Before the miraculous events at the Red sea even took place, God instructed Moses to tell the Israelites that they were in the makings of what would become a festival. To a people yet bound in slavery, God commanded them to celebrate forever the things that were about to take place, adding, “Then your children will ask, ‘What does all this mean? What is this ceremony about?’ And you will reply, ‘It is the celebration of the LORD’s Passover, for he passed over the homes of the Israelites in Egypt’” (Exodus 12:26-27a). Today the Jewish Passover continues to be a celebration of remembrance. There is also a tradition within the ritual in keeping with the inquisitive children God described. The youngest child at the table asks aloud, “Why is this night different from all other nights?” The question is then answered in the telling of the events of the Exodus as an explanation of the meal before them: We eat bitter herbs to remind us how bitter our ancestors’ slavery was in Egypt... We recline on pillows because we were once slaves but are now free.(1)
I was trying to imagine what it would look like if we were to borrow this tradition of inquiry for thanksgiving this year. Why is this night different from all other nights? Why is this Thanksgiving different from all other Thanksgivings? How is this meal before us explained by the God who has gone before us?
When we gather wherever we gather this year, what are we remembering? How is this night different from all other nights? In the spirit of inquiry, we might remember again the history that reaches far beyond our own family traditions, when the first Thanksgiving was celebrated among very different neighbors. We might recall the provisions of a creator that make the act of thanksgiving a natural response among creatures. Or perhaps we might discover that, save for the quantity of food, this night is not that much different.
Still for others, the question may turn us necessarily inward. Thanksgiving may be different this year because life is different, because someone is not at the table this year who was last year, or because we come this year facing new illness or pain. In the midst of such events, how do we approach a festival of remembrance? How do we mark the night with thanksgiving when it feels as though we are standing in the dark?
Eighteenth century poet John Donne asked of God a similar question. “How shall they come to thee whom thou hast nailed to their bed?” His writings during the time of the bubonic plague give us an idea of how we might find our way to thanksgiving though we walk in the shadows of death. In the prime of his life, Donne was struck with illness and thought he too had contracted the plague. Though it was not the plague and he eventually recovered, Donne wrestled with all of the emotions of one looking to God through the darkest of nights. While he was nailed to his bed along with scores of others in similar situations across London, he comprised a series of meditations that recorded his thoughts. His words offer a manual for the one struggling to remember God, to recollect God’s acts of mercy, to recall the spirit of thanksgiving that moves us through the dark. These poems speak, notes Philip Yancey, to one of the toughest questions we can face, “In the midst of plague times, how can we give thanks?”(2)
I offer an excerpt of his words as a sounding board for our reflection this Thanksgiving. Whether we are facing dark days at the table this year or looking again at the rich history of the holiday before us, might this night be different from all others in its recollection of thanksgiving as a quality which leads us home.
“O most gracious God, on this sickbed I feel under your
correction, and I taste of humiliation, but let me taste of
consolation, too. Once this scourge has persuaded us that we are
nothing of ourselves, may it also persuade us that you are all
things unto us....
You, O Lord, who have imprinted medicinal virtues in all
creatures, so that even the juices of plants and the venom of
snakes may assist in healing, are able to transform this present
sickness into everlasting health, and to make my very dejection
and faintness of heart a powerful anodyne. When your Son cried
out “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?” you reached out
your hand not to heal his sad soul, but to receive his holy soul.
Neither did he desire to hold it from you, but surrendered it to
you.
I see your hand upon me now, O Lord, and I ask not why it comes
or what it intends. Whether you will bid my soul to stay in this
body for some time, or meet you this day in paradise, I ask not.
Curiosity of mind tempts me to know, but my true healing lies in
silent and absolute obedience to your will, even before I know
it. Preserve that obedience, O my God, and that will preserve me
to you; that, when you have catechized me with affliction here, I
may take a greater degree, and serve you in a higher place, in
your kingdom of joy and glory. Amen.”
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1. The complete liturgy of the Passover service, the Haggadah, can be read at www.chabad.org/holidays/passover/pesach_cdo/aid/1735/jewish/The-Haggadah.htm
2. Philip Yancey, “Thanksgiving in the Midst of Fear,” Christianity Today, 1997. Selection of Donne’s poems revised and excerpted by Philip Yancey.
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Copyright © 2007 Ravi Zacharias International Ministries (RZIM). Reprinted with permission. "A Slice of Infinity" is a radio ministry of Ravi Zacharias International Ministries.
[see also Kerux illustration #29116 for one that is very similar]
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[Original illustration at this number was deleted for being obsolete]