The Rev. Canon W. Bruce McPherson
Washington National Cathedral
Thanksgiving Day
November 25, 2004

Hear again the word of God as it is written in the book Deuteronomy: “Do not say to yourself, ‘My power and the might of my own hand have gotten me this wealth,’ But remember the Lord your God, for it is he who gives you power” (Deut. 8:8). Remember.

Well, by now most of the leaves have fallen, been picked up and forgotten, though there is an oak tree in front with a few leaves clinging for dear life. The pumpkins have been carved, lit, and thrown away. School routines have grown old and winter is just around the corner. But there is one more ritual to be observed. And the children were very excited to know that they and their parents would be off soon on a pilgrimage. They would travel to that place that their parents called “home.”

For their part, the parents weren’t altogether happy with this. There was work to do. There was traffic to fight. They had to find someone to feed the cat. And there was food to prepare as a thank offering. But then the suitcases were loaded into the car, and the bikes affixed to the back, and they were off.

Every Thanksgiving, brothers and sisters, aunts, uncles, children and grandchildren, get together to tell exaggerated stories to ermines, to laugh, to argue, and to eat. Regardless of the rest of it, they always eat. They’re pulled in some mysterious way to that place which would always be home. Once they’re on the road, everybody’s enthusiasm picked up a bit because they were on their way to that holy place, that holy place where they had been given life.

But their eagerness was nothing compared with the old woman who waited for them there. Her children were coming home. Each year that seemed much more important as she waited for that avalanche of love that was part of every Thanksgiving. It relieved her life from the loneliness that had become her companion, and she laughed aloud every time she thought about it.

We, you see, are a pilgrim people. In our wandering we become scattered. We go seeking our fortunes alone, chasing the God of self-fulfillment. We like our freedom. But we long for home. For all our fierce independence, for all our pleasure seeking, all of our successes, there remains an emptiness that can only be filled when we are home.

And there is the one who waits for us with eager anticipation. She suffers as her children wander off seemingly aimlessly and become divided. Nothing pains her more than when her love, the love that created them, is rejected, or worse, ignored by them. Yet they do return. The memory of that love wins out, and they come back if only for a time.

Sometimes when we, children of God, gather together, God’s joy is palpable.

The banging of car doors, the screaming of children announce their arrival. They each brought their favorite food, and they brought it to share with the rest of the family. There were pies and sweet potatoes and different kinds of bread, all brought from different kitchens to be shared here. The smell of cooking turkey was all over the house, and the old woman thought it might never finish cooking–so many people insisted on opening the oven door to take a peek.

The children brought their favorite games to share with the others. There were children and grandchildren and even one very, very small, great great grandchild, to carry on the family name.

The children were hungry, of course, so the bell was rung, and the word was passed that “it was time.” Chairs of different sizes and heights were brought from everywhere in the house, and wouldn’t you know it, the smallest child got the shortest chair. But the problem was quickly solved with a few phone books. There’s always, you see, always a place for the little ones at the Thanksgiving table.

They gather around this long table and each of their offerings was lovingly placed upon this family altar. The loaves of bread were there to be cut, and the jams and relishes to be tasted, and all that was spread about, was now broken open for sharing.

And the gathered family members began to share themselves. They began to tell stories of the things that had happened to them since the last time. Some, in the interest of looking successful, only talked about the good things. And that with some embellishment, no doubt. But most shared the good with the not so good. There wasn’t time for everything, but they did share the most important morsels, the bits and pieces of life that change us.

We pilgrim people of God are always careful to reserve places for the little ones. In fact, the weak and the powerless are the ones especially welcomed to the family table because it is the essence of the divine family to hold the helpless and carry the cross for the crucified. We gather at Thanksgiving with our hearts and our minds, open to embrace the wounded and hungry of the family, and of the world. We bring our offerings and share ourselves around the table that is a table for all humanity.

God’s table always has room for everyone.

Well, the designated carver was Uncle. It wasn’t clear that he was all that good with the carving knife, but he thought he was, and that earned him the job. The old woman took a plate, put some white meat on it, then passed it to sister who put on the sweet potatoes, then to brother who added the sauerkraut, and on and on and on. Each person took a plate, put something on it, and passed it to the next person. When they were finished, the turkey was in ruins, the sweet potatoes almost gone, and the cranberry sauce reduced to a little lump on a dish. In fact, every offering that had been so carefully put on the table was nearly gone. The plates, however, were full. The loaves of bread and the rest had to be broken in order to be shared.

The people of God break bread together regularly, as you know, whether at Eid-al-Fitr, which is the Feast breaking the Ramadan Fast, or at a Seder Table, or at a Eucharistic Feast. The pilgrim people of God know that they are only fulfilled when the gifts they have been given are shared with others. The people of God know that they are only made whole by the power of a God who invites us to share with others as God has shared with us.

Now, as the last dish was being passed and the children dug into their drumsticks, and just as cousin was beginning to tell a joke, someone shouted out, “Hey, we forgot to say grace. Who’s going to say grace?” Down at the end of the table, one of the teenagers said, “Grace,” and everyone chuckled a little. Someone asked, “Why do we call it grace?” Uncle, who had studied dead languages in college said, “It comes from the Latin word gratia, which means ‘thanksgiving.’” And before the conversation went any further, the old woman in a tone that was quietly serious and strong said, “I’ll say the grace.”

Now the old woman was not known for the brevity of her prayers. The children began to fidget right away, and the men took to examining their fingernails as they began to realize they might not get to see the opening kick-off of the game for which they were waiting. The old woman seemed to have no sense of time. Her prayers just went on and on and on.

Moses said that life and breath and energy to draw it are all gifts given by God for which we must be grateful. He commanded the people to take time and remember their past, and give thanks to God for manna with which God had fed them. Jesus commanded his Disciples to remember the meal they had shared in the Upper Room. He asked them to give thanks in the breaking of the bread and the pouring out of the wine. We remember and obey that command in a meal called Eucharist, another word that means thanksgiving.

I’m not entirely sure why the old woman’s grace was so long. Perhaps it takes time to appreciate exactly what it is exactly that one has been given. It could be that her grace was long because she was finally and fully aware of all that she had and had lost. Every Thanksgiving, she said at the end of the table, hanging on to every word that was said, just like the leaves on that oak tree hanging on its branch. Around her were gathered the young and the very young, and it didn’t really matter to her who was the A+ student and which ones struggled. In fact she seemed to prefer the wisdom of the strugglers to the foolishness of the wise. The old woman remembered her own youth when time was on her side. She remembered when she could drive without worrying when she could read the small print in the newspaper and put her own children to bed with a story and a prayer. You see, she had taken the bread of life and broken it and shared it and given it away in order that she and those she loved might be made whole. Perhaps that’s why her grace was so long. Perhaps it was the memory of all the good that was hers. For example, she was always amused to hear her children argue with their children about how much hair they should have and where it should be. And she laughed when she heard her daughters complain about their daughters and what they wore and what they didn’t wear. I suppose when you stand naked and alone and your hair gets thinner day by day, any hair and any clothing seem like the greatest of gifts.

Consider, for example, the lilies of the field. They don’t make their own clothes, nor do they shop at Nordstrom’s. Yet even Solomon in all his glory was not so well dressed.

I’m not sure why it is, but some of us sit down at the table, take the break of life, break it open, pass it on, and do not pause to say grace, to give thanks. I’m not sure why some seem heedless while others hang on every moment. I suspect it has to do with the way we remember. The memory, you see, helps us know who we are, and what we have been given, and what we have lost and how precious life really is.

And that is why our Thanksgiving pilgrimage is always a pilgrimage home. For it is at home that we mature and grow and remember. Wherever home may be for each of us, there is always waiting there for us someone who has given us everything, the one to whom we must be truly grateful.

Thanks be to God at whose table we are fed, who gives us our memories, and nourishes us with our hope.

Thanks be to God.

Amen.