Recently, some words I had read before in Psalm 107 struck me with new force: “Let them sacrifice the sacrifice of thanksgiving” (Psalm 107:22). I’m sure the Psalmist wasn’t thinking of our American Thanksgiving holiday when he wrote; neither the nation nor its holiday existed then. And I’m not thinking primarily of the thank offering to which he probably referred. (See Leviticus 7:11-21; a thank offering was a “peace offering for thanksgiving.”) I’m not Jewish, and that was thousands of years ago. Still, I have wondered: What could my “sacrifice of thanksgiving” be, and how might I offer it? And for what ought I to be thankful?
The latter question could have many answers; I have offered some of them before. Last year at this season, I compared and contrasted my blessings and my privilege. Here, however, I’m inclined to consult the Psalmist further, that is, to read the passage in context.
For what to be thankful
The context is, of course, a hymn. It begins, “O give thanks unto the Lord, for he is good: for his mercy endureth for ever. Let the redeemed of the Lord say so . . . .” Four times thereafter, a new section begins with a similar thought, each time in the same words: “Oh that men would praise the Lord for his goodness, and for his wonderful works to the children of men!”
The goodness of God, his eternal mercy, his wonderful works — that’s more than cause to be thankful. But the Psalmist is more specific.
The wandering, the hungry and thirsty, and the faint of soul “cried unto the Lord in their trouble, and he delivered them out of their distresses.”
Those who “sit in darkness and in the shadow of death,” who are bound in affliction, were delivered when they cried unto him. Even those who were as if bound in iron because they rebelled against God and condemned his counsel — even they, when they cried unto him, were delivered. He brought them out of darkness and “brake their bands asunder.”
Even fools who are mired in the folly of sin are healed and delivered, when they turn to him.
Those who are storm-tossed on the sea, lifted up to the sky and fallen to the depths, whose “soul is melted because of trouble”; those who are “at their wits’ end” (I didn’t realize that was a biblical phrase) — when they cry unto the Lord, he delivers them. “He maketh the storm a calm, so that the waves thereof are still.” Likewise, the oppressed, the afflicted, the sorrowful, the poor.
“Whoso is wise, and will observe these things,” ends the psalm, “. . . shall understand the lovingkindness of the Lord.”
My list of personal blessings is long indeed, but nothing else on it is greater than the Lord’s mercy, deliverance (past and future), kindness, healing, and peace — especially when it answers not just my devotion, but even my folly and my rebellion.
Truly “he maketh him families like a flock.”
It is therefore to God, above all, that I should be thankful at this and every season, and I am awestruck at the breadth and depth of his gifts. What, then, is my own “sacrifice of thanksgiving”?
My sacrifice of thanksgiving
A striking moment the Book of Mormon features a king named Lamoni. Having been taught for the first time some of the grand things of God, “the king did bow down before the Lord, upon his knees; yea, even he did prostrate himself upon the earth, and cried mightily, saying: O God, Aaron hath told me that there is a God; and if there is a God, and if thou art God, wilt thou make thyself known unto me, and I will give away all my sins to know thee” (Alma 22:17-18).
Surely to surrender my folly, rebellion, and sin — at least some of it — especially the parts I enjoy — would make a fine sacrifice of thanksgiving. Given that God’s mercy, goodness, deliverance, kindness, and healing are right at the top of my list of things for which to give thanks, my Lamoni-like sacrifice would be exactly on point.
I could even itemize my sinful follies before laying them on the altar. Here are a few highlights:
- the pride that acts sufficient without him (though it knows better), poisoning some moments with misplaced priorities and poor, lazy choices;
- various senses of entitlement, which lead in various unfortunate directions;
- small but piquant servings of bitterness, which do no one any good; and
- scattered moments of hopelessness.
You may wonder, why do I suggest that hopelessness is a sin? I don’t think it always is. But when a multicourse Thanksgiving feast of hope is spread perpetually before me, hopelessness feels like a sin — in part, a sin of ingratitude.
At the root
The deeper I dig into this proposition of a sacrifice of thanksgiving, the more conscious I am of this reality: The power to make me other than a fool, a rebel, and a sinner is not in me. It is in God. The only thing I have to give which God will never take against my will is my will — my cooperation with his patient project of making me into something better than I am.
So my best sacrifice of thanksgiving must be to say, “Thy will be done” — in meekness, without resentment or sarcasm — and to say it day after day, hour after hour, and to occupy myself with good things, with God things, as proof that I’m sincere. I mean things which don’t get in the way of God’s work on me and everyone else, which may sometimes even advance that work by a millimeter or two in his name.
Those words are easy to write. I see no evidence in me or the world around me that they are easy to live. But the people I know who live them well seem happy, as often as not, and they appear to enjoy a measure of peace. So maybe I could try for a few minutes, and then a few more, and then a few more, at this Thanksgiving, to say, “Thy will be done by me and in me,” and mean it.
It must be more pleasant to try this as a sacrifice of thanksgiving than as a sacrifice of fear.
Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours.
Photo credits: Aaron Burden on Unsplash and David Kovalenko on Unsplash
From the Author
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