When we “come and see” what Jesus is about, we are drawn into the transformative fellowship of being the Body of Christ and we are called to shine the light of God’s reconciling love throughout the earth.

Vicar Bristol Reading
Second Sunday after Epiphany, year A
Texts: Isaiah 49:1-7, 1 Corinthians 1:1-9, John 1:29-42

In the Gospel of John, the first words we hear from Jesus are a question: “What are you looking for?”

Jesus asks this of some curious onlookers who have been following him. They’re disciples of John the Baptist. While John seems completely confident that Jesus is the Messiah, the two disciples aren’t sure yet. That’s why they’re looking. They’re watching Jesus to see what all the fuss is about. John has said that Jesus is Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world, that Jesus can baptize with not just water but with the very spirit of God. Understandably, that’s something that these followers want to see! So, they trail behind Jesus, and they watch. And Jesus turns and confronts them with this question: “What are you looking for?”

It seems a little obvious, doesn’t it? They’re looking for… him. They’re looking for some kind of evidence that he’s the Messiah John claims he is. But the question “what are you looking for” goes beyond sight: it is a question about seeking. It is about what is perceived with the heart, not the eyes. Jesus is asking, “What are you hoping to find? What is your soul longing for?”

The disciples answer Jesus with a question of their own, “Where are you staying?” and he says simply, “Come and see.” Instead of dismissing them or scolding them, Jesus welcomes and invites them. “You’re looking for me? Well, come and see. Come and stay a while.” So they do. The text says the two “remain” with Jesus for a time.

And whatever they saw while they were with him, whatever they heard, whatever they felt… was transformative. When they first met Jesus, the two respectfully called him “Rabbi,” teacher. But after spending time in Jesus’ presence, they call him “Christ,” Messiah. Coming into relationship with the Jesus changes them. Not because they find facts or gather proof, but because they personally experience relationship with the incarnate God.

This moment doesn’t just change them, it convicts and motivates them. They leave from this time with Jesus eager to share what they’ve experienced and invite others to do the same: “We’ve found the Messiah – come and see!” They tell friends, they tell family: “Come and see for yourself. Come and experience personal connection with this savior.” So the relationship that is at the heart of this story isn’t only about the relationship between these two potential disciples and Jesus;  it’s also about relationship within community.

These two people are only here getting to know Jesus in the first place because they trusted their leader, John the Baptist. John had a relationship with them, and his testimony convinced them to come and see Jesus for themselves. And then their testimony convinces others. Like a ripple effect, the circle grows wider and wider.

This has always been an important part of the church’s story: sharing how your relationship with Christ has changed you welcomes others into relationship with Christ themselves. And staying in that relationship with one other continues to change you, and draw you even closer to God.

This is why Paul talks about the community of Christ followers as a body, interdependent and interconnected, a body that lives and breathes and moves as a collection of all its parts. God has called you into fellowship, Paul writes to the Corinthians. In other words, God has called you into relationship.

But God’s vision isn’t just for a community of people that are alike, like a sort of club. The circles of those ripples grow and grow. The welcome of God isn’t just about one group of people in one place. Paul writes that there are saints in every place who call on the name of Christ, and they all belong to the same God, like siblings in the same family. In every place”! Just think about that for a moment: The body of Christ is as wide as the whole world! That’s the kind of fellowship you’re called into as a follower of Christ.

If the two disciples in the Gospel story had been listening to John the Baptist, they might have had a glimpse that this is what they were getting themselves into. John said, “This is the lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world.” The world. Not the sin of one person, not the sin of one nation, but the sin of the whole world. This Messiah who has come to dwell among us is serious about reconciling all of creation to God.

Anyone who wants to come and see what Jesus is about is going to be called into that same work of expansive reconciliation. Those who would be servants of God are called to be a light to the nations, as Isaiah says, in order that God’s saving love might shine to the very ends of the earth. This doesn’t mean being a coercive or oppressive presence in the world. Scripture says this light is given to the world by God. It is meant to be a gift, not a harm.

Those who would be servants of God are called into fellowship, into intentional community amidst diversity. That means doing the hard work of staying in relationship, which requires practicing forgiveness and reconciliation. It means healing and serving; it means breaking down barriers and building up community.

When you come into relationship with Christ, you can’t stay the same; you can’t only live for yourself, because you’re transformed, and you become part of the body. Other parts of the body depend on you, and you depend on them. Things will get difficult and there will be conflict, but you are also given this promise: God doesn’t leave you alone in this task.

Listen to what Paul says happens to those who come into the body: “In every way you have been enriched in Christ. You are not lacking in any spiritual gift.” Let these words be a reminder that you have been equipped and strengthened to be the community of Christ, to grow in fellowship. You have been equipped and strengthened to be a beacon of God’s love in the world. You have everything you need because God has given it to you, so you can be a gift to others.

And God knows something about being in relationship because God is relationship. God is Trinity, three-in-one.

If we take the incarnation seriously, then we know that this Gospel story about Jesus’ invitation to “come and see” shows us something of the face of God. It shows us a God who asks and welcomes questions, a God who celebrates the curious and the seeking, a God who draws all of creation into intimate relationship, a God whose forgiveness knows no boundaries.

But this story also shows us the power of God’s mysterious Spirit. It’s the Spirit’s presence that has John even recognize Jesus as the Messiah to begin with: “I saw the Spirit descending from heaven,” John declares, “and it remained on him.” But Jesus doesn’t keep the life force of Spirit to himself: he gives it away. He baptizes others with its power, and he teachers over and over that God’s Spirit will never leave his followers, even when the physical person of Jesus is no longer with them. The Spirit will live in Christ followers forever: advocating, empowering, comforting, teaching, transforming.

That Spirit is, right now, living in you, as it is in all those diverse members of the beloved Body of Christ, throughout the world, in every place. That Spirit is, right now, equipping and strengthening you to live out God’s mission of radical love and reconciliation. Can you see it in one another? It is like a light in the darkness. Go out and shine that divine light to the ends of the earth.

Amen.

Matthew’s account of Jesus’ birth is a complicated human story that is still tragically relevant in our context. The incarnated God is, and always has been, deeply present in the broken places of our world, and God grieves with us every instance of violence and suffering.

Vicar Bristol Reading
First Sunday of Christmas, Year A
Text: Matthew 2:13-23

Matthew’s Gospel is missing all the familiar, sentimental elements of the Christmas story. In Matthew’s narrative about Jesus’ birth, there are no cattle lowing at the manger-side, no surprised shepherds cuddling their sheep, no glorious angels singing alleluia.

Instead there’s a family of scared refugees and a man driven mad by power.

That man was Herod, a Roman-appointed ruler of Judea, the region where Jesus was born. Herod feared the loss of his authority so much that he was willing to do anything in order to eliminate potential rivals. He’d been told there was a new “king,” born in Bethlehem. But, deceived by the visiting magi, he was unable to clearly identify the newborn Messiah, so Herod ordered the execution of all male babies in Bethlehem who were near Jesus’ age. This may have meant the death of some twenty children, an unnecessary and horrifying tragedy.

The holy family, Joseph, Mary, and Jesus, were warned by God of this coming violence, and fled in the night. They ended up in Egypt, of all places, the land where their ancestors had once been enslaved. And they lived there for a few years, until Herod’s death allowed them to return to their homeland. Even then, it wasn’t safe for them to go back to Judea, so they settled in Galilee, a few days’ travel north.

This is the Christmas story in Matthew: a tyrannical ruler, a traumatized community, and a displaced family. Like so many stories in the Bible, it’s a sad and scary story, and it’s a really human story.

From the perspective of the people experiencing all this, it must have been hard to see the bigger picture, to understand how all of their lives were intertwined, to understand why this was the way God’s salvation came into the world.

Mary and Joseph were just starting figure out how to be a family together, when they were called to follow God’s lead into the unknown. Their fates were caught up with the decisions of the Magi, those foreign strangers who decided to defy Herod, at great risk to themselves, in order to protect the holy family. Jesus did survive Herod’s wrath, but many in the Bethlehem community did not. So the fate of those grieving families, too, was caught up in the events of Jesus’ birth.

And the Gospel writer makes it clear that all of these people were part of the longer arc of Israel’s history. In Matthew’s account, we hear echoes of Rachel, the great Matriarch from whom Jesus is descended, and of Pharaoh and Moses. We hear the voices of the Hebrew prophets who longed for the peace and justice a Messiah would bring – a Messiah who has at last been born in Bethlehem.

Matthew evokes these sacred stories, then weaves them together with the narrative of these first century people. The result is a tangle of human stories and relationships.

And at the center of this complicated mess is God, born as a tiny, vulnerable baby, the light in all the darkness. Jesus, God incarnate, is caught up in all this humanness.

From his birth, Jesus’ life is under threat. The Son of Man has no place to lay his head. Jesus’ human existence is marked by suffering, rejection, and violence, start to finish. This is not a savior who shrinks away from the gritty realities of what it means to be human. Christ will embody divine love as a human person. Throughout his ministry Jesus will be a presence of healing, mercy, and compassion among the people he encounters. He will declare that all people, even enemies, are worthy of love.

That commitment to love will eventually get him killed. Although Jesus escapes death as an infant, he accepts death as an adult. He goes to the cross out of love for all creation, and even as he faces death, his words and actions speak forgiveness in response to violence.

God is in the midst of the whole story of human history, not as the cause of suffering but as one who suffers. This means that you don’t have to wonder whether or not the Creator of the universe understands or cares about your suffering because God has suffered – for you and with you. None of the violence in this human story is God’s intention. God’s dream for creation is one of peace; Christ’s kingdom is not of this world.

Perhaps the hardest part about Matthew’s Christmas narrative is how timeless it is. The horrors of this ancient story are painfully familiar to all chapters of history: tyrannical leaders imposing violent rule on poor people, families becoming refugees to protect their children’s future, the senseless death of innocent people. We know these stories in our time, too.

We are closing out a decade during which authoritarian leaders across the world stage enacted oppressive policies,  millions of people became refugees fleeing from violence, and, in our own nation, hundreds of children were shot in their own schools.

Our wailing and lamentation joins that of Rachel, just as the tears of the Bethlehem community did following Herod’s actions. We grieve every instance of suffering, displacement, and violence.

And we know that God grieves them, too. If our hearts break for these things, we can only imagine how much more God’s heart breaks. God doesn’t look away from the cruelties of our world, but comes to be with us in the most broken of places, and to overcome the greatest darkness with the light of love.

When Matthew says that Rachel is weeping for the children she has lost, he is quoting from the book of Jeremiah. And in the book of Jeremiah, Rachel’s cries do not go unanswered: God hears her and God responds with a word of comfort. “There is hope for your future,” says the Lord (Jeremiah 31:17).

There is hope. God’s reminder is that the grief is not the end of the story: there is a future. When the night seems impossibly dark, there is a dawn of tomorrow yet to come. That doesn’t mean there isn’t incredible pain today; it means that, through God, there is hope to hold on to, always. Loss and death are not the end: that truth is part of the incarnation story, too, because resurrection is part of the incarnation story.

The “why” questions of human suffering, loss, and injustice are still with us, as they have been for generations and generations.

All our human stories – past, present, and future – are tangled up with one another, in ways beyond what we can see from our perspective. And as we see in the incarnated Christ, God is not distant from any of it, but deeply present in all of it.

God’s presence is not an answer to all your questions; God’s presence is a constant in the midst of your questioning. In all the complexities and tragedies of the human story, God is there. Matthew’s story begins with Emmanuel, God become human to be with us, and the Gospel ends with these words, spoken by Jesus: “Remember, I am with you always…”

Amen.

We are sentinels on the lookout for signs of God’s presence in the world, and we joyfully share the good news of Christ’s presence with the world.

Vicar Bristol Reading
The Nativity of Our Lord
Texts: Isaiah 52:1-3, 6-10; John 1:1-14

Even though we spend four weeks of Advent getting ready for Christmas, it’s hard to really feel ready when Christmas actually gets here. It’s hard to take in the true meaning of this day. Maybe it’s because December is so full of holiday festivities and time seems to speed up as the month goes on. Or maybe it’s because the message of the incarnation gets lost amidst the cultural messages about Christmas.

But set all that aside for a moment, and hear this incredibly good news again: the light of Christ is here, dispelling all the world’s darkness. The light of Christ is here! This is what you’ve been waiting and watching for all Advent. Are you ready for it? What will you do with this news?

If you need a model for how to respond to long-awaited good news, you can look to the Isaiah text we read this morning.

In Isaiah’s context, Israel has been invaded and conquered by a foreign empire, Babylon. The Babylonians have destroyed the holy city of Jerusalem and forcibly exiled many of the Israelite people. Beyond the sheer physical destruction of this war, the people are also suffering spiritually: they’re afraid that God has rejected and abandoned them.

There are some, though, who are hopeful that God will still come and save them. Like sentinels, they keep waiting and watching for a word from God.

Sentinels were in charge of the city’s protection. They stood watch through the long nights, peering into the dark, hoping for dawn. Others could rest in safety because the sentinels were on guard. If the enemy arrived, they would sound the alarm and raise the city from sleep. But they hoped that, instead of attack, they would see deliverance. So they waited.

To be clear: the ancient Israelites waited for God a lot longer than four weeks. They waited for generations.

But eventually, a herald arrived bearing a message from God. Having traveled hundreds of miles over mountainous terrain, the messenger is too tired to manage more than succinct sentences. The Hebrew conveys just single words: “Peace,” “Good News” “Salvation”! This is God’s word for the beleaguered Israelites! Can you imagine how it would have felt to receive this news of victory after so many  years of waiting?

This means the end of war, the end of exile. This means return and rebuilding. It had looked like all was lost, but now this messenger proclaims that God still reigns. No enemy, not even Babylon, is strong enough to defeat God.

Now, the sentinels are ready to respond to this good news. They raise their voices, but instead of calling the people to battle as they’d expected, they call the people to celebration: “Wake up! Get dressed, get going! God is here!” For so many years, their plea had been, “O come and ransom captive Israel,” but now they cry, “Rejoice! Rejoice!” What has been subjugated is made free. What has been broken is made whole. God has spoken, and God’s word proclaims liberation.

The sentinels don’t just tell the good news; they sing it, as loudly and joyfully as they can. Their song is so persuasive that even the ruins of Jerusalem find a voice and join the chorus, and that music can be heard even to the ends of the earth. Everyone everywhere will know that God has been faithful.

Now that’s how you respond to good news: You join all of creation in a mighty anthem of praise to God! You sing a song so joyful that it brings ruined places to life.

This Christmas morning, we’re a long way from ancient Israel, but there are still so many ruined places in our world, even in our own hearts. Babylon, the imperial enemy of the Israelites has long since turned to dust. But, other oppressive empires have arisen in its place throughout the centuries. Other peoples have been exiled. Other nations have faced war. The powers of evil still threaten. The question is still asked in the darkness: Has God abandoned us? Will God come for us?

But, like Isaiah’s sentinels, you have received a message of good news in the midst of a hurting world: God has not abandoned you, and God has come for you, bringing peace, goodness, and salvation!

God has come in a surprising and unexpected way, to be sure. God has come as a baby, the word made flesh as John says, a living, breathing person who dwelt among us and showed us the face of God.

That person brought life and light for all people, even though the world rejected him. Even the enemies of sin and death are not strong enough to defeat God, and no amount of darkness can overcome the light of Christ. Nothing can ever separate you from the love of the Triune God. Emmanuel, God-with-us, means God with all of us, God everywhere, forever. What good news!

So go share this good news!

The promise of the incarnation isn’t only about Jesus’ birth in Bethlehem all those years ago. Christ is still coming into the world, this and every day. All of creation is “charged with the grandeur of God,” as the poet says.¹ God’s presence is everywhere.

You are the sentinels on the lookout for signs of that presence. And when you find it, you are the ones who call out to everyone: “Wake up! See that God is here! And here! And here!”

Do not stay silent: let your words and your actions proclaim what God has done for you. Let your life embody God’s shalom. You have seen God’s face in the person of Jesus, so now you are called to live with the same compassion that Jesus did. You are sent out to do that work of healing and liberating, to be part of God’s mission to bring wholeness and freedom to all people in all places. God’s mission set in motion here at Christmas, with a tiny baby, salvation in the most unlikely way.

You’re ready for this news: you know what to do in response. You celebrate it! You give praise to God with your whole heart, with your most joyful song. The waiting can feel long, but the good news always arrives. God always shows up. God’s love always wins.

Believe that this good news is for you and for all creation: God is here, with you always, and God is bringing you peace, goodness, and salvation. Go bear that news to the world.

Amen.

1. This is a line from Gerard Manley Hopkins’ poem “God’s Grandeur.”

John the Baptist’s example shows us that faithful commitment to Christ means trusting and serving God even when you’re uncertain how things will turn out.

Vicar Bristol Reading
The Third Sunday of Advent, year A
Texts: Isaiah 35:1-10, Matthew 11:2-11

Beloved in Christ, grace to you, and peace in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

You need to take John the Baptist seriously.

Yes, I’m talking about the guy who lived in the wild, wore animal skins and foraged for food. I’m talking about the guy who went around shouting about winnowing forks, impending wrath, and baptism by fire. You need to take him seriously.

Too often John is portrayed as some kind of social aberration, a madman who behaved the way he did because he was unhinged. But John was a prophet, a sage, a truth-speaker. He was one of many people in his day who understood that an ascetic life in the wilderness could foster deep spiritual wisdom.

He was widely known and well respected. He wasn’t crazy. He was disciplined; he was zealous. He was committed to his mission, and his mission was to point to Jesus Christ.

John gave everything for that mission. He staked his career, his reputation, even his life, on the truth of Jesus Christ. At the point in Matthew’s Gospel that we read this morning, John has been imprisoned by King Herod, who will eventually execute him. John’s ministry was ending as Jesus’ ministry was beginning.

That means that John, the great forerunner of Christ, did not get to experience Jesus’ ministry for himself. He did not hear Jesus’ teachings, witness Jesus’ healings. He was not there when Jesus died on a cross, or when Jesus conquered death.

Although he didn’t see these things himself, John continually insisted that Jesus was the promised Messiah. He believed that Jesus was Emmanuel, God come to earth.

Yet despite this profound trust in who Jesus was, John was still afraid. He was afraid that he’d led people in the wrong direction, pointed to the wrong person. While he was in prison, John had heard stories about what Jesus was up to, and they didn’t always make sense to him. They didn’t always fit his expectations. John had given everything for Jesus, but he was still uncertain.

So he sent a desperate message asking Jesus, “Are you the one, or are we to wait for another?” Facing the end of his life, John wondered whether or not he’d gotten it right. He just wanted to be sure.

Jesus responded that he was bringing healing and liberation for all people, especially those who struggle the most.

The way Jesus described his ministry echoes ancient words from the prophet Isaiah. We heard those words this morning. Isaiah’s vision paints a picture of the new life that is possible through the Messiah.

It is a transformation so complete that it’s like the harsh Judean desert turning into a lush oasis. Plants can grow, animals can thrive. The very landscape itself becomes an expression of joy! People who are weak in body find strength. Those who suffer in spirit find healing. There are no barriers to keep people from flourishing. And this notoriously dangerous wilderness is now made safe for everyone. Anyone can find their way through. No one gets lost. No one gets hurt. This is how Isaiah imagines the miraculous restoration God brings: it is total social and ecological renewal.

It may be difficult for you here this morning, in the land of 10,000 lakes (currently 10,000 frozen lakes), to grasp just how incredible this vision of a blooming desert would have sounded in its original context.

But you know exactly what it’s like to hear a vision of peace and harmony for the world and think, “No way. That’s impossible.”

A community in which no one is afraid and everyone is safe. That seems impossible.
A time when suffering minds and bodies are healed seems impossible.
A place where all people are welcomed seems impossible.
A landscape in which all species of plants and animals can thrive seems impossible.

When we look around our world, we don’t see an oasis. We still see the metaphorical desert.

We see gun violence and hate crimes that are devastatingly common, millions of people who lack access to adequate healthcare, institutions entrenched in racism and prejudice, habitat loss and climate change that are decimating biodiversity.

Will God in Christ really transform all this?

If you have asked this question, then know that you are not alone. Long ago, someone asked this same question from a prison cell: “Are you the one who will save us, or not, Jesus? Because, right now, to me, it seems impossible.”

If this is your prayer, then know that you pray alongside John, that courageous prophet who gave everything he had for the sake of the Gospel, even though he couldn’t see the ending of everything he’d worked for. In the midst of his uncertainty, in the midst of his fear, he believed that God could still – somehow – bring restoration through Christ. He held on to the vision of a desert in bloom, even though he hadn’t yet experienced it.

You can hold on to that vision, too. That vision was given to you for a time such as this.
A time when you trust God but you’re still not sure how things will work out.
A time when you are committed to the work of the Gospel, but you’re overwhelmed by all the hurt in the world.
A time when you look back on a life of faithfulness but still experience doubt.

This is why you need to take John the Baptist seriously: Because his example shows that faithful commitment to Christ does not mean you’re not afraid: it means you trust God in the midst of your fear. You rely on God’s promises even before you have seen them be fully realized. You don’t have to have all the answers before you join God’s mission. You offer your life in service to the Gospel, as John did, and you keep pointing to Christ.

Because your skills, your voice, and your witness are needed. You are a part of the restoration that God is working in the world. The God you trust has also entrusted you to be the hands and feet of Christ.

And when you’re afraid and change seems impossible, you can come back to this good news: you’re putting your trust in a God who makes the impossible possible,
a God who makes a way where there is no way, like water in the desert;
a God who brings good news to the poor;
a God who comforts the suffering;
a God who lifts up the lowly, who provides for the hungry, who brings the dead to life.

You’re trusting a God who keeps promises, even when they’re beyond your lifetime. God can see the end of the journey, even when you can’t. And God goes with you every step of the way, even through the desert.

Amen.

The biblical model of gratitude is a spiritual practice that can nourish us through all seasons of life.

Vicar Bristol Reading
Day of Thanksgiving, Year C
Texts: Deuteronomy 26:1-11, Philippians 4:4-9, John 6:25-35

Beloved in Christ, grace to you and peace in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit.

Gratitude is having a moment. It’s trendy to be thankful these days.

Numerous self-help gurus suggest keeping a daily gratitude journal, writing down a few things you’re thankful for every single day. Doing so, they say, is a quick and easy way to “fix your mindset,” and “spark joy.” In other words: it will make you feel better! And it’s true. Social science research has actually shown that practicing gratitude regularly does have a positive impact on your health. People who write thank you notes, for instance, report increased happiness scores. I’m not sure how that’s measured exactly, but it certainly sounds like a good thing.

It’s great that people are promoting gratitude, and it’s fascinating that science seems to back up traditional ethical wisdom. But, to be honest, all of this actually makes me a little nervous… Is gratitude only valuable when it makes us feel good? Do we want to measure our morality by what increases our happiness scores?

Gratitude should be more than just an emotional experience.

Sometimes we do feel thankful, but sometimes we don’t. In difficult seasons of life that are filled with grief or pain, sometimes the feeling of gratitude is hard to come by. We’re in that stretch of time now that’s known as “the holiday season,” which can be particularly painful those who are experiencing loss or loneliness. We don’t have to be grateful for our suffering. We can, though, be grateful through our suffering, And that requires an understanding of gratitude that’s more than just feeling good.

Another concern I have with this trendy kind of thankfulness is that it can hide issues of injustice and inequity.

The hashtag #blessed is ubiquitous on social media, but it’s often used in response to a life of ease or wealth. People feel #blessed when they go on cushy vacations or can afford a fancy new gadget. Yet, the biblical concept of blessing goes much deeper than creature comforts. Jesus declares that it is the poor and hungry who are blessed. This clearly calls us to understand blessing in a way that looks beyond the possessions and privilege of this life.

I want to be clear: It is okay to be grateful when we are happy or enjoying the nice things we have! And – gratitude is still valuable even when that’s not the case.

Our scriptural texts this morning underscore this idea. Paul writes in Philippians that we should rejoice always, in all circumstances; he says we should bring everything to God with thankful prayer, not only the parts of our lives that are going well. That kind of gratitude isn’t optional or occasional. It’s a spiritual discipline. It’s not a feeling, but a practice, something that we commit to doing no matter what our present situation is like.

And then there’s the Deuteronomy text, which doesn’t just encourage giving thanks in all circumstances; it actually gives elaborate and specific instructions for how to do so. Even though Deuteronomy is an ancient text, from a completely different culture than our own, its prescribed process for giving thanks is still relevant. It even comes in four basic steps!

Number one: offer your first fruits in thanks to God.

The text means this literally, as in “bring some of the first crops that you harvest,” but this applies even to those of us who aren’t farmers. Offering your first fruits means you don’t leave gratitude to the bottom of your to-do list, something you do once you’ve covered all your other needs, paid all your other bills, completed all your other chores. Gratitude takes precedence.

For some people this means budgeting in a way that prioritizes charitable giving. For others, this means honoring commitments to volunteer their time, even when their schedules are full. Or, this can be as simple as pausing before you even get out of bed in the morning to breathe slowly in a moment of thanks for a new day. The point is not what you do but how you do it. Make gratitude a practice, and make it an important one.

Second, the Deuteronomy text says to give thanks where God dwells.

Well, great! You’re all here in church on Thanksgiving morning, so must have this one down! In the context of Deuteronomy, the place of worship wasn’t yet a permanent building like this, because the Israelite community was still a wandering one. This is why the text says, “Go to the place that God will choose as a dwelling.” Even though we do have a building, this instruction to go wherever God dwells speaks to the reality that God dwells so many places in the world, beyond the walls of any church. Anywhere you practice gratitude, it is an act of worship. Any time you give thanks, it is a form of prayer. The mystic teacher Meister Eckhart actually wrote, “If the only prayer you ever say in your entire life is thank you, it will be enough.” In this way, we connect gratitude to awe and wonder. We are attentive to where God’s spirit is present and moving in the world. The whole earth is making joyful noise to God, the Psalmist says (Psalm 100:1), and when we join our voices to that chorus of praise, we are practicing gratitude.

So, make thankfulness a priority, recognize gratitude as an act of worship, and third: tell the story of what God has done for you.

Gratitude to God is meant to be shared, to be communal. The Deuteronomy text gives us model by recounting a story the ancient Israelites told:

My ancestors were wandering in a barren, dry wilderness, and famine almost killed them! But – God brought them into Egypt, where there was enough food. Then my ancestors were enslaved by the Egyptians! But – God heard their cries and rescued them. Then my ancestors ended up back in the wilderness, again struggling to survive. But – God showed them the way through and gave them a land of their own, a Promised Land that was lush and fruitful, Because God did these things, my ancestors survived and I am here now, on this good land, able to grow enough food to feed my family. I am thankful because God always sustained my ancestors and God always sustains me.

Even when things got really difficult– especially when things got really difficult– the Israelites told this story about how God had provided for them again and again. The church still tells this story today: you hear it often in our scriptures, our hymns, our liturgy. You hear this story in our prayers during Eucharist because it is about God’s provision. God feeds us – not only with physical sustenance, but also, as Jesus reminds us, with the bread of life that nourishes our souls.

God has provided for us spiritually in so many ways: through the gifts of the sacraments and the wisdom of the Word; through the sure promise of grace, the forgiveness of sins; through the guidance and comfort of God’s Spirit. Gratitude is our joyful response to God’s faithfulness and sufficiency.

The story you tell doesn’t have to be about ancestors wandering around in the desert. It can just be about the ways God’s spirit is moving in your life. How has God transformed your family, your marriage, your friendships? How has God been at work in your home, in your workplace, in your travels? How has God been speaking in your prayer life, in your learning, in your rest Telling these stories is part of giving thanks, part of practicing gratitude.

And finally, in the Deuteronomy text the culmination of this pattern of thanksgiving is a big celebratory meal. That’s the fourth step.

Sounds fitting in our American context, although I don’t imagine the ancient Israelites were eating much turkey. The biblical imperative is also clear that this meal isn’t just a party for family and friends; it’s a radical welcome for everyone. The text specifically says that “aliens who reside among you” should be invited. Those who cannot provide for themselves should be generously provided for. Caring for the hungry and poor, the ones Jesus called blessed, is a central part of this practice of gratitude. Even as they wandered in the wilderness, God called the people to share whatever they had. Now we are called to that task. Our thankful celebrations for all that God has done for us should always turn us outward to be signs of God’s justice and generosity in the world.

As we gather around our tables this holiday season, may we be cultivate a practice of gratitude that nourishes us for service, remembering that, at God’s table, all are welcome and there is always enough for everyone.

Amen.