As a deer panteth for water, so my soul panteth after thee! Psalm 42:1
My favorite meal of the year is Thanksgiving Day. Not the typical lunch meal of the day only, but for the whole day, from “kin see to can’t see,” Thanksgiving is a great day of non-stop food. I will not go into elaborate details of all the treats, just because such images would likely make your soul “panteth” a little too much.
And so I take this moment to flash back to a simpler time at the huge table of my grandmother, where it seemed hundreds of kinfolk filled their lunch plates with turkey, dressing, gravy, cranberry sauce, pinto beans, yeast rolls and butter and, then, sat awaiting the proper blessing of a self-designated and particularly pious uncle. The serving of the plates of food went systematically and with a lot of reaching over and under each other with the final outcome being that every individual had their perfect plate of food right in front of them, anxiously sitting with heads bowed awaiting the prayer.
I will admit that I do not remember ever closing my eyes during the prayer, as I gave astute attention to the victuals on the plate just six inches from the end of the nose of my bowed head. This particularly pious uncle had clearly never heard Jesus talk bad about haughty and long prayers in the public places, for as much as Thanksgiving was a day of glorious flavors that melted together, for my uncle, it was a day of loquacious homily in prayer. His prayers were endless, and meanwhile, the turkey would be getting cold, the gravy would be running into the cranberry sauce, and the roll would be getting a little soggy.
My uncle would “cross the bridge of compromise” from both directions. He would always pray for some family that traveled endlessly – a family only known as the “Mercies.” I do not know who those “traveling Mercies” were. I do not believe they ever arrived at a destination, but actually just migrated around from place to place. I always wanted to be one of them. I only hoped, wherever they were on any given Thanksgiving, that they were not looking down at a plate of food with their mouths watering, listening to an uncle go on and on about “Shadrach, Meshach and Tobedwego,” the “rose of Zion,” or the “road to heaven being so narrow with a wide gate.”
I do not know where it is written, but I grew up believing that a Thanksgiving Day prayer had to include a prayer of thanksgiving, praise, adoration, intercession, confession, a period of pleading, a moment of silence, a slew of monster words that were reserved only for cooling off the dressing, and an all too-often insertion of the words “Lord,” “Jesus,” and “Father” wherever there was a gap in need of a word. I have always identified with Moses standing on Mount Nebo, not being able to enter the Promised Land, yet watching as the Children of Israel crossed the Jordan River at the foot of the mountain. He was right there at paradise but was prevented from entering. He could smell the cranberry sauce, but was prevented from eating due to some religious barricade.
Then, there was a year when the “praying uncle” had arranged for an aunt, with a particularly flat sense of melody, to enter into a chorus of “The Lord’s Prayer” just after he had faithfully jumped into the dark chasm of trust, climbed to the top of the mountain of consternation, and navigated the treacherous river filled with the temptation of pride. I have never been one to think much about purgatory, but I almost became a believer as she reminded me of my need for “daily bread,” the likes of which I was pretty sure I would never get.
I know the preacher regularly declared that we should hunger and thirst for righteousness' sake, (and I will confess that I don’t know much about this), but I do remember fully knowing what it was to hunger and thirst for a little piece of white meat, a fork full of beans, some dressing with gravy, or a little dot of cranberry sauce to alight on my tongue and slowly slide down my throat.
Now, as an adult, I know that these lessons of longing for something that was just out of reach were a great training ground for a person who would long for God’s Kingdom and would look for signs of the Kingdom breaking forth in every little act of love, moment of hope, and episode of reconciliation. I sometimes believe that the Lord will come, and The Kingdom will be present in just the next moment, but the moment comes, and I am left wanting and waiting; unfulfilled, but having faith in fulfillment that is near.
We are a Kingdom People, and we wait for the fulfillment. We long for light to come, for darkness to be destroyed, and for hope to fill our souls. We wait for a Messiah to order this earth and to make the roads level. Thanksgiving is the training ground of the banquet that is to come. With heads bowed, taste buds at the ready, and souls needing daily bread, we anticipate and wait.
Rev. Dan Martin is pastor of First UMC, Hendersonville. He can be reached at moose1953@hotmail.com
My favorite meal of the year is Thanksgiving Day. Not the typical lunch meal of the day only, but for the whole day, from “kin see to can’t see,” Thanksgiving is a great day of non-stop food. I will not go into elaborate details of all the treats, just because such images would likely make your soul “panteth” a little too much.
And so I take this moment to flash back to a simpler time at the huge table of my grandmother, where it seemed hundreds of kinfolk filled their lunch plates with turkey, dressing, gravy, cranberry sauce, pinto beans, yeast rolls and butter and, then, sat awaiting the proper blessing of a self-designated and particularly pious uncle. The serving of the plates of food went systematically and with a lot of reaching over and under each other with the final outcome being that every individual had their perfect plate of food right in front of them, anxiously sitting with heads bowed awaiting the prayer.
I will admit that I do not remember ever closing my eyes during the prayer, as I gave astute attention to the victuals on the plate just six inches from the end of the nose of my bowed head. This particularly pious uncle had clearly never heard Jesus talk bad about haughty and long prayers in the public places, for as much as Thanksgiving was a day of glorious flavors that melted together, for my uncle, it was a day of loquacious homily in prayer. His prayers were endless, and meanwhile, the turkey would be getting cold, the gravy would be running into the cranberry sauce, and the roll would be getting a little soggy.
My uncle would “cross the bridge of compromise” from both directions. He would always pray for some family that traveled endlessly – a family only known as the “Mercies.” I do not know who those “traveling Mercies” were. I do not believe they ever arrived at a destination, but actually just migrated around from place to place. I always wanted to be one of them. I only hoped, wherever they were on any given Thanksgiving, that they were not looking down at a plate of food with their mouths watering, listening to an uncle go on and on about “Shadrach, Meshach and Tobedwego,” the “rose of Zion,” or the “road to heaven being so narrow with a wide gate.”
I do not know where it is written, but I grew up believing that a Thanksgiving Day prayer had to include a prayer of thanksgiving, praise, adoration, intercession, confession, a period of pleading, a moment of silence, a slew of monster words that were reserved only for cooling off the dressing, and an all too-often insertion of the words “Lord,” “Jesus,” and “Father” wherever there was a gap in need of a word. I have always identified with Moses standing on Mount Nebo, not being able to enter the Promised Land, yet watching as the Children of Israel crossed the Jordan River at the foot of the mountain. He was right there at paradise but was prevented from entering. He could smell the cranberry sauce, but was prevented from eating due to some religious barricade.
Then, there was a year when the “praying uncle” had arranged for an aunt, with a particularly flat sense of melody, to enter into a chorus of “The Lord’s Prayer” just after he had faithfully jumped into the dark chasm of trust, climbed to the top of the mountain of consternation, and navigated the treacherous river filled with the temptation of pride. I have never been one to think much about purgatory, but I almost became a believer as she reminded me of my need for “daily bread,” the likes of which I was pretty sure I would never get.
I know the preacher regularly declared that we should hunger and thirst for righteousness' sake, (and I will confess that I don’t know much about this), but I do remember fully knowing what it was to hunger and thirst for a little piece of white meat, a fork full of beans, some dressing with gravy, or a little dot of cranberry sauce to alight on my tongue and slowly slide down my throat.
Now, as an adult, I know that these lessons of longing for something that was just out of reach were a great training ground for a person who would long for God’s Kingdom and would look for signs of the Kingdom breaking forth in every little act of love, moment of hope, and episode of reconciliation. I sometimes believe that the Lord will come, and The Kingdom will be present in just the next moment, but the moment comes, and I am left wanting and waiting; unfulfilled, but having faith in fulfillment that is near.
We are a Kingdom People, and we wait for the fulfillment. We long for light to come, for darkness to be destroyed, and for hope to fill our souls. We wait for a Messiah to order this earth and to make the roads level. Thanksgiving is the training ground of the banquet that is to come. With heads bowed, taste buds at the ready, and souls needing daily bread, we anticipate and wait.
