In everything … give thanks

More often than not, I am guilty of not lis­ten­ing to the Holy Spirit. It sits on my shoul­der and whis­pers in my ear, but I am fre­quently so dis­tracted by the fre­netic pace at which we live in this 21^st cen­tury that I don’t hear what it is say­ing. The whis­pers get louder and louder … some­times I hear some­thing and swat at my ear as though a fly is buzzing near me. Some­times I catch a word or two which causes me to stop and strain to make out the rest of the sen­tence, but then I get dis­tracted or give up and never hear the entire message.

Too fre­quently, it requires the spir­i­tual equiv­a­lent of some­one drop­ping a house on me for the Holy Spirit to get my atten­tion! On those occa­sions, hind­sight reveals the clues I missed along the way, of course.

This is indeed one of those occasions.

I have been read­ing Jan Karon’s books about the fic­tional vil­lage of Mit­ford and her gentle-hearted pro­tag­o­nist, Tim­o­thy Cavanaugh, an Epis­co­palian priest. If you haven’t read this series, I highly rec­om­mend it because the sto­ries about an eccen­tric bunch of folks in a quaint lit­tle town are a delight­ful slice of pure Amer­i­can pie. Mit­ford is much like Lake Wobe­gon — a lit­tle town that time for­got, pop­u­lated by char­ac­ters that you swear are based upon mem­bers of your own fam­ily or com­mu­nity. As you read, you find your­self car­ing deeply about all of them but espe­cially the hum­ble preacher and the woman he learns, late in life, to love.

In the sev­enth vol­ume, In This Moun­tain, an “unex­pected event pro­pels [Father Tim] on a painful jour­ney that shakes his faith, his mar­riage, and the whole town of Mitford.”

Prepar­ing to lead wor­ship, the priest finds that a ser­mon eludes him. Strug­gling at 2:00 a.m., he finally prays for assis­tance, telling God, “I’ve read Your word, I’ve sought Your coun­sel, I’ve whined, I’ve grov­eled, I’ve despaired, I’ve pled — and I’ve waited. And through it all, Lord, You’ve been so strangely silent.” Finally, he hears him­self say, “I will not let You go until You bless me!” And then he real­izes that God is speak­ing to his heart “with great ten­der­ness,” com­mand­ing him to “[s]top seek­ing what you want to hear, Tim­o­thy, and lis­ten to what I have to tell you.” At that point, his Bible falls open, he begins read­ing and finds the pas­sage that, as Karon puts it, “God had held in reserve — expressly for him, expressly for now, and expressly for [Sun­day] morning.”

That por­tion of the book enthralled and moved me when I read it just a few weeks ago. I did not real­ize then, of course, what the Holy Spirit had in mind for me in 2007, i.e., my depar­ture from orga­nized reli­gion. Although I had long been unhappy and frus­trated with my church sit­u­a­tion, I had not yet dis­en­tan­gled myself, even though my for­mer con­gre­ga­tion had failed to pro­vide me spir­i­tual sus­te­nance for a pro­tracted period of time.

As I thought about my new-found church­less­ness, I remem­bered this aspect of the story and knew that I both read and remem­bered it in accor­dance with the Holy Spirit’s tim­ing. I was des­tined to read it before the events which cul­mi­nated in my exit and remem­ber it in the days fol­low­ing. As is so often the case in our lives, Jan Karon, a woman I have nei­ther meant nor com­mu­ni­cated with, could not have fore­seen and will likely never appre­ci­ate the pro­found effect and influ­ence her words have had on me.

I share with you here the mes­sage Father Tim deliv­ered to the con­gre­gants of fic­tional Lord’s Chapel:

Last night, alone in my study, God gave me four words that Saint Paul wrote in his sec­ond let­ter to the church at Thes­sa­lonica. Four words than help us enter into obe­di­ence, trust, and closer com­mu­nion with God Him­self, made known through Jesus Christ.Here are the four words. I pray you will inscribe them on your heart.

In every­thing … give thanks.

In every­thing, give thanks. That’s all. That’s this morning’s message.

If you believe as I do that Scrip­ture is the inspired Word of God, then we see this not as a ran­dom thought or an oddly clever idea of His ser­vant, Paul, but as a lov­ing com­mand issued through the great apostle.

Gen­er­ally, Chris­tians under­stand that giv­ing thanks is good and right.

Though we don’t do it often enough, it’s easy to have a grate­ful heart for food and shel­ter, love and hope, health and peace. But what about the hard stuff, the stuff that dark­ens your world and wounds you to the quick? Just what in this every­thing business?

It’s the hook. It’s the key. Every­thing is the word on which this whole pow­er­ful com­mand stands and has its being.

Please don’t mis­un­der­stand; the word thanks is cru­cial. But a deeper spir­i­tual truth, I believe, lies in giv­ing thanks in … everything.

In loss of all kinds. In ill­ness. In depres­sion. In grief. In fail­ure. And, of course, in health and peace, suc­cess and hap­pi­ness. In everything.

There’ll be times when you won­der how you can pos­si­bly thank Him for some­thing that turns your life upside down; cer­tainly there will be such times for me. Let us, then at times like these, give thanks on faith alone … obe­di­ent, trust­ing, hop­ing, believing.

Per­haps you remem­ber the young boy who was kid­napped and beaten and thrown into prison, yet rose up as Joseph the King, ruler of nations, able to say to his broth­ers, with a spirit of for­give­ness, “You thought evil against me, but God meant it for good, that many lives might be spared.” Bet­ter still, remem­ber our Lord and Sav­ior Jesus Christ, who suf­fered ago­nies we can’t begin to imag­ine, ful­fill­ing God’s will that you and I might have ever­last­ing life.

Some of us have been in try­ing cir­cum­stances these last months Unset­tling. Unremit­ting. Even, we some­times think, unbear­able. Dear God, we pray, stop this! Fix that! Bless us — and step on it!

I admit to you that although I often thank God for my bless­ings, even the small­est, I haven’t thanked Him for my afflictions.

I know the fifth chap­ter of First Thes­sa­lo­ni­ans pretty well, yet it just hadn’t occurred to me to actu­ally take Him up on this notion. I’ve been too busy beg­ging Him to lead me out of the val­ley and onto the moun­tain­top. After all, I have work to do, I have things to accom­plish … alas, I am the White Rab­bit ever­last­ingly run­ning down the hole like the rest of the com­mon horde.

I want to tell you that I started thank­ing Him last night — this morn­ing at two o’clock, to be pre­cise — for some­thing that grieves me deeply. And I’m com­mit­ted to con­tinue thank­ing Him in this hard thing, no mat­ter how des­per­ate it might become, and I’m going to begin look­ing for the good in it. Whether God caused it or per­mit­ted it, we can rest assured — there is great good in it.

Why have I decided to take these four words as a per­sonal com­mis­sion? Here’s the entire eigh­teenth verse:

“In every­thing, give thanks … for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus con­cern­ing you.”

His will con­cern­ing you. His will con­cern­ing me.

This thing which I’ve taken as a com­mis­sion intrigues me. I want to see where it goes, where it leads. I pray you’ll be called to do the same. And please, tell me where it lead you. Let me hear what hap­pens when you respond to what I believe is a pow­er­ful and chal­leng­ing, though decep­tively sim­ple, com­mand of God.

Let’s look once more at the four words God is say­ing to us … by look­ing at what our obe­di­ence to them will say to God.

Our obe­di­ence will say, “Father, I don’t know why You’re caus­ing, or allow­ing, this hard thing to hap­pen, but I’m going to give thanks in it because You ask me to. I’m going to trust You to have a pur­pose for it that I can’t know and may never know. Bot­tom line, You’re God — and that’s good enough for me.”

There are, of course, many more words in the first let­ter to the Thes­sa­lo­ni­ans. Here are just a few:

“Pray with­out ceasing.”

“Abstain from all appear­ance of evil.”

“Quench not the Spirit.”

These words, too, con­tain holy coun­sel and absolute truth.

But the words which God chose for this day, this ser­vice, this pas­tor, and this peo­ple, were just four. Yes, do the other things I com­mand you to do, He says, but mark these.

Mark these.

Like Father Tim, I have taken those four words, “in every­thing … give thanks,” as a per­sonal com­mis­sion. I give thanks for the events that tran­spired and caused me to embark upon this new, church­less adven­ture. I give thanks for the peo­ple from my for­mer con­gre­ga­tion who have reached out to me to say, “We will miss you.” I give thanks for those folks from that con­gre­ga­tion who will shun me if they see me around town, look­ing away and pre­tend­ing they don’t know who I am. I give thanks for the pas­tor who wanted so des­per­ately to hurt me that his part­ing words to a long-time, faith­ful parish­ioner now form the tag line for this blog (above). I give thanks for the end­less hours of ser­vice I gave to that con­gre­ga­tion, know­ing that God has said “well done” to me and I also give thanks that those end­less hours are now being redi­rected into spiritually-empowering ven­tures and explorations.

I am mak­ing it my daily goal to give thanks in all cir­cum­stances, all events, all actions of all per­sons I encounter. Like Father Tim, I am intrigued by this com­mis­sion and I want to see where it goes, where it leads.

I pray you’ll be called to do the same. Leave a com­ment, telling me where it leads you, and what hap­pens when you respond to this pow­er­ful and chal­leng­ing, though decep­tively sim­ple, com­mand of God.

Have a won­der­ful, thank­ful Sunday!

Wel­come back to On the Hori­zon! So glad you’re vis­it­ing again. Be sure to leave a com­ment and add any posts that you like to the var­i­ous social book­mark­ing sites using the links just below the posts. Thanks for stop­ping by!

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