The Spiritual Earthiness of My Favorite Holiday

My sister tells this great story about a friend’s Thanksgiving feast. All the family was praying together before the meal, and the leader of the prayer gave this super spiritual mini-homily, reminding the guest that thanksgiving is “not about the turkey.” And then he proceeded to give thanks for a long list of spiritual things like salvation and love for one another and the gift of obedience, reminding everyone again and again that it is not about the turkey, and at the end of his prayer, in the moment’s pause before the “Amen,” he summed up saying, “We thank you Lord for all of this” and a child’s tiny voice whispered in the circle, “and also for the turkey.”

During a typical Christian liturgy we say together “It is right and good to give God thanks and praise.” And it is. It is good to give him thanks for the spiritual reality that we as Christians walk in, for salvation, the gospel, and the joy of obedience. And it is also right to thank him for trees, turkey, and tiramisu.

Thanksgiving historically celebrates the harvest, and, for believers, the harvest is a superb analogy of the work of God is our lives. Psalms 126:4-5 states, “ Those who sow in tears will reap with songs of joy. He who goes out weeping, carrying seed to sow, will return with songs of joy carrying sheaves with him.” The harvest reminds us that a sovereign, loving God will give his children what they need, even if we sow in tears. The analogy of harvest also reminds us that God is at work in our lives growing his fruit in us, fruit that we cannot produce by our sheer will or effort. Our efforts to love him and follow him will not be in vain, and our faltering faith cannot stop his work in us. He promises his people a harvest. So, indeed, the spiritual harvest is something to remember and celebrate. It is not all about the turkey.

But just because it isn’t only about the turkey, doesn’t mean it isn’t about the turkey at all. We need the fruits of the spirit, but we also need apple pie and cranberry sauce (or at least we need some sort of food and drink), and maybe there isn’t such a large dichotomy between celebrating the good gifts the that Father gives us when he gives us bread and when he gives us himself, the Bread of Life.

It seems that people tend to fall into one camp or the other. Some find it easy to praise God for these unseen realities, but struggle to see the grace of God in the form of mashed potatoes. While others (like myself) can nearly worship the mashed potatoes, and forget that this is an analogy to the greater blessing– the greater harvest in our lives. So my prayer for you is that this thanksgiving if you are the over-spiritual, intellectual sort that you’d find wonder and worship in each green bean, and that if you are the flippant, earthy sort that you’d be amazed again at the mystery of God’s work in Christ by which he promises His church an eternal harvest. What an unspeakable blessing to be able to be part of such a harvest! And how thankful am I for the gift of mashed potatoes!

Food for thought- Butter and Death

These two poems were recently featured on the Writer’s Almanac, and I found them both so beautiful, hopeful, and delightful, and then, even more wonderously, I found out that they were by the same poet and in the same anthology. And, of course, the both explore issues of life and death, hope and despair, and struggle and joy and talk a whole lot about food. Ask anyone who knows me at all– I love butter and I love warm bread. I always want more also.

Toast

It’s worth getting up for.
Just at dawn, on a dead-of-winter walk,
I could smell it wafting from homes
all around the lake as they
emerged from the dark like loaves
from an oven, steaming.
Is there an aroma more divine
than that of bread warming, bread
browning, crisping for the spread
of butter and marmalade, the sprinkling
of sugared cinnamon? Whatever
terrors the night might harbor,
how bad can it get, if hot slices
stack our morning plate, the white
ones patterned with cobalt blue?
It’s what in the current vernacular
we’ll all eventually be: a pleasant
redolence rising and haloing
a roughed up, frozen expanse –
for such days, we make
not-too-burnt offerings of thanks;
we raise our glasses of juice.

As Death Approaches

I can’t believe I’m laughing!
I’d have sworn I’d be
shaking or sniveling.
And I sure didn’t expect
a limousine.
I’ve never been in a limousine.
No biggy.
I’ve had better than fame.
Who needs the pressure?
As for fortune, I’m filthy.
That’s why I’m laughing.
I’ve had so much love:
the giving, the getting.
It’s shameful.
It’s embarrassing.
And it’s too late.
No one can take it away!
And I’ve had the pain
to help me appreciate it.
Thank God for the pain!
Easy for me to say
now that I’m going!
But no, seriously,
the kicks in the teeth,
the gut, the rugs
pulled out, slammed doors,
setbacks, snubs.
Without them, I’d
never have recognized
Love, bedraggled,
plain eyes shining,
happy to see me.
Do I want more?
Of course I want more!
I always want more
of everything: money, hugs,
lovemaking, art, butter,
woods, flowers, the sea,
M&Ms, chips, tops, bottoms,
trips — I did give up drinking —
time, sure, and yes,
I’d like to see
my grandchildren,
if there are any.
I’d like to see my books
but more has never
been good for me anyway.
Enough — that’s what I’ve
always needed to learn,
and is there a better way?
So this laughter
I had to work up to
through so many tears,
it just keeps coming
like a fountain, a spray.
Let it light on you
refreshment, benediction,
as I’m driven away.

Bothe of these poems are by Susan Deborah King, from The One-Breasted Woman. © Holy Cow! Press, 2007.