Pasadena Presbyterian Church Sermon Text
August 17, 2003

"Give Thanks for Everything"

Preached by The Rev. Dr. Mark Smutny

Scripture:  Ephesians 5: 15-20

Be careful then how you live, not as unwise people but as wise, making the most of the time, because the days are evil.  So do not be foolish, but understand what the will of the Lord is.  Do not get drunk with wine, for that is debauchery; but be filled with the Spirit, as you sing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs among yourselves, singing and making melody to the Lord in your hearts, giving thanks to God the Father at all times and for everything in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ.

- Ephesians 5:15-20

"Be careful how you live ... make the most of your time ... be filled with the Spirit ... give thanks to God at all times and for everything."

To give thanks to God at all times for everything seems to be the teaching of a religious nut.  Give thanks for everything? It's not natural.  It's not instinctive.  It seems to defy logic and only a religious fanatic would look at this world, with all its heartache and injustice, and give thanks for everything.  It reminds me of those bobble head dolls dressed in Dodgers uniforms with the constant daffy smiles plastered on them that you mount on your dashboard.  No matter how many times they are hit in the head, they bounce back as if nothing bad had ever happened to them, unlike the Dodgers in late summertime. Give thanks for everything?  But there could be more here than meets the eye.

My acquaintance with gratitude began as early as I can remember when Mom made us say our prayers in our beds before she kissed us good night.  I'll tell you that wasn't easy to do.  The days seemed to be filled with too many scrapes with my brother and chores.  Plus I never wanted to go to bed.  But she would say there must be something to be thankful for.  She would make a suggestion, like give thanks for Lassie, our collie.  Of course, I could give thanks for Lassie who would follow me everywhere, chase balls, bark at cats and catch mice.  I could lay on the lawn with Lassie beside me and look at the stars before I had to come in.  I could give thanks for Lassie and for the stars and the sunset and the vegetable garden.  The list grew pretty easily once you got started.  Gratitude became my companion, though I often forgot to see her.  If you're not looking to give thanks, you'll usually miss that gratitude is right beside you, like the air and life, itself.

At Scout camp we had to give thanks before every meal, "God is great.  God is good.  Now we thank you for our food."  Or the alternative, "Rub-a-dub, dub.  Thanks for the grub. Yea Lord!"

As little as famished Boy Scouts pay attention to the niceties of giving thanks, I do remember when all the lights went out, after the camp songs and the ghost stories had faded, and the spooky sounds of snipes lurking behind the bushes sounded as loud as loud could be, it seemed pretty appropriate to thank God for Mom and Dad and even my brothers and certainly Lassie and home, the stars and the sunset.  It seemed right.  If you look for her, gratitude is always there, a close companion.  But seeing her doesn't come naturally, you have to work at it to see her.  You have to discipline yourself to see her until you begin to realize that gratitude is always beside you and in you and is you. 

At Grandma Stafford's house on Thanksgiving Day gratitude seemed to be everywhere.  There was the roast turkey, 25 to 30 pounds of the golden brown creature, the centerpiece of a table overflowing with milk and honey, mashed potatoes, gravy and home made rolls.  "No thank you," for the green beans with mushroom soup mixed in and the potato chip crust, but "Yes, everything else, please.  Thank you.  A little more whipped cream on the pumpkin pie."  Gratitude is the name of the day.

Surrounding the long table with five or six table extenders were at least 20 or 25 people, from Grandma pushing 80 to my brother Jeff at three or four.  Uncle Keith always gave the blessing.  He gave thanks to God for the bounty of the harvest and all the blessings of our days.  Gratitude always welled up then, even for things that seemed mostly sad.  Uncle Keith prayed for Bobbie, his son who had died of Hodgkin's when he was only 16, and Granddaddy Don, who died when I three but whose presence still permeated the room, and for other people who weren't there, but the grown-ups sure acted like they were. 

Gratitude seemed to be sitting right there at the table along with my aunts and uncles and Mom and Dad and all the others.  I was always grateful for the large piece of brown turkey skin Uncle Keith slipped me before we sat down to dinner.  Keith not only said the blessing, he carved the turkey.  Maybe his saying the blessing was an act of contrition for slipping me the turkey skin before anyone else got a chance to eat a speck of it.  But what really lingers in my mind is the realization that, even in the midst of loss, there was gratitude around that Thanksgiving table.  "Give thanks for everything" the writer of Ephesians says.

I remember my first kiss and the ride home afterwards.  I was sky high and incredibly grateful.  I don't remember giving thanks as much as being ecstatic, but I could have given thanks.  Gratitude was close by.  I hadn't smashed into her nose or slobbered.  I was thankful.

Years later, I fell in love with my soul mate, the love of my life, and vowed a lifelong covenant in the presence of God, to have and to hold, in good times and bad.

Then a few years later, I held our own first-born son on my lap.  He was maybe 20 or 30 minutes old.  We talked about Plato, Socrates, Immanuel Kant and some of the better thinkers in the Presbyterian/Reformed tradition.  I did all the talking.  He slept.  I was thankful beyond measure.  I mostly remember how precious life is and how baby fingers are amazing.  I remember how Chris was a miracle and right there in the bed a few feet away lay my own Barbara who had from her own body produced this wonder (with my help), and gratitude was such a visible, present companion, it was as though she was right there holding us up and surrounding us with arms so wide and strong and gentle.

Three years later the miracle repeated when Ken was born and now these young men not only keep me on my toes, they keep me grateful, despite periodic bouts of not getting home on time or not calling at all or leaving five empty oil cans on the garage floor.  "Give thanks for everything."

Gratitude is everywhere you make the effort to see it.  If you get up tomorrow morning about 5:00 a.m. you can see Mars as bright as it gets.  It has an orange/red hue.  The silhouette of the San Gabriel's before the sun comes up is also stunning.  Gratitude shouts from the mountain tops, if you're there to behold it.  It gets inside of you.  It becomes you.

When I think of my education, the opportunities I have been afforded, all the amazing mentors who have shaped me, taken me under their wings, and given me flight, what else can I do but give thanks for everything?

Yet, it is not natural to see all of life in the companionship of gratitude.  It takes discipline, the regular reminder to see beyond sight, to hear the undertones, to believe beyond the evidence, which is, of course, an act of faith.

Which brings us to the greatest paradox of gratitude.  We expect gratitude to be our companion on Thanksgiving Day and when viewing stunning sunsets and the birth of children.  First kisses and the most recent kiss, just this morning, and mentors and friends and great music: these things make it easy to feel gratitude for the wonders of God's goodness.

But Ephesians says, "at all times and for everything."  This is where logic escapes us and our faith is pushed to the boundaries of where gratitude is least expected and most needed.  Always?  Everywhere?

The writer of Ephesians issues his teaching to give thanks for everything in the context as he puts it, "because the days are evil."  Every person before long knows a time when days are dark and nights are long.  "For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die" (Eccles. 3:1).  As much as gratitude exudes from the pores of our skin when the major and minor miracles of life's goodness bless us, there come times when gratitude seems a loud and uninvited guest, like a Dixieland jazz band at a funeral. 

Give thanks?  At the time of death?  For grief?  Anger?  A loss of faith?  Injustice?  Do we give thanks when pain is raw and tears are flowing?  "Not now gratitude.  Don't you see how rude you are?  How inappropriate?  Have you no couth?" 

The summer after Ken was born we we were out visiting my folks.  The call came from the nursing home that Grandma Stafford was not doing so well.  We needed to come quickly.  There we were beside her bed, new life in my arms and old life in bed.  Our breathing together was labored.  She recognized no one around her.  Dementia had taken her kind, tired eyes from us all.  I whispered in her ear how much I loved her and though she probably couldn't hear, I said it, because I needed to say it and I trusted that God heard it.

We took a break for dinner and when we came back she was gone.  The kind old woman who was always ready for a game of Old Maid or who, in a flash, would always get for me another piece of homemade berry pie a la mode, was dead. The woman who always open her door and her heart when I needed to get away was gone.  The woman who I wanted so much to put my newborn son, Ken, in her arms would never be able to hold him, bless them, to say with her kind voice that he was beautiful.  She had slipped away and I wasn't even there when she breathed her last.  I felt cheated and frustrated, sad and broken-hearted all at once and at the same time. 

After a long, dark day and a night that had only just begun, the gentle nudge came, "Now say your prayers, Mark, for something good that happened this day."  And so I did.  I thanked God for Grandma's silly sayings like "Ain't that the berries?" and her paintings that remind me of my favorite mountains.  For the life she gave my mom and the life she gave me and my sons.  For the wrinkles of her face and the gentleness of her voice that I can see and hear today as clearly as two decades ago.  Grief lingers but a night, but gratitude dawns in morning and abides for ever.  So my grief turned to gratitude, my tears to jewels, and my love for her and hers for me has never been lost.

The writer of Ephesians knew what he was talking about.  "Give thanks to God at all times and for everything."  It takes work.  It doesn't come naturally.  But if you work at it, gratitude can be your close companion.  She will brighten your days and transform your darkest nights.  That's what I've come to know.  That's not the musings of a nut; it must be a gift of the Spirit.  Thanks be to God at all times and for everything.  Amen.  

(c) Copyright 2003 by Mark K. Smutny.  All rights reserved.  Permission granted for non-profit use with attribution.