This month we begin our exploration of the
theme of gratitude. Of giving
thanks. And I’d like to begin with that well-known family grace — "For what we are about to receive may we be truly thankful." You may have
grown up saying this simple prayer before dinner, or maybe you remember
watching the Walton and Ingles families saying it
on TV — "For what we are about to receive may we be truly thankful."
A prayer of thanksgiving before the evening
meal.
I read a marvelous exploration of this
prayer, though, by a man who realized that this prayer from his childhood, this
prayer he knew so well, was not, after all,
the prayer of thanksgiving as he had always thought
it was. His father had led the family in saying that table grace every single
night of his childhood – a practice he continued with his own family. It had become part of the rhythm of his
life. Yet one day it struck him that
this grace he’d been saying every night was not a prayer of thanksgiving but
was, instead, a prayer of petition — not "for
what we are about to receive we are truly thankful," but, "for
what we are about to receive may we be truly
thankful." This prayer was not about giving thanks but about asking for the
gift of gratitude.
The truth is, it can be hard to say,
"thank you."
Well, that's not really true. It's easy to
say "thank you," but it can be tremendously hard to really mean it. To say, with all your heart and soul,
"thank you" is a very humbling thing. It
means admitting that there was a hole in my life which you have just filled,
that there was something I needed which you had and which I
now have only because of your generosity.
American popular culture praises self-sufficiency, honors those
who stand on their own, asking for and
needing nothing from anyone but themselves. Did John Wayne or Clint Eastwood
ever ask for help when they were cleaning up a town? Did Sigourney Weaver ask for help when she was battling aliens? They all got help, of course, lots of it, but
they never asked for it and they never really did say "thank you" afterwards. These heroes, these
American Icons are, in fact, always the ones being thanked, the ones to whom everyone else goes for help. John
Donne aside, these figures are islands,
standing alone and aloof, needing no one. Strength of Character, in popular American imagery, means never having to say
"thank you."
I've often wondered why it's so hard for
people to write "thank you" notes. (Perhaps
it's "better to give than to receive" in part because when you
receive you've got write all those notes!) Sometimes I think it's
because we're expected to say "thanks" for socks and underwear —
never an easy thing.
Still, I think a bigger part of the reticence is simply because it can
be so hard to say "thank you." You've got to humble yourself, you have to acknowledge both your lack and the other person's
fullness, you need to publicly state that you
cannot stand alone. To say “thank you”
is another way of saying “I need you.” Rarely
an easy thing, either.
In
the thirteenth century the Christian mystic Meister Eckhart famously said, “If
you can manage to utter only one prayer in your life, and it is, ‘Thank You,”
it will suffice.” “If you can manage to
utter only one prayer in your life, and it is, ‘Thank You,” it will
suffice.”
“Thank
you” may be difficult to say (and really mean), but apparently it’s pretty
powerful when we do. So let’s dig into
this a little bit.
Some
of you may know that we Worship Weavers have a wiki with which we wonder with
one another about the themes that we’re exploring. Any of us – all of us – are able to access it
and add our thoughts, whether we’ll be actively involved in a particular
service or not. It’s an experiment as of
now, yet as it develops I can imagine opening it to the larger congregation so
that our pre-sermon conversation can be even more rich and full.
Thomas
Collier put in his two cents for this service and suggested that we look at the
20th century German philosopher Martin Heidegger. (Now I know that for some people Heidegger
is, if you’ll excuse me, verboten,
because of his membership in the Nazi party and his statements in support of
Hitler. I believe that this demonstrates
that not everything he thought is worth our attention, but don’t believe that
it negates all of his insights into dasein
– being.
Heidegger
argued that we live in what we might call an “average-everydayness.” Most of us are living most of our lives
immersed in the day-to-day, moment-by-moment, stuff of our existences. The
philosophers Lennon and McCartney put it like this.
“Woke up, fell
out of bed. Dragged a comb across my
head. Found my way downstairs and drank
a cup. And looking up, I noticed I was
late.”
(That’s
from their seminal work, “A Day in the Life.”)
Heidegger
said that we live the vast majority of our lives in such
“average-everydayness.” And, to be even
more clear about it, this “average-everydayness” has something of a negative
cast to it. We don’t tend to notice, to
be aware of, the things that go right in our world, the things that go
according to plan; we take these things for granted. The water’s hot in the shower; the microwave
heats my breakfast; the car starts and gets me here on time. None of this usually rises to the level of my
conscious attention.
Yet
the moment it’s only cold water coming out of the shower, or my breakfast
explodes in the microwave, or the car won’t start . . . then I begin to notice things.
Then I’m aware of them. When things work the way they’re supposed to
I glide by on autopilot; when things break down I have a laser-like focus.
Here’s
another example: this summer a lot of us
were complaining about how hot and humid it was. Couldn’t stand another minute of it. When was it ever going to end? But how long did the “not-hot-and-humid” days
last before we started complaining about how it’s too cold
The
“not-hot-and-humid” days. There are a
whole lot more of them than the hot and humid ones. The Vietnamese Buddhist monk, poet, and peace
activist Thich Nhat Hanh has a teaching he calls “the non-toothache.” When we have a toothache all we can think
about is how wonderful life will be when this our tooth stops hurting. Oh, it will be heaven, nirvana. And yet, when our
tooth actually does stop hurting, we quickly go back to living our
“average-everydayness;” we lose touch with the miracle of the “non-toothache.”
How many of us woke up this morning singing praises
to the sun because that pain we’d had a couple of weeks ago—the one we’d
forgotten about until I just brought it up, thank you very much—that it was
gone? Or because that thing we’d been so
worried about last month had resolved itself?
I’d wager that most of us have either completely forgotten about these
things or had simply gotten absorbed in this week’s traumas.
But it’s worth noting that they’re gone. It’s over—whatever it was, it’s over. Or even if it’s not over—if whatever was
troubling you is with you still—it will be over someday. Everything ends sometimes, because life just
doesn’t stay in one place that long. And
the question is, will we notice its absence when it’s gone? Are we aware of the non-toothache?
Last
night a friend of mine posted this on FaceBook:
Kid broke my printer tray, trapped
herself under the bar stool in the kitchen, rubbed chocolate cake into the
couch, threw crayons at the restaurant, mixed my rock shrimp tempura sauce with
ranch dressing (with the aid of a french fry), kicked the dog, watched one
episode of Scooby Doo and now will not stop yelling that she "hears a
ghost!!!!" and put 45 puzzle pieces in my bed. I do believe I am a happy
as I have ever been.
This
is someone who, in that moment at least, was fully in touch with the
“non-toothache.” The story of what this
woman went through to adopt her beautiful little “bee” is one I won’t infuriate
you with. (And believe me, it would
bring you to a fury.) And yet, throughout
that entire ordeal she kept thinking about how glorious it would be when she
was finally united with this little girl, her daughter. And so, even after a day like the one she
described in her post, she remembers, and “glorious” it most certainly is.
When I was growing up I read a lot by the
author and Episcopal priest Martin Bell.
In one of my favorite passages he wrote, "Being thankful means
saying yes to life in spite of all the obvious suffering
and brokeness and guilt that's involved. It means enduring unbearable hardships
for no other reason than to show up again
tomorrow and be part of this whole wild cosmic adventure."
Living a Life of Gratitude, keeping always a "thank you"
on our lips and in our hearts, is the key to living a life of Joy, and both are
tied in with being Awake and Aware. Living life
so that you see the lilies of the field, how they grow; so that you see the
colors changing on the trees and notice how the sun plays on the mountains; feeling the warmth in a loved one's touch, hearing
the love (or hurt, or joy) in their
voice. To be thankful for the miracles of life we must be awake enough to see
them; to be thankful for gifts given we must be aware they have been received.
To be awake, to be aware, to be
alive.
To be sure, this is a practice. It takes, at first, a conscious effort to
stay in touch with the miracle of the mundane – we’re so much more accustomed
to being aware of the problems and looking for the burning bushes. Yet every day of non-toothache, or not-hot-and-humid,
is a blessing. A gift. The Venerable Thich Nhat Hanh says that the
true miracle is not walking on water or walking on air, it’s simply walking around
on this earth.
I want to leave you this morning with an
anonymous quotation a friend gave me a long time ago that has inspired me ever
since:
"You are alive. It needn't have been so.
It wasn't so once, and it will not be so forever. But it is so now. And what is it like: to be alive in
this maybe one place of all places anywhere
where life is? Live a day of it and see. Take any day and be alive in it.
Nobody claims that it will be entirely painless, but
no matter. It is your birthday, and there are many presents to
open. The world is to open."
And
for that, may we be truly thankful.
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