, I didn’t need any convincing last week as we celebrated the Homeless Requiem in this glorious space.  More than 700 homeless men, women and children joined us as we remembered those who died on our streets during the last year. 

We listened to the dominant vocals and strong harmonies of a gospel choir.  We listened to the tenderly woven melodies of Amazing Grace.  We experienced the contemplative beauty of our own Anglican sound.

We heard the Reverend Dr. Joseph E. Lowery preach about love and charity and the role of personal responsibility in our search for a new beginning.

But, I was moved to silence as we paused in the middle of the Great Thanksgiving to read the names of those who had died.  As we began to read the names, the bell began to toll.  And, as the bell began to toll, people began to come forward from the congregation carrying white crosses.  I could see the names on the crosses as they were laid to rest in straw baskets in front of the altar. 

I didn’t need any words at that moment to understand what we mean when we talk about the real presence of Christ.  Without my having to think about it, there ceased to be any “them.”  Without my having to think about it, suddenly there was only an “us.”

And, I wasn’t the only one.
Later, as the collection plates made their way up and down the pews, you could hear the rustling of heavy clothing.  You could hear hands reaching into coat pockets, and shirt pockets and pants pockets.  And, you could hear coins striking the sides of the plates, as if echoing the bells that had been tolled only a short time earlier.

Our guests were giving out of their poverty, not their abundance.  I imagine that, for some of them, these coins were everything that they had, all that they had to live on.

They could have responded to the beauty of this space or the words of Dr. Lowery with resentment, or regret, or envy.  But, they didn’t.  They responded with gratitude.

Life is a gift.  It is up to us to accept it with thanksgiving.  Gratitude is not just an emotion.  It’s a practice.  It’s a feeling that sparks generosity.

But, you already know this.  You are a grateful community.  You are a generous community.  It is because of your donation of time, talent and treasure that we are able to host the Homeless Requiem every year.  And, I thank you.  It is a privilege to serve you here.

I do feel like I need to warn you, though.  This practice of generosity has a habit of taking you places you never intended to go.   It lures you in with something small -- say a strawberry.  And, then, it starts to work on you.  By the time it has finished, you know far more about – say women’s fashion -- than you ever wanted to know!

Amen.

Comments? Contact George Maxwell at: GMaxwell@stphilipscathedral.org

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