Printer FriendlyNo Word For Thank You
Romans 1:8-15
A Sermon for Thanksgiving
In the novel titled I Heard the Owl Call My Name author Margaret Craven tells the story of a young Episcopal priest named Mark who is sent by his bishop to minister to a small village of Native Americans in the Northwest called the Kwakwala. Unbeknownst to the young priest, but known to the bishop, is the fact that Father Mark is seriously ill, in fact, terminally ill, and the bishop knows that ministering among the Kwakwala will teach him valuable lessons he'll need as his health begins to fail. But before Father Mark leaves for his new assignment the bishop says to him, "If you go to the village, from the time you tie up at the float in the inlet, the village is you. But there is one thing you must understand. They will not thank you. There is no word for thank you in the Kwakwala language."
Now, I can't help but wonder about a people who have no way of saying the words "thank you." Expressing gratitude seems like one of the most basic forms of speech we human beings have. I mean, growing up I was taught that words like "please" and "thank you" were indications of a good upbringing, and courtesies like "yes, ma'am" and "no ma'am" were signs of civilized culture. And even a cursory glance at the Bible will demonstrate how important expressions of gratitude are for a person of faith. Today's reading from the prophet Joel sings of the wonders of God's provision and almost dares us not to be grateful. Most of Paul's letters have a section where the apostle offers thanks for things God has done as well as things done by the particular church he's addressing. He even says to the Christians in Rome, whom he has not visited, "I thank my God through Jesus Christ for all of you, because your faith is proclaimed throughout the world." Gratitude was so fundamental to the development of early Christian worship that the celebration of the Lord's Supper came to be called, and is still called today in some traditions, the e??a???t?a ( eukaristia ) ? the Thanksgiving.
No, not saying thank you is just plain rude. When you let another car out in traffic don't you expect the driver to wave, or nod the head, or do something to say thank you? And doesn't it burn you up when they don't? And how about those cashiers at the store who never even acknowledge your existence much less say thank you when you pay your bill? One Halloween I tossed some candy in a little girl's bag and she asked, "Don't you have any Reece's Peanut Butter Cups?" And I thought, "Whatever happened to ?thank you'?" I know a lady who fixed a ham and took it over to a needy family one Thanksgiving and the woman of the house met her at the door and said, "Why didn't you bring a turkey?" You know, that lady got so mad she could've gone bear hunting with a switch.
What bugs me about such scenarios is that there are words for thank you but people don't use them. But there's a difference, you see, between not saying thank you and having no words for thank you. There's a difference between not being grateful and being so grateful you can't find the words for it. There's a difference between living without gratitude and living with gratitude that's deeper than human speech. Maybe that's why the Kwakwala had no word for thank you in their language. Maybe they had such a sense of gratitude that they knew they could never do it justice with the poor croakings of human speech. Throughout the novel, Mark, the young priest, invests his life in the little Kwakwala village, immersing himself in their lives, in their families, in their chapel, in their baptisms and funerals. He becomes a part of them and they become a part of him. And when he hears the owl call his name, meaning the time has come for him to die, an old woman of the tribe named Keetah, says to him, "Stay with us...We have written the bishop and asked that he let you remain here to the end, because this is your village and we are your family." And Mark puts his arm around Keetah and holds her close, finding ?no words to say thank you" for the sudden, unexpected gift of peace which she had offered him.
Haven't there been times in your life when you were so grateful, so overwhelmed by the enormity of the grace you've received that you simply didn't have words to capture it? When someone offers you a cup of coffee you say "thank you," but do those same words measure up to the embrace of a loved one when life comes crashing in on you? When someone gives you a birthday gift you say "thank you," but do those words measure up to the gift of a newborn baby wrapping his or her tiny hand around your finger? When someone holds a door for you as you enter a building you say "thank you," but do those words measure up to the wonder of a door opened to a new life, a new joy, a new hope, a new love? No, sometimes we can't say thank you because those words just aren't enough for the gratitude we feel.
A few years ago I was home in Georgia, just a few months after my Dad's triple by-pass surgery, and, as we enjoy doing, we broke out the instruments and made some music. We started singing an old, old song called Nellie Gray ?a sad song about a black man whose sweetheart is sold into slavery. The chorus goes:
I'm-a sittin' by the river and I'm weepin' all the day
?cause she's gone from the old Kentucky shore.
And my Dad's voice broke, and I could see the tears collecting in his eyes, and I asked, "Dad, are you alright?" And he brushed away a tear and said, "I'm fine. It's just that I know how close I came just a few months ago to leaving' that old Kentucky shore."
When you're grateful for life itself, there are no words for thank you. When you're grateful for the loved ones in your life there are no words for thank you either. I remember talking with a minister who was recently divorced who said, "You know, it's really awful to come home to my apartment at the end of the day and find everything just exactly the way I left it that morning." And I remember thinking "how sad," never dreaming that within a few short months I would be in exactly that same boat. I discovered how painful it is to wake up to an empty place and come home to an empty place and reach across a bed at night and find nothing but more blanket. Many of you do it each and every day and I am in awe of your strength. So you, maybe more than others here this morning, know how blessed I feel to come home to Penny who greets me with a smile and a kiss. Do you have any idea how deeply I treasure being able to reach out at night and feel the rhythm of her breathing next to me? There are no words for that. I couldn't begin to express my gratitude for such a treasure.
The grace that has seen me through is beyond my description, beyond your description. And as I look back over my life I am astounded at how God's grace has seen me through again and again. I've told you before that my youngest daughter, Kathryn, was born in 1979 with something called Klippel Feil Syndrome. Put simply, Klippel Feil is a name for a particular set of anomalies on one side of the body. In Kathryn's case it's her left side. She was born missing the bone structure in her left hand to support a thumb so she has a four-fingered hand. She has a couple of mal-formed vertebrae in her neck and she's missing a rib on her left side. There are other problems associated with her condition and possible problems which could develop down the road. Granted, her problems are not as severe as some other kids, but I am not the father of those other kids. I am the father of Kathryn, and I have to tell you that when she was born I experienced the deepest crisis of faith I had encountered up to that time. We could find no biological reason for her condition, and I couldn't find any theological handles to explain it either.
But before we left the hospital with Kathryn I talked with my aunt on the phone, and she said, "Paris, I want you to know I've been praying about this and I have a real sense that God is going to use Kathryn in a very special way. So I don't want you to worry about this. God is going to use her in a very special way." Now, my aunt is no mystic. She doesn't have visions or chat with angels, and neither do I. But when you're hurting you'll latch on to anything, so I took her words to heart. I tucked them away in my soul for when I needed them later. Every time Kathryn's head listed to the side because of those deformed vertebrae I told myself God was going to use her in a very special way. Every time some kid in school made fun of her left hand I told myself God was going to use her in a very special way. Every time we took her for X-rays of her neck and spine and waited with thumping hearts to see the results I told myself God was going to use her in a very special way. Every time I saw her struggle to pick something up without a thumb to grasp, every time she asked me if she would ever have a thumb on that hand, every time I had to talk with a teacher about school activities which might injure her weakened neck, I told myself God was going to use her in a very special way.
And as the years rolled along and she began to develop into the wonderful young lady she is now I began to wonder if maybe that special use might be a call to ministry. The older she got the more important the church became to her, and she had such poise whenever she was in front of a group. The two of us talked often about faith and there was a depth there which, for a girl her age, was astounding. And then many friends and parishioners began to tell me they thought she'd make a good minister. And many of them said the same to her. So when Kathryn decided to pursue a degree in elementary education I thought it would only be a matter of time before she saw the light and started asking me about seminary. After all, God was going to use her in a very special way.
And then one Sunday afternoon, during Kathryn's freshman year in college, I was teaching my church's confirmation class. I wasn't talking about Kathryn. I remember I was talking about how God often meets us in our suffering and pain and somehow transforms it into something wonderful, and I suddenly had one of those flashes of insight, an epiphany, if you will. I suddenly realized how pivotal my life with Kathryn had been to my own development as a Christian and as a minister. My struggle with her condition changed my theology forever for the better. Because of Kathryn I no longer believe in a God who controls our lives like the puppet strings on a marionette. Because of Kathryn I believe in a God who cries with us when we hurt. Because of Kathryn I believe in a God who takes the events of our lives, good and bad, and fashions something beautiful with them like a weaver lacing even mistakes into his design. Because of Kathryn I believe in a God who can transform darkness into light, despair into hope, death into life, crucifixions into resurrections. Because of Kathryn I've learned to care more deeply for the parishioners I serve. Because of Kathryn I've learned the joy of living the moments you have instead of the ones you don't have. Because of Kathryn I've plumbed the depths of a single human tear. All of that and more has been shaped and molded in me over the years I have been with her on this earth. And so it hit me during confirmation class that day. My God, Paris, how myopic can you be? Kathryn doesn't have to go into ministry for God to use her in a very special way. God has already used her in a special way. God has used her in me !
How can I possibly express my gratitude for that? I can't. There are no words for thank you for something so wonderful. So when you sit down to your feast this Thursday, and you think about the things that really matter, and tears pool at the corners of your eyes, and a lump rises in your throat, and you're supposed to say grace but you just can't seem to utter a sound, you may be making the most profound statement you've ever spoken.
Copyright © 11/23/03 by Paris Donehoo
Elgin First Congregational Church
The United Church of Christ.