"Thanksgiving in a World of Woe"
Unitarian Universalist Church of Muncie
November 29, 2009
© 2009 Beth Lefever

Thanksgiving has come and mostly gone now, already this year. It was good for me, for the most part, as I hope it was good for you.

But as I made my way through the several gatherings of family and friends, the taking in of a way over-abundance of rich and mouth-watering foods amidst the comfort of warm and nicely appointed homes, and as I took in, at the margins of my attention, the ubiquitous commercial beckonings of "Black Friday" marketers, I found myself, as usual at this time of year, wondering about the fullness of my own life, and the scarcity and deprivation in the lives of so many others. I found myself wondering how I can be thankful in a world so full of woe, how I can be grateful when so many of my kin – my brothers and sisters throughout the world -- are in pain and want and fear.

Is it enough to be grateful that I am not one of them?  That I am among the chosen few smiled upon by God, by Life, by Fate?

For I have been – smiled upon, that is. Let me share with you just a few of the blessed ways in which my life has unfolded; perhaps they will resonate with some of your own life experience, or perhaps they will be quite different.

--I was born into a nation that afforded me relative freedom and autonomy, and a sound basic education.

--I was born into a family that fed and clothed me, and kept a roof over my head; to parents who provided me with idyllic lakeside summers where I was privy to the beauty of nature as it bombarded, daily, my senses.

--I was born to a father who taught me to fish and run a boat, and who built tree houses for my brothers and me.

--I was born to a mother who taught me to laugh, and to love animals, and who opened up the world for me through her love of reading and books.

--I was born with my body, mind, and senses relatively intact.

--Along the way I was able to develop a reasonably astute intellect, a fair sense of humor, the desire and ability to reach out and connect with others.

--I have been blessed with an emotional depth that delights me just a bit more than it plagues me, that continually awakens me to the exquisite nuances of life and nature and experience and human interaction; and I have been blessed with the time to appreciate these things.

--I have been blessed with a special and unique intimate relationship, and with wonderful friends.

--I have been (now) triply blessed with three generous and supportive church families, within the context of a unique and truly special church denomination.

--I have been blessed with work that I enjoy, and a vocation that excites and energizes me, and the resources (however stretched they may become) by which to proceed with my life.

I have been so wonderfully blessed that, at times, the goodness of my life wells up within me, and I am left speechless. I am left breathless. And I am thankful, extremely thankful, for my good fortune; for the many gifts of my life.

But sometimes gratitude carries with it a corresponding burden of guilt, as is so often true in my life. And lest you hasten to reassure me, let me confess that the guilt is appropriate, at least for me.

For I did not earn my way, so much as fall into it. I did not create my abundance, so much as fortune favored me with it, just as fortune has disfavored the multitudes of my brothers and sisters throughout the world who are starving, who are unable to eke out a living no matter how much back-breaking labor they put forth, who watch their babies die from hunger and disease and lack of medical resources, who watch in terror as their loved ones are torn from their grasping arms to be tortured and killed as the victims of the kind of fear, greed, and ignorance that propagates war and violence and genocide.

I did not earn the ease with which I live my life any more than others throughout the world earned the hardship and suffering that mark their every moment and every hour.

That is not to say, however, several things.

It is not to say that I have not worked, for I have worked. I have worked throughout my adult life. Sometimes I have worked very hard.

It is not to say that I have not struggled and suffered, for I have. As a child, life was, at times grim:

--There were my father's dangerous rages, my mother's exhausted indifference, bomb attack drills at school.

--There was the elderly woman who played the accordion on a downtown street corner, who terrified me, and whose cup my mother would require me to fill with spare change.

--There were the Palm Sunday tornadoes which claimed many lives locally, and which tainted, for years, my love of nature.

--There was the Cuban Missile Crisis, televised racial hatred and violence, televised glimpses of children starving to death in distant places in the world.

--There was Vietnam.

--There was heartbreak and fear and shame and longing and isolation, and all those common human struggles in which we become enmeshed at times as we grow through our lives.

--And there was the slow erosion of security that comes from the growing knowledge that, as you always suspected, life was not safe; that pain and suffering permeated the world boundlessly and endlessly, right along side good fortune, joy and comfort.

And finally, it is not to say that I live elaborately. I do not. Not by this country's standards. But by those of so much of the rest of the world, I live in luxury. I live in unimagined wealth, unfathomable opulence, and to me, sometimes, I think, unpardonable decadence.

This is never more clear to me than when I watch television, something I admit I do too much. Nevertheless…

I am dismayed at both the programming and the advertising that television affords, each of which so often portray and promote lifestyles seemingly devoid of all value beyond hedonism, consumerism, and self-involvement. The programs have become increasingly graphic, violent and mean-spirited, the advertising, more and more evocative and materialistic.

We seem to have developed a new fondness for a kind of reality television that promotes deception, manipulation, voyeurism, and one-upsmanship; and talk shows in which guests wallow in degradation, shame and self-abuse. Our dramas have become more violent, detailed, and sexually explicit, as though continually increasing exposure through the years, has left us desensitized, and thus, needing ever more graphic portrayals.

Our commercials portray everyday people (although nearly always of means), whose main purpose in life seems to be amassing, acquiring, and accumulating – the newest technological gadgets; newer, faster – and yet, now, more fuel-efficient – cars, pickup trucks and SUVS; more and more elaborate home entertainment systems; as well as lawn tractors, spas and swimming pools, jewelry, games, toys, shoes, clothes, furniture, luggage, bed linens and underwear.

We are portrayed as a people thrilled and fulfilled with the right deodorant, shampoo, or mouthwash; a people who can discover life's meaning in the right brand of beer, or just the right soft drink, (the latter of which, I might add, will make wonderfully creative and athletic dancers of us all!).

Courage does not so much shine in acts of selfless service, but rather in daring to step out the front door in the wrong pair of jeans or in off-brand sneakers.

Even in today's economic climate, it seems as if we are just waiting until life can once more begin its incessant revolution around finding the right product and accumulating the right possessions, and we seem ever more driven toward seeking, ordering, buying, purchasing, acquiring, obtaining, receiving and getting more and more stuff, and I have to wonder, what are we running from?!

What are we running from?

I watch these programs and commercials, and I think, this is not what I want to be about. It is not what I want our culture to be about. It is not how I, as an American, want to be portrayed to the rest of the world.

I often think about those others of the world – and in this country, as well – those have-nots whom fortune has not favored – and I wonder what they think about, what they question, whether they hope. I wonder if their inner lives are as richly grand as mine; if they ponder the intricacies of the world, the complexities of human relationship, the meaning of the falling autumn leaves. I wonder if, when they look up into the night sky, they have enough energy or emotion left over from the strife of their lives to love the burning stars, the mysterious glowing moon.

I wonder of those who know of our country, those who hear stories of our wealth and our lifestyles – even now after we took such a hard economic hit. I wonder of those who hear about our massive homes, rich furnishings, over-flowing closets, and multiple-car families; those who learn that we are a people who need to rent storage units to house our excess… and I wonder what they think. Do they have the energy to long, to envy, to hate?

It is of these things I ponder as Thanksgiving Day arrives.  And I think of those in our own country who are hurting, as well. And again I ask, how can I be thankful?How dare I be thankful.And to whom do I owe my gratitude?

Well the fact is, I am thankful. I am filled with gratitude for the thrill of my life, the joy of my days, the love of my friends and family, the freedom of my country, the wisdom of my church.

And I am filled with remorse for all that I cannot do, cannot be, cannot give to my struggling brothers and sisters.

I am filled with gratitude that I have time to walk barefoot in the warm sands along the coast or the lake, and am grieved for those who have no shoes, or no awareness that to be barefoot in warm sand is a gift.

I am full of joy for the fact that I can squander thought about the meaning of life, that I can obsess over the purpose of my being, that I can evaluate and re-evaluate the progress of my journey, that my mind does not have to concern itself with immediate issues of survival, with living through to tomorrow – not living through in the lifestyle to which I have become accustomed, but living through at all -- that I do not have to concern myself with managing the pain of hunger or torture or ongoing grief.

The fact is that I am grateful, in part, because of those others in the world, those whose gratitude revolves around a crust of bread or a cup of rice, or water, even; those who bless the fact that their children have lived yet another day. It is that I know of suffering that I am so able to appreciate my lack of suffering, or the relatively minor suffering that comes my way. It is, as the cliché goes, the fact of winter that allows me to so appreciate the spring, the fact of sorrow and pain that allows me to so rejoice at happiness and comfort.

And it is the fact of my gratitude in the face of such world-wide suffering that I am forced to consider my role in the world, to consider my responsibilities, to think about whether I have paid my dues, whether I am paying enough.

And I am not.  Not really. I do so little, really.

Recently I grew progressively agitated as I watched several hours of television with my husband.

After yet another commercial telling me how a new something-or-other (whatever was being hawked at the moment) could bring fulfillment and satisfaction to my heart and soul, I began to rage at my husband.

"We should give away all our things," I said.

"We should get rid of everything in this house that we don't need.

"We don't need six skillets, we don't need the pottery on top of the hutch, we don't need the knick knacks, the decorative items, the extras – extra dishes, extra tools, shoes, clothes, spare blankets, bags, CD players, flashlights… books, even!

"We could sell it all and give the money to the poor…"

Evan has grown used to my diatribes, and only becomes slightly alarmed with such pronouncements, for he knows they will pass. While he agrees, and even surpasses me with such sentiments, and while we search for ways to give back, giving away all our possessions was not at the top of his list. And as I settled down, it fell a bit lower on my list, as well.

Nearly all of our stuff comes from resale shops, or as gifts from friends. And whereas we have way more than we need, our accumulation does not involve much outlay of money. Still, there is much that we don't need in a world of want, and there is much that we could do, which we don't.

Thanksgiving is a time when I try to assess those dynamics, as I take stock, too, of my blessings. It is one of those times of the year when I particularly consider my role in the world, my responsibility toward those who hurt and yearn and hunger, and who are afraid.

I do have a responsibility to such people, as, I believe, do you. I do not know from whom the order is given, just as I don't know to whom I should be grateful for my own good fortune. But I know that there is a mandate; a decree from all that is right and just and good and ethical in each of us; from that which is the highest good of the human condition; to reach out, to help, to serve, and to give back that which we can.

UU minister Kaaren Solveig Anderson tells of a trip she made one day to the Holocaust memorial in Boston. She describes giant Plexiglas monuments containing the names of hundreds of thousands of survivors, and etched into the monument beneath the names are sayings and quotes from the survivors.

Anderson says she was rooted to the floor, profoundly moved by the words, the emotion, contained in the display. One quote, in particular, captured her imagination, as it has, now, mine – so much so that I asked an artist friend of mine to make a painting for me, depicting the story.

The quote was written by Gerda Weisman Klien, and it said, "Ilse, a childhood friend of mine, once found a raspberry in the camp.  She carried it in her pocket all day to present to me that night on a leaf…"

Think of that!

Think of all you have read or heard of the concentration camps:  the cruelty, the degradation, the deprivation and hunger and pain, the sickness, the fear. And then think of the child, Ilse's, discovery of one small raspberry.

Imagine the exquisite care with which she picks up the berry and cups it in her hand. Imagine her delight as she brings the berry to her nose and breathes deeply of its rich, ripe fragrance. Think of the joy with which she gently places it in her pocket, the excitement as she anticipates eating it later that night, when she is alone. Imagine her tasting, in her mind, the berry's bumpy texture as she rolls it around on her tongue, the explosion of juice as she bites into it, the seeds that catch in her teeth.

And then, and then Ilse remembers her friend. And her anticipation changes from joy to dismay as she imagines eating the berry while her friend has nothing.

And so, after awhile, after, undoubtedly, some struggling, Ilse begins to turn her imagination in another direction. Instead of eating the berry, she begins to imagine the joy of presenting it to her friend.

Her excitement builds as she thinks about it.Furtively, in stolen moments, she searches the camp for a fresh, green leaf – the perfect leaf – with which to make her gift more presentable, more delectable.

With growing joy, she goes through the day anticipating her friend's delight…

Surely that is the meaning of Thanksgiving in a bruised and hurting world, a world so truly full of woe: to give richly out of that which we have been given – even when we have been given little; to give all that we can – even sometimes when it hurts; and to give in a spirit of gratitude, a spirit of reverence, a spirit of love.