A few miles south of downtown Atlanta, away from the tall, shiny, steel and glass buildings, a street corner is occupied by a short, unassuming, old building made of brick and stone. It’s a church building. When I lived in Atlanta, early every weekday morning a line formed outside this building—a hundred, two hundred, two hundred and fifty people—mostly men, but some women too and even some kids now and then. In all kinds of weather, in the heat of the Georgia summer and in the frigid cold of February, the people came. In the basement of this building, breakfast was served: coffee, grits, hard-boiled eggs, a few slices of orange, maybe some donuts or muffins.
In my memory this street corner is always shrouded in semi-darkness. Everything seems to be in shadow, even after the sun comes up. Shades of gray dominate the landscape. No flowers. No brightly painted murals. Just gray brick, brown jackets, and sad eyes.
Actually, not everyone had sad eyes. There was one gentleman in particular who was there every morning. At least, on those occasions when I was there, he was there. He always came through the line with a smile on his face and a glint in his eye. When asked “how are you this morning?” he would respond “I’m blessed! I’m blessed!” And he meant it.
He might have been cold. He might have been hungry. He might have been exhausted. He might have been carrying the grief of tragedies long past. Those things might come up in further conversation. But when asked “how are you this morning?” he would respond “I’m blessed! I’m blessed!” And he meant it. He was not slow-witted. He was not in denial. He was not an eternal optimist refusing to acknowledge negativity. He was just blessed. That’s all, just blessed.
This man stands out in my memory as a living example of the peace that passes understanding.
“Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice! Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near. Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”
“Rejoice,” Paul encourages us, and “do not be anxious about anything.”
Well, it makes sense that the second statement would go with the first. It’s hard to rejoice and worry at the same time.
But how can we not worry? There is so much in this world and in our lives to be anxious about. Food, shelter, clothes. Job, relationships, family. Emotional stability, financial security, spiritual growth even.
“Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God.”
Are there things in this world and in our lives that provoke anxiety? Yes! Lift them up to God, Paul says. And give thanks, Paul says.
Notice, Paul doesn’t say, lift your requests to God and don’t forget to give thanks after he grants your request. Paul says, lift your requests to God, tell him about everything that causes you anxiety, and give thanks at the same time. Give thanks before you lift up your concerns. Give thanks while you lift up your concerns. Give thanks after you lift up your concerns.
And then what happens?
Then “the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.”
The peace that passes understanding is not a gift that comes after God has met all of our ‘felt needs.’ The peace that passes understanding is a gift that comes in the midst of our need. The peace that passes understanding doesn’t remove every care from us. The peace that passes understanding guards our hearts and minds in Christ Jesus so that our cares do not overwhelm us.
When Paul exhorted the believers in Philippi to rejoice, he wasn’t telling them life would never be hard. He was promising them that God’s joy and peace is available to them even when life is hard.
Paul didn’t tell the believers in Philippi to give thanks after they got the peace and joy. He told them to give thanks while they were lifting to God the concerns that threatened to rob them of peace and joy. There is something about giving thanks to God that begins to make it possible for us to be open to peace and joy.
Sometimes we’d rather hide our hurt, bury our anger, pretend we are not afraid, and cling to our worry than open ourselves to God’s healing touch. It’s in our nature to resist the healing, reconciling, saving touch of God’s Spirit. Our thanksgiving is one avenue God can use to break down this resistance.
To describe this resistance I will borrow an image from Henri Nouwen, an image of clenched fists.
Nouwen writes: “This image shows a tension, a desire to cling tightly to yourself, a greediness which betrays fear. A story about an elderly woman brought to a psychiatric center exemplifies this attitude. She was wild, swinging at everything in sight, and frightening everyone so much that the doctors had to take everything away from her. But there was one small coin which she gripped in her fist and would not give up. In fact, it took two people to pry open that clenched hand. It was as though she would lose her very self along with the coin. If they deprived her of that last possession, she would have nothing more and be nothing more. That was her fear.” [Henri Nouwen, With Open Hands, (Notre Dame, IN: Ave Maria Press, 1995), p. 12.]
Giving thanks reminds us that we are nothing apart from God, and God can be trusted. Giving thanks loosens the grip of our clenched fists, so that we might let go of ourselves and receive the fullness of God’s Spirit.
Is your clenched fist clinging to guilt over a long ago wrong-doing of your own?
Remember that Jesus walked this path before us. Jesus has paid the price for the sins of the world, for your sins and mine. If I am consumed by guilt, the magnitude of my particular sinfulness can seem unforgivable. As I give thanks to God, I am reminded of the awesome magnitude of his sacrifice for me. My own sin pales in comparison to his self-giving love. As I give thanks, my grip is loosened and the tiny coin of my guilt can fall away.
Is your clenched fist clinging to bitterness because you have been wronged by another person, or by a situation beyond your control, or even by the general unfairness of the world?
Remember that Jesus walked this path too. There is no undeserved suffering—no betrayal, no abandonment, no abuse—that Jesus cannot identify with. In my suffering, I may get a glimpse of the cross of Jesus. For that, if for nothing else, I can give thanks. Thanksgiving, as it grows, leaves little room for bitterness. As I give thanks, my grip is loosened and, though the pain of my suffering may remain yet awhile and the scars may remain forever, the tiny coin of bitterness can fall away.
Is your clenched fist clinging to possessions (of things or people) in the present or to the desire for security in the future?
Uncertainty abounds. Anxiety about the possibility that we might lose something or someone leads us to hold tightly to what we have this moment and to covet the illusion of security that comes from getting even more or clinging even tighter. The more we give thanks for God’s faithfulness in the past, the more we can trust in God’s faithfulness in the future, and the less uncertainty about the future seems to matter. The Psalms take this very seriously; again and again God’s faithfulness in the past is cited as evidence that the future can be awaited with hopeful expectancy rather than anxious striving. As we give thanks, our grip is loosened and the tiny coin of our worry can fall away.
Which brings us, finally, to the possibility of serenity in the present.
The more we give thanks, the more we are reminded that nothing we have belongs to us anyway—the things we have and the relationships we enjoy have been given to us, not to consume so that we might grow happier and more powerful, but to nurture and tend so that God might be glorified. No matter the burdens of the past, thanksgiving opens us up to God’s gift of serenity in the present.
Giving thanks reminds us that we are nothing apart from God, and God can be trusted. Like the woman in Nouwen’s story, we clench our fists tightly in the fear that if we let go of ourselves, we might lose everything, and be nothing. Thanksgiving loosens our fingers, so that we might reach up to God with open hands. In so doing, we find that letting go of ourselves does not, in fact, lead to nothingness. We find, instead, that letting go of ourselves opens us up to receive the fullness of God’s Spirit. Thanksgiving opens our hands to receive joy.
Ok, so if we want to give thanks even as we cry out to God in our anxiety, how do we do it?
I’m still learning about giving thanks. It isn’t always easy, but here is what I have learned. Please note that all of these things need not be solitary activities. Very often they go better you share the process with another person. Also, all of this involves a context of prayer.
(1) Notice the times when thanksgiving is spontaneous. Do nothing to hinder it. Don’t over-analyze it. Just enjoy the moment. If there is a place or activity that gives rise to spontaneous thanksgiving in you, then make the time to go there or do that as often as you can.
(2) For intentional thanksgiving, start small. Take notice of the small gifts of God’s creativity and grace. The way the snow glitters in the moonlight. The face of your sleeping child. The fact that, today anyway, your fingers work well enough to wiggle, and your arms work well enough to give a hug—and get one too. Giving thanks for the obvious gifts opens our eyes to notice the more subtle gifts. More and more we see the remarkable ways in which we are loved and accepted. More and more we can love and trust in return. More and more we can give of ourselves, because we know without doubt that our cup is indeed filled to overflowing and there is more than enough. Take notice of the small gifts, and give thanks.
(3) Remember past suffering from which you have healed, or a past injustice from which the world has moved on. Examine the scars. Give thanks for the scars; they are a great improvement over open wounds. Consider the journey from open wound to healed scar. Is there anything in that journey that can be called good? Name those things, and give thanks.
There is another step. Some of you are already well-versed in step four. But some of you may not be there yet. That’s ok. If steps one and two still come with difficulty, if step three is still a major challenge, then put aside step four and come back to it later.
(4) Consider a wound that is not yet healed, where there is still hurt or resentment. This might be a new wound, where the knife is still present. This might be something old, a past wound that still oozes from time to time. Or consider an injustice from which the world still suffers. Ask yourself: is there anything in this that I can be thankful for? If there is something, no matter how small or seemingly inconsequential compared to the pain, give thanks. If there is nothing, then come back the next day, and ask yourself the same question: is there anything in this that I can be thankful for? If there is something, no matter how small or seemingly inconsequential, then give thanks. If not, then repeat the process the next day. And the next. And the next.
Notice here that I am not talking about analyzing the source of the suffering, and I am not talking about working through your feelings about the suffering. That may all be helpful from the point of view of emotional healing, but what I’m talking about here is learning how to give thanks even in the midst of suffering and even given the reality of on-going injustice.
Learning how to give thanks will not make the suffering go away, and it will not remedy the injustice. But it just might be the case that learning how to give thanks will free you to receive the grace from God to endure the suffering or fight against the injustice. Enduring suffering without learning to give thanks risks a fall into self-pitying misery or self-centered masochism. Fighting injustice without learning how to give thanks risks falling into self-justifying activism or angry self-righteousness. Learning to give thanks in the midst of suffering and injustice turns us from self to God and to neighbor, so that we might indeed love God with all our heart and mind and soul and strength and love our neighbor as ourselves.
(5) If a set of circumstances remain that simply refuse to allow any possibility of thanksgiving, then lift your clenched fists to God and ask him to pry them open for you; and keep asking and keep asking and keep asking and keep asking, until one day you notice that the hands you are raising to God can wiggle all ten fingers freely. Then give thanks, and the peace of God which passes all understanding, will guard your heart and mind in Christ Jesus. Rejoicing will not be out of your reach forever.
Giving thanks reminds us that we are nothing apart from God, and God can be trusted. Giving thanks loosens the grip of our clenched fists, so that we might let go of ourselves and receive the fullness of God’s Spirit.
Anxiety is a voracious emotion. Anxiety will fill our minds and hearts until there is little room for anything else.
Giving thanks makes room in our hearts and minds for other thoughts. As the peace of God guards our hearts and minds, we will be more able to think about whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable, whatever is excellent and praiseworthy.
At the same time, as our hearts and minds are filled with that which is true and noble and lovely and admirable and excellent and praiseworthy, we will give thanks all the more.
And the God of peace will be with us.
The God of peace will be with you.
