Advent Conspiracy

Cultivating Thanksgiving in a Forgetful World

Sermon for Oxford-Orion Area Ecumenical Thanksgiving Service
22 November 2009
OT Reading: Deuteronomy 6:4-15 (16), 20-25
NT Reading: Colossians 3:1-17
Psalter Reading: Psalm 107

“When the Lord your God has brought you into the land that he swore to your ancestors, to Abraham, to Isaac, and to Jacob, to give you—a land with fine, large cities that you did not build, houses filled with all sorts of goods that you did not fill, hewn cisterns that you did not hew, vineyards and olive groves that you did not plant—and when you have eaten your fill, take care that you do not forget the Lord, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery. He brought us out from there in order to bring us in…” (Deuteronomy 6:10-12, 23a)

Every year at this time Christians from Oxford and Orion come together to give thanks. In a divided and divisive world we come together to celebrate the unity that we share through the faithfulness of Jesus Christ. In a hostile and violent world we come together to give honor to the One who took up the cross to reconcile us all to God and to one another and bring true peace to the world. In a broken and fractured world we come together to rejoice that God’s new creation is breaking in and healing a creation that groans for redemption.

We come to celebrate the strange generosity of God’s provision that abides with us in the loving and serving help of a stranger, the warm smile and greeting of a neighbor, and both the simplest meal and most lavish spread on our tables, shared with family and friends. We come together to give thanks, so we come together to remember because our thanksgiving to God is always rooted in memories.
We come tonight to remember and give thanks to the faithful, generous, sustaining, nourishing work of the Creator… But if we honest with one another tonight, it can be hard to give thanks, for we’re far too prone to forget God’s faithfulness. It seems that everything in our society conspires against thanksgiving because, whether in want or plenty, whether in good times or bad, we have little space in our lives to cultivate and nurture our memories of God’s faithfulness.

SCARCITY:
It’s hard to give thanks when things are bad, when it seems that we are wandering in a wilderness wasteland…. It’s hard to give thanks when things are bad, for we’re far too prone to forget.

Sometimes we are like the Israelites at Massah and Meribah. We long for water to drink. Sometimes, even while our hands are still gathering an omer of manna and catching quail, we wonder if the Lord is among us or not. We quarrel and complain and test the One who delivers us, who sates our hunger and quenches our thirst….”(Exodus 16-17)…. It’s hard to give thanks when things are bad; we’re far too prone to forget.
Sometimes the fig tree does not blossom, no fruit is on the vine, the produce of the olive fails, and the fields struggle to yield their crop under mild temperatures and overcast skies. Sometimes the flock is cut off from the fold and there is no herd in the stalls (Habakkuk 3: 17ff.)…. It’s hard to give thanks when things are bad, for we’re far too prone to forget.

Sometimes the stability of our world seems to give way… The economic empires we’ve come to trust crumble and our homes and our retirement accounts, our “hope for the future,” swiftly shrink away. Our jobs hang in the balance, not because of our performance but on the whim of forces that are constantly out of our control. We stand for hours in lines to receive food, baby formula, and Christmas gifts for our children. Our lives are riddled by sickness and disease. We sit beside the beds of loved ones, helpless but longing to help, as they are victimized by disease and old age. When we are pounded by death and despair, when we are shaken by war, terror, and fear, when our families disintegrating, or when lavish thanksgiving feasts become simple, humble meals, it can be hard to give thanks….

It’s hard to give thanks when things are bad, for we’re far too prone to forget.

ABUNDANCE:
But it’s also hard to give thanks when things are good, when milk and honey flow freely and the grape clusters are too large to carry. It’s hard to give thanks when things are good, for we’re far too prone to forget.

Sometimes we find ourselves living in a rich, new land filled with unthinkable resources, a land of great promise, with large cities that, in spite of all evidence to the contrary, we did not build, with houses filled with all sorts of goods that we did not provide, hewn cisterns that we did not hew, plump vineyards and olive groves that we did not plant…. It’s hard to give thanks when things are good, for we’re far too prone to forget.

Sometimes we suffer from the “complacency of success.” We forget God, thinking that we don’t need him. We build bigger and bigger barns to hold our banner crops. We watch as promotions come, our houses grow, our bank accounts thrive, and our anxiety about life seems to pass away. We have a tendency toward self-reliance, toward self-sufficiency, toward self-congratulation and praise. Our cups overflow; our tables are filled with a rich feast, but we exalt ourselves rather than the God who is the source of all good gifts…. It’s hard to give thanks when things are good; we’re far too prone to forget.
Sometimes we suffer under discontentment. It’s hard to remember rightly in a culture that manufactures desire and demands instant gratification. Instead of gratitude for our blessings, we are trained to see and want what we don’t have, the newer, the flashier, the latest…. We already see signs of the holiday sales madness that begins right on the cusp of this Thanksgiving season. Long before we sit at our tables on Thursday to give thanks for God’s faithfulness and provision, we have already devised our shopping plans for “Black Friday”….

It’s hard to give thanks when things are good, for we’re far too prone to forget.

CULTIVATING THANKSGIVING:
But today we do come to give thanks, and thanksgiving is always ground in remembering rightly. Our gratitude and our reverence spring from an awareness of something that reminds us of our human limitations, of something that is beyond our full comprehension, of something that can’t be controlled or changed by our manipulation, of something that is transcendent. We must realize that we are neither the source nor the cause, but the recipients of life through Divine grace. We must remember that God is with us, and God has taken the initiative to provide and care for us.

To cultivate thanksgiving in a forgetful world, we must remember. We remember by telling and listening to stories: stories of God’s faithfulness, stories of God’s provision, stories of God’s grace. This is one of the gifts of children. They love to ask the questions that inspire our memories, and they love to listen to the stories we share. We tell the stories of the God who delivers us, who fills the hungry with manna that blankets the wilderness ground and satisfies the thirsty with life-giving water that flows from a rock. We tell the stories of the God who brings us out of darkness and gloom, who breaks our bonds asunder. We remember the God who sends out his word and heals our sickness, who delivers us from destruction. We remember the one who calms the chaotic waters of our lives and, with just a word, hushes the waves of the sea.

As we remember rightly, our thanksgiving flows freely, and that thanksgiving inspires both hope and humility. Hope in the faithful God who is at the heart of our stories and humility as those who have received graciously from him. Hope and humility empower us to live in trust and faithfulness. Faithfulness and trust cultivate an awareness of God’s work in the world and in our own lives, his strange but always faithful, generous, sustaining, and nourishing work. And that awareness of God’s generous provision gives us new stories to remember, stories that overflow in thanksgiving….
And so the cycle starts all over again: our memories flow into thanksgiving, which inspires hope and humility, which empowers trust and faithfulness, which cultivates an awareness of God’s gracious provision, which flows into new stories about God.…

At times we can forget that our stories really are not about ourselves but God. God is the heart of our lives and our stories. So let us start, now, to cultivate hearts of thanksgiving by telling stories of God. Let us recite them to our children and talk about them when we lie down and when we rise. Let us share them with one another when we are at home and when we are walking and driving about.

And maybe we can start this week by sharing our stories with one another at the table. In this season of food, family, and football, may we gather around our tables and remember. May we tell the stories that keep us grounded securely in God’s faithfulness throughout history, but may we also celebrate our smaller, more personal encounters with God’s steadfast love and faithfulness in our families and in our own lives…. May we remember the God who sees us, the God who is always present with us, the God who provides… and as we remember, may the Spirit make us people who give thanks!

“(Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts, to which indeed you were called in the one body.) And be thankful. Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly; teach and admonish one another in all wisdom; and with gratitude in your hearts sing psalms, hymns, and spiritual songs to God. And whatever you do, in word or deed, do everything in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him” (Col 3:15b-17).

When the Storyteller Loses His Tale

I can still feel the breeze tickling my face. My ears echo with the low, constant hum of the flat bottom rowboat cutting through the glass-like water. I can hear the metronomic rhythm of the oars breaking into and tearing through the water, so perfectly that an orchestra could keep time with their waving and beat. We are breaking the halfway point; the far side shore is now closer than the little gravel dock we used to launch the little, Army green vessel. The little trailer that has been our home for the past two nights now looks more like something from a Matchbox set than last night’s bed. From here the wildly verdant woodland, just inland from the small, sandy beach, looks tame, almost placid and inviting. But then, somewhere deep inside, I start to hear the beat. Boom…boom…boom-boom…boom…boom…boom-boom…boom…. The sounds of drums, of frenzied, native tribesmen begin to fill me ears. As the bushes move and branches shift, I try in vain to blame it on the brisk gusts of wind that just ushered in the ominous clouds overhead. I remember the stories he told me the night before, the “bedtime” tales around the campfire. “Do you think they see us?” His voice pierces the nervous silence and cinches the vice grips that are already locked onto my stomach. As the oars continue to turn, the little dinghy creeps closer to the sand and rocks. “Turn around! Don’t take us to the shore!” My voices cracks in desperation, knowing what lurks in the shadows on the land ahead. And he knows. He was the one who told me about the frenetic natives on this side of the lake. He thumped out their devilish drumbeat on the empty Maxwell House can. How can he not be afraid? How can he not be paralyzed by fear? But his arms keep rowing the oars with a methodical confidence. He rows with the confidence of one who knows that his imagination dictates our fate, that the final chapter of this saga is yet to be penned. He is the storyteller.

I can’t help but think about memories like these at this time of year. Today, November 1, would be my grandfather’s birthday. It was five years ago this Thanksgiving that, just a month after arriving in Michigan, Natalie and I headed to Wichita, Kansas, to say goodbye to my grandfather, the greatest storyteller I have known. But a long battle with Parkinson’s and dementia had taken a heavy toll on my grandfather, not to mention the chronic mouth pain the forced him to retire from the pulpit far too early and muted his stories when we were together at the holidays. As I sat alone watching him struggle toward eternal sleep in the hospice unit, I realized that after a life full of imagination the storyteller had lost his story.

There is something about knowing and telling a story that instills confidence and hope. As I sat in that dinghy with my grandfather, bewildered by the unknown on the other side of the lake, I was anxious, frightened. My grandfather was calm, cool, collected. As the storyteller, he knew what was ahead, what was waiting on the approaching shore. As I sat by his bed that November night, I realized that we had exchanged places. This faithful servant of God had lost his story, but he had helped teach it to me. I spent that night fumbling between prayer, reminiscence, and storytelling. As he lay unresponsive in bed I retold him story of God that he’d been faithful to live and proclaim to people for so many years. At that moment, I had to have confidence for him, trusting that his real story, which was really God’s unfolding story, was true and that together we could continue to row with a methodical confidence to the other shore.

The church is a story-formed people. We believe that we have been written into the unfolding story of God that began at creation and is moving toward new creation. That story must give shape to our lives, give us hope, instill courage, liberate us in the freedom of faith. Everything that we do, both in worship and in our lives in the world, must be a faithful reflection and embodiment of God’s story. Sometimes, though, when I listen to our conversations over pattern, form, and preference, I wonder if the church has lost her story, exchanged its adventure and engagement for a defensiveness that seeks to preserve past forms rather than the story that gives them meaning. For the church to row faithfully and confidently through the seas of our times, we must recapture the imagination of God’s story, moving steadily with the master storyteller as the final chapter of this saga is penned in and through us. May God give us the adventurous courage to jump into God’s boat.

Twelve Titleists, No Boyfriend, and the Future Horizon of Hope

It's been a busy and frustrating week. I am swimming in doctoral deadlines, have lots of things happening at work, and have been fighting a bronchial infection. But, I heard this piece this morning on StoryCorps on NPR and thought, "That's Gospel!" That is what a community of hope and new possibility looks like. I'm not sure if it was the story or the stresses of this, but listening brought tears to my eyes. Hope you enjoy.

Andrew DeVries

Shared via AddThis

Hope and Despair in Motown...

I live life wandering around an area that is in a lot of pain, longing for hope but feeling mostly despair. Unemployment rates were updated recently and the numbers for Michigan top the national chart, for Detroit they are astounding. At 15.2% the state is 2 full points ahead (not sure if I like that word) of Nevada, which holds the penultimate position on the list. Detroit currently sits at an umeployment rate of 28.9%, a truly astronomical number.

A gospel that does not take this seriously, that does not somehow proclaim "good news" to and in this situation is a wanting gospel. A gospel that only pats the suffering on the back and promises "spiritual blessing" is an escapist and Gnostic gospel that has little connection with the God made manifest in the incarnation, the God who met and bore the world's suffering in the cross.

If that last paragraph is right, what is the message that we proclaim? What stories do we tell? How do we chose to live? How do we comport ourselves to proclaim and embody a bigger gospel? What news is good today? How does the "horizon of hope" begin to intersect the horizon of our despair? (Ala Moltmann?)

(This is me, seeking the wisdom of my virtual CIJ.)

The Plague...

I hope to post more on this later, but I am pressed for time right now. I do want to point any of you out there to a couple of thought provoking articles, especially as the church thinks about its life in the world.

Houses Of Worship Open Doors To Swine Flu

How To Say 'Hi' In An H1N1 World

I wonder whether the church will respond as Camus' Dr. Rieux or Fr. Paneloux. Maybe we should revisit our early church history.

Welcoming the Stranger and Cultivating Compassion in a World of Fear

Friday morning a woman walked up to me and gave me a piece of paper with a kind note and a copy of this image, Eichenberg's "Christ of the Breadlines" We had been together at a session on Welcoming the Stranger at the Moltmann Conversation hosted by Emergent Village. She was not a registered conference attender, just a woman from Libertyville Presbyterian Church, where the conference convened. She listened to us, and even chimed in periodically, wrestle together to think about how to cultivate welcome and compassion in a world that treats fear as a commodity.

Eichenberg's woodcut is a powerful reminder that it is in the midst of strangers and outcasts that we are most likely to encounter Christ. If that's the case, how do we welcome strangers and cultivate compassion in a world of fear? How can we restore their broken humanity? (I think that it must be more than simply giving them handouts, but I need your help.)

How can the church, who claims to be the living presence of Jesus in the world, meet the living presence of Jesus in the stranger?

Living into God's Promised Future

Over the past several weeks, things have been moving and changing around our household. Our family's awaiting of our next addition has been the major catalyst of it all. N is already starting some of the creative rethinking about our house. We love our condo, but it's a small space, so we are measuring rooms and baby furniture and imagining how everything will fit together into a perfect workable space, sort of like Tetris pieces as they slowly fall from the top of the screen to meet the other pieces at the bottom. It is giving us a chance to simplify even more, to bless others with items we've collected over the years, and to thank God for a space that we can call home.

The biggest changes, though, haven't been with our place but with M. Since finding out that we are anxiously expecting a new face around the house, she's been quickly trying to grow into her new role. For those of you who follow some of these Magnusson-family-moments, you know that one of the major changes has been in M's interest in potty training. Last week she went five straight days without an accident, day or night. It was such a great streak of success that N dared to forego the diaper one night and let her stay in her "big girl" clothes. Like a clutch hitter moving into October, she kept he streak alive. She was dry, the bed was dry, and there was much joy in Mudville.

That morning N posted this major feat on her wall, anxious to share the news with several hundred of her closest "friends." Jeanne Kilgore quickly commented: "Oh, how great that is. She is getting ready to be that big sister!!" I've spent a lot of time reflecting on that statement over the past week. There is so much truth there, not just about the leaps and bounds my little girl is making each day as she grows up, but about the Christian life.

Think about this. The reality of M being a "big sis" is on the horizon, but not yet a reality. Right now it's only promise that she has to trust. There are small signs on the horizon right now. She experiences our excitement. She can look at the little peanut in our first ultrasound picture. She can see the a little baby bump steadily growing on mommy's tummy. She is anxiously awaiting a new reality that she knows is on the horizon.

But, with all of the excitement, she really has very little idea what she is waiting for. She's now living into this new reality, this promise, but she really has almost no understanding of what it will look like. She watches and imitates her friend G, seeing how she lives as a big sister, but it's still hard to grasp fully the reality of the future that is on the horizon for our family. Sounds a lot like our faith in God's future.

As the people of God, we trust in God's promises to restore and reconcile all of creation. We long for new creation, a new heaven and a new earth. We anxiously await the coming of God's righteousness and justice, of a time of peace for all people, of reconciliation, of joy. Right now, though, we only see glimmers of this future. We come to Scripture to hear God’s promises again and we, like M, are getting ready for what is to come. That doesn't mean that we passively wait for heaven to come. No, it means that we actively partner with God to bring about God's promised vision for the world. That promise sets us on a road that leads to another land, to another reality. We step boldly and hopefully into the future, so that the promises of God that are on the horizon continue to move steadily closer to becoming a reality, to meet the horizon of our lives, in our community, and in our world.

MI Neighborhood Food Movers

I have been incredibly moved (no pun intended) by recent press about this new initiative that the Governor is piloting in the Detroit area. I hope that it takes root and grows (ok, pun intended) in the city and becomes a model for the rest of the impoverished areas in the state. I also hope that it will prove to be a blessing to local farmers who are also struggling right now.

You can read about it the Free Press and Michigan Radio (NPR).

The MNFM is an exciting possibility for the residents of Detroit and for local farmers. Something as simple as good quality and accessible fresh produce is a major step toward hope and new imagination, not to mention justice and health. I hope that this is a blessing and spreads to other hurting areas of the state.

Mission: Possible

Just a little taste of what we were up to last week!