Jesus says, “Is not life more than food, and the body
more than clothing?” How ironic that all of us gather here this Thanksgiving
morning to hear these words from our
Lord—especially words about food—and then leave to gorge ourselves on vast
quantities of it.
“Is life not more than food?” Well, maybe so, but for right now give me those piles
of sweet potatoes, dishes of green
beans, platters of stuffing, and perfect cylinders of congealed
cranberry sauce with the indentions
of the six lines from the can still visible.
Give us the pumpkin pies, apple pies, and pecan pies that will be offered
up for dessert. And don’t forget the
turkey. Some sources estimate that
Americans will consume somewhere
around 46 million turkeys today. If
you’re like my family, you’ve been
cooking, shopping, and preparing the house for days. I bet some of you with fancy kitchen appliances that have timers have even left the food in the oven to
cook itself this morning while you
come here to worship and give thanks
to God and hear Jesus say, “Is not life
more than food? Do not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you
will drink.”
You see, Jesus knows
something that his disciples will struggle to learn: anxiety impedes
thanksgiving. Worry gets in the way of faithful living and genuine
discipleship. It is distracting. It has a tendency to make us think about that
which we do not have or which might happen, rather than what we’ve already been
given, and which good has already happened. It can take your mind off that
which it needs to be on, the task at hand.
And, at least in the case of
the disciples, that task at hand was probably starting to sound more than
they’d bargained for. It wasn’t the challenge of cooking a turkey or hosting a big
meal for relatives that Jesus had in mind. It was the challenge of discipleship
in his name. As it turned out, life with this particular rabbi was going to
involve all kinds of counter-cultural, counterintuitive behavior that they were
not prepared for. His first sermon had been long and filled with complicated
teachings: lessons on how to pray, how properly to give alms, and how to control
anger, as well as a stern reminder about the perils of serving two masters: God
and wealth. That last one had perhaps been the most distressing, given that
they’d all recently left behind their trades—their fishing boats and their tax
booths—to follow Jesus. Nevertheless, “Let your light so shine,” he had said,
“that others may see your good works and
give glory to God in heaven.”
All in all this discipleship in
Jesus’ name will turn out to a very tall order, going out in the world as meek
and merciful peacemakers, as people persecuted for righteousness’ sake. You
could see how worry would be a natural reaction. Where would their livelihood
come from? How would they eat? Would there be a hot, succulent turkey, so to
speak, waiting for them when they got home? Where would home even be?
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| Galilee, with "lilies" in foreground |
Jesus counters their anxiety
by promising them God’s constant care and attention. Even when life becomes
difficult, God still considers them more precious and more valuable than
anything else in creation. God will provide for them more than God does for the
birds of the air. And even though, just like the wildflowers in the field, they
will not be toiling or spinning for their clothes, they will still have
something to wear. Those things that seem to be so important and so central to
living, those things after which so many other people spend so much time
striving after, will be taken care of. They, as disciples of the Lord, will be
striving after the kingdom of God. While others around them will be figuring
out ways to get ahead, they will be figuring out ways to let their light shine.
Anxiety about even some of life’s material essentials could draw their energy
away from the life of being a disciple. Worrying about these things—and, what’s
more, beginning to strive after them—could also indicate an underlying belief that
their livelihood ultimately comes from themselves, rather than from the Giver.
Are these the same messages
we send today with our worry and anxiety? We have just come through another
divisive election season. Economic recovery seems tenuous, at best. The stock
market seems to have lost its footing. No one yet knows or fully trusts the
ways the global community seems to be connected. American troops fight a
ten-year war on the other side of the world. Quite frankly, people are worrying
about what to eat and what to wear, far beyond our 46 million turkeys. Food
stamp participation has increased 70% in the last five years. Yet, in spite of
all this, the task at hand is to be thankful, to focus our attention on God the
giver and the source of all gifts rather than the supposed uncertainty of what
is happening around us. The task at all times is to remember Jesus’ words that
in spite of what we think about our circumstances, God is caring for us and has
our best interests at heart because we are going to be a part of his kingdom.
I have found absolutely
captivating this week the testimonies by the people interviewed in this
documentary by Ken Burns about the Dust Bowl of the 1930’s. The grainy
black-and-white images and raw video footage of the storms are fascinating to
see—the large, black clouds of dirt rolling over fields and towns like
something out of a science fiction movie—and I find the narrator’s factual and
historical information about those bleak years intriguing and almost
incredible. However, I find nothing has drawn me in as much as the personal
accounts given by the survivors he has tracked down. Of course, at this point
in time, any survivors alive today with remaining memory were only in grade
school or younger at the time of the Dust Bowl. Nevertheless, their
recollections are vivid. In those days of drought and depression, they watched
their parents’ property get repeatedly covered by dust, the rich topsoil for farming blown away
forever, their livelihoods as farmers and store-owners go down the drain. Many
children died of dust pneumonia.
Yet in the face of such
extreme hardship and ecological disaster these survivors spoke, of all things,
of…hope. Hope that the next harvest would be better, hope that the next day
would bring rain, hope that the next year wouldn’t be as dusty. There were some
mentions of intense anxiety, but mostly from the narrator and historians. However,
those who survived mentioned hope more than anything else as what got their
families through. One elderly man in the documentary looks at the camera and
says matter-of-factly, “We couldn’t live
without hoping. Hope is what we lived on.”
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| "Migrant Mother" (by Dorothea Lange) |
Hope and thanksgiving, you
see, are intimately tied, and both are easily strangled by worry. One provides
an honest view into the past—that there is something for which to be thankful—no
matter how ominously the dust clouds roll in. There is always something we can
point to which God has given for our good. The other, hope, provides an honest
view into the future—that in spite of the hard times, in spite of the lack of
even the most basic needs, God is moving us into something better and brighter,
and that the brightness can even be brought by our own single light.
This, I believe, is our task
at hand today as we gather around our tables today: to be thankful, yes, but
also to be hopeful. And even when anxiety still gets the best of us, even if we
despair, then let us not forget the thanksgiving and hope offered around this table (of the Lord). For it is here
where anxiety was finally not allowed to rule the day, where worry and doubt
and despair met their demise. And as Jesus lifted up the loaf and the cup, a
new, unending hope was lifted up, too. It was the hope that although the dust
clouds would roll in on Good Friday, a bright Easter morning still awaited
them. It was the hope that although they would still worry and deny and betray
and desert, God would still forgive and restore them. It is the hope that
although we still go out weeping, carrying the very seeds we could eat today, we
will come home in joy, shouldering the sheaves. It is the hope that although we
still squander our resources and scar the earth and hurt our loved ones God is
still giving, God is still giving.
It is the hope of feast to
come that is richer and much more satisfying than the foretaste we receive
today—yeah verily, richer and more satisfying than even our turkeys and
cranberries provide: It is the hope provided by the fact that even when we look
around and see our lives are nothing but a dusty mess, God has still given
Jesus for it, and Jesus is still risen, promising it life. This will be the
hope we live on, the sacrifice for which we give thanks.
“Do not worry about your life, what you will eat or
what you will drink,” he says so
reassuringly.
“Take and eat. Take and drink. This is my body, given
for you.” He says that, too.
The Reverend Phillip W. Martin, Jr.
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