Joel D. Kline
November 23, 2003
Highland Avenue Church of the Brethren
Thanksgiving Sunday
A German folktale tells the story of a man whose ax is missing, and as he considers what could have happened to the ax, he begins to suspect that his neighbor’s son has stolen it. The boy, he is now quite certain, walks like a thief, looks like a thief, and speaks like a thief. But one day the man finds his ax while digging in the valley, and, lo and behold, the next time he sees this same neighbor’s son, the young man walks, looks, and talks like any other teenager in the area.
Far more than we often give ourselves credit for, we choose how we see others and how we experience life. Whether we embrace life as gift or experience it as burden has a great deal to do with the eyes with which we choose to perceive the events and relationships that come our way. In his book The Light Within You, American Baptist pastor John Claypool asserts that “we humans have a choice in the great drama of experience. We are not free to determine what happens to us, but we are free to determine what response we will make to events.” We may respond with suspicion, like the German farmer whose ax was missing, pointing the finger at others. We may respond with resentment, crying out in anger against God and the situation, lamenting, “Why did this have to happen to me?” Or we may embrace an alternative perspective; we may choose the path of gratitude, asking ourselves, “What is there in this situation for which I can be thankful? Amid all the pain and confusion, is there something I can use to build toward the future?”
Several years ago I spent a fall semester at Harvard Divinity School while on sabbatical, and one of the delights of that experience was the opportunity to explore Boston and Cambridge. The fall foliage was especially vibrant that fall—or perhaps it was simply that, given a less stressful schedule, I chose to take notice of that which, when busy, I am prone to overlook. Early on in my days at Harvard, I walked Boston’s Freedom Trail, a pathway linking a host of historical sites from our country’s early days, from Paul Revere’s home to the early Massachusetts State House. In 1995 the city of Boston added an additional site on the trail, recalling events from the more modern era as the New England Holocaust Memorial was erected. The memorial includes a number of glass towers that together contain millions of random numbers, representing the identification numbers of each member of the Jewish community put to death during the Holocaust. Interspersed among the numbers are printed some remembrances of Holocaust survivors, and I was particularly moved by the recollections of one survivor named Gerda Weisman Klein:
Ilsa, a childhood friend of mine, once found a raspberry in the [concentration] camp and carried it in her pocket all day to present it to me that night on a leaf. Imagine a world in which your entire possession is one raspberry and you give it to a friend.
It’s a powerful reminder that one of the significant ways we maintain a sense of dignity, even in the most appalling of circumstances, is in the gift of sharing, the art of displaying a spirit of thanksgiving, the joy of caring for more than just ourselves. As Gerda Weisman Klein suggests, imagine a world in which it is a treat beyond measure to find a single raspberry—indeed, it is your only possession—and then gratefully you protect that berry all day long in order to present it later to a friend. In spite of all the horrors, all the fear and injustice and violence that characterize far too much of human life, this innate goodness, this spirit that celebrates life, frequently surprises us, sometimes shining through when least expected.
There’s something of that same spirit in this morning’s Gospel lesson, the story of ten lepers crying out from a distance, “Jesus, Master, have mercy on us.” In ancient Palestine leprosy not only brought with it physical pain and disfigurement; much more, it caused separation from one’s community. Lepers were required by law to maintain distance between themselves and all other persons, including their families, and should healthy persons draw near, the law demanded that lepers cry out in warning, “Unclean! Unclean!”
No doubt most persons in the days of Jesus had become hardened to the sight of lepers at a distance, but not Jesus. And so when this group of ten cries out in one voice for his attention, Jesus responds with compassion. “Go and show yourselves to the priest,” commands Jesus, for the law in Leviticus demands that, in order for a healed leper to be received back into society, a priest must first pronounce that leper clean. The ten take off, eagerly following Jesus’ instructions, hoping beyond hope that healing may indeed be theirs. That leads us to the heart of the story, as one of the lepers, recognizing that he has been healed, turns back, praising God with a loud voice. Returning to Jesus, he throws himself at Jesus’ feet, overcome with gratitude, wonder, and praise.
Jesus acknowledges the healed man’s appreciation, but then questions, “Were not ten made clean? But the other nine, where are they?” The nine, of course, are doing precisely what Jesus instructed them to do; they are on the way to present themselves to the priest. They are following the letter of the law, but they miss the heart of faith, which is an experience of profound gratitude. And the most unexpected twist of the story is that it is a Samaritan, bitter enemy of the Jews—one, many of the rabbis of the day taught, that was merely created by God as fuel for the fires of hell—it was a despised Samaritan who gives voice to gratitude. It is the one who has known double rejection—outcast both as leper and as foreigner—who experiences not only physical healing, but much more, healing of the spirit.
Gratitude may well be the purest measure of one’s character and spiritual condition. John Killinger reminds us,
If we try to grasp at life, we lose it. But if we renounce ownership of it and simply accept it as it comes, always giving thanks for it, then we are never without it. Living this way is identical with what early Christians called “living in the Spirit.”
In this morning’s Gospel lesson it takes a Samaritan, an outsider and an outcast, to model living in the Spirit. It is the Samaritan who recognizes grace for what it is—an unexpected and underserved gift that fills us with wonder and humility, empowering us to receive life itself as gift.
Two years ago, during a time of uncertainty—in fact, it was the time when I was seeking to discern whether God was calling me to consider ministry here at Highland Avenue—while on my annual prayer and silence retreat, I encountered some words of Henri Nouwen that speak of gratitude. In fact, I found these words quoted in three different sources that week, and I began to sense that God was trying to tell me something! Hear Nouwen’s words:
To be grateful for the good things that happen in our lives is easy, but to be grateful for all of our lives—the good as well as the bad, the moments of joy as well as the moments of sorrow, the successes as well as the failures, the rewards as well as the rejections—that requires hard spiritual work. Still, we are only truly grateful people when we can say thank-you to all that has brought us to the present moment. As long as we keep dividing our lives between events and people we would like to remember and those we would rather forget, we cannot claim the fullness of our being as a gift of God to be grateful for.
Let us not be afraid to look at everything that has brought us to where we are now and trust that we will soon see in it the guiding hand of a loving God.
It is with this sense that you and I are led by the guiding hand of a gracious God that we approach the Lord’s table, celebrating the eucharist. The very word eucharist, you may remember, means “giving thanks.” With the healed Samaritan who had suffered with leprosy and with exclusion, let us receive and give thanks for the healing and inviting love God offers us. Thanks be to God, who in the gift of Jesus Christ opens for us the way of forgiveness and grace, compassion and peace, new life and hope. May it indeed be so among us! Amen.
In these moments of quietness, O God, we look to you for a fresh taste of your goodness and grace. We look to you, O God, for courage as we endeavor to walk in the footsteps of Jesus. We look to you, O God, for strength and wisdom as we discern your vision and calling, individually and as a community of faith. We look to you in hope, O God, for you are the source of abundant life, you are the fount of compassion and grace, you the Source of all good gifts.
Thanks be to you, O God, for the blessings that define our lives—gifts of family, gifts of a loving church community, gifts of life and peace and purposeful living.
O divine breath of life, breathe now your peace among us. We pray for our troubled world, rocked by terrorism, bombings, fear and suspicion. Guide us, we pray, into ministries of healing, reconciliation, and new life. We are not certain what the next steps ought to be, but we do know that an eye for an eye only leaves everyone blind. Grant peace to your creation, O God.
Hear us now, loving Creator, as we hold before you those in special need of your healing touch…
O God of strength and peace, grant us eyes and hearts of compassion. Guide us into life everlasting. Take our hands, as we seek to live and serve as your peacemaker, your ministers of hope and reconciliation, your servants who bear the good news of Christ’s gracious love.
In the name of Jesus the Christ we pray. Amen.