From It’s Mine to Thank You
The Rev. Dr. Matthew Johnson-Doyle
November 21, 2010


Note: The sermon is an oral event. This manuscript may not reflect the exact spoken words. If you want to hear what was actually said, you can listen to sermon visit our website at www.uurockford.org. © Matthew Johnson-Doyle, 2010.

Some days we can’t see the joy that surrounds us;
so caught up inside ourselves
we take when we should give.

Amen to that.

I want you to imagine, if you will, a father,
in conversation with his three year old child.
You know, any father.
He might be a mechanic, or a teacher, or a doctor,
or, you know, the minister of your local church.

There is a new baby in the house, and the three year-old has,
once again, identified – correctly – that the piece of clothing, or the toy,
or the board book version of Runaway Bunny –
that this item is hers, or used to be hers,
and she shouts or wines or complains,
in her most possessive voice,
that’s mine.

It’s mine! He can’t have it.

The father tried to turn with praise:
well, isn’t it nice of you to share with your little brother.

Doesn’t work.

He tries logic.
Yes, but you are a big girl now and that’s for babies.

Doesn’t work.

It’s mine!

Finally, he resorts to theology:
“Really, honey, nothing is ever ours. We are only the temporary custodians,
and we should respond to these gifts with grace and generosity.”

Doesn’t work, at least not really.

But it gives the father an idea,
and the family gets more serious about saying grace before dinner;
about saying thank you –
and the three year gets into this,
we thank the farmers and we thank our family,
and the little one wants to make sure we thank the cows for our milk;
and maybe, maybe,
this practice – saying thank you for gifts,
maybe this practice will move us, ever so slightly,
away from the possessive “It’s mine”
and toward the gracious “Thank You.”

It’s this season, again –
a season of Thanksgiving.

And, really, it doesn’t matter if we are three,
or ten, or twenty-five, fifty or eight-two –
we all struggle, sometimes,
with “It’s mine.”

We mark our territory,
we label our belongings,
we get concerned about our status and our privileges.

And, really, who can blame us?
Especially in these precarious times.

Everything seems so fragile.
Some of you might feel right on the edge,
just barely holding on,
barely holding on and someone tries to take what you are holding on to –
wait, you shout, that’s mine.
I need that!

It’s not just toys and stuff, is it –
it’s our sense of identity,
it’s our health,
it’s our livelihood,
it’s the food on our table.

These things help define us, and they secure our existence
in a finite and dangerous world.
And we cling to them.

I want to be clear about this:
it’s OK to hold on to things that give us meaning.
It’s OK to defend our integrity,
and it’s OK to resist efforts of others at theft.
But, saying “It’s mine” –
well, there is something ugly about it,
something unattractive.

At least from our theological, spiritual, and religious position.

What this gets down to is that there are two different ways to say thank you.

And these two different ways of thanksgiving
they have very different meanings,
and if we take them into our hearts,
they will make for very different lives.

One way of saying thank you,
the Calvanist way, if you will,
is to say thank you to God for blessing us instead of those other poor schubs.
Thank you for recognizing our goodness
and rewarding us for our righteousness.
This way of saying thank you
is like saying,
“thank you for making what was yours, mine.”

Under this way of being thankful,
we are thankful for our privileges, for all we have earned.
Our successes give us meaning, they define us,
and we are thankful for them, as we hold on to them,
as they, actually, hold on to us.

There is another way:
the path of true religion, in my mind:
the path of beauty and genuine reverence.

For the sun and the dawn,
which we did not create,
for friends and loved ones
we have not earned and cannot buy
for all things which come to us
as gifts of being from sources beyond ourselves –

we lift our hearts in thanks this day.

This is what the father was trying to tell his child:
give thanks for the time that these things are with you,
but don’t hold on,
because, really, nothing is ours –
nothing is mine, forever, -
because I don’t last forever.

You know that old saying,
you can’t take it with you.

Everything which comes to us is temporary,
and we are but its stewards for a brief moment,
so we give thanks for the chance to connect,
but not to own.

This way of thanksgiving turns us from greed to giving,
from grasping to gratitude.
We give thanks for the simple things:
air to breathe – do we own that?
an earth to walk on, and the sun and the rain which grows all food,
for life itself,
which we did not create.

These two types of thanksgiving –
a thanksgiving of righteousness or a thanksgiving of humility –
the choice between these things is everything.

What is clear to me is that the thanksgiving of humility
is more beautiful.
It is admirable and joyful.
It leads to a life of more grace and less heartache.
And it tastes better –
it tastes better.
Oh, one villager could make a carrot soup.
And one could have done potatoes.
Another cabbage.
and so on.

But only by giving up what was “theirs”
could they put these things together,
and share the feast together.
When they moved from grasping, from hording,
from it’s mine to it’s ours,
then they made something beautiful,
then there was enough,
and it was tasty.

And in the same way,
the thanksgiving of humility is what builds community,
it is what allows us to do what is hard for 3 year olds,
but necessary – urgently necessary –
for the survival of human beings – to share.
To share.
To invite the guest to our table,
freely and joyfully, not with pity but with love.
It is the thanksgiving of humility that allows us to share,
the sense that of course I will take care of you,
because someday I too will be – not may be, but will be –
in need myself.

The rich steaming soup, the community that happens in sharing,
of course, this is a miracle.
Stone soup is an old story,
with many different versions.
Sometimes it is a stone. In Scandinavia, it’s sometimes nail soup.
Other cultures talk about the axe.

In one well known version of this story,
it’s not soup at all,
but loaves and fishes to feed the thousands,
that the community, gathered in love and genuine grace,
provides for each other –
42And all ate and were filled; 43and they took up twelve baskets full of broken pieces and of the fish.

So, in this season, I invite you –
it’s hard, I know –
but it’s worth it –
I invite you to give thanks,
not for what you have earned,
but for what can never be earned,
not for what is ours,
but for what belongs to the earth and to the sky,
not for what endures,
but for what is in the present moment,
to give thanks not with righteousness,
but with humility, with love, and with joy.

Such thanksgiving will make our lives better,
it will make our families stronger,
and our communities more vibrant,
and it will make the world more beautiful,
and more tasty.
May it be so.