Thanksgivukkah, Franksgiving, or Thanksmas?

It won’t happen again until the year 79811. That’s 77,798 years from now. So if you’re Jewish, enjoy the moment.

 I’m referring to the concurrence of Thanksgiving and Hanukkah. Some American Jews are calling it Thanksgivukkah.

Actually Hanukkah begins on the Wednesday evening before Thanksgiving, which this year falls on November 28. It’s a rare occasion for Jews to celebrate two holidays at once, one uniquely American—Thanksgiving---and the other singularly Jewish: Hanukkah, giving these Jews the opportunity to reclaim the true meaning of Hanukkah, which some say was never about giving (gifts) anyway but about taking, as in the Maccabean revolt taking back the Temple from the Seleucids in 164 BCE; it’s about celebrating and being thankful for such epochal moments.

So, for some Jews, Thanksgivukkah fits nicely into the true meaning of Hanukkah, conveying a historical memory of thankfulness.

Had President Franklin Roosevelt had his way, this confluence of Hanukkah with Thanksgiving would never have happened, for Roosevelt wanted Thanksgiving moved back a week earlier in November to boost retail sales during the Great Depression. It had long been the practice in America to celebrate Thanksgiving on the last Thursday of November. President Abraham Lincoln made it official by proclaiming a national Thanksgiving Day in 1863. Franklin’s effort to move Thanksgiving back a week, dubbed Franksgiving by its opponents, fell flat, and Roosevelt reluctantly signed a bill in 1941 setting Thanksgiving on the fourth Thursday in November.

The emergence of Black Friday surely found Roosevelt snickering from his grave, albeit through clenched teeth on his cigarette holder, for Black Friday virtually redeemed his idea: Use Thanksgiving as a prompt for buying and selling.

 So here we find ourselves with Black Friday smearing a pristine Thanksgiving Day with a dreary gray, reducing it from a family celebration of gratitude to a bargain basement retail wake-up call, a nuisance for money makers, delaying their customers’ dash to save cash, stalling the race to keep pace with the competition--- much like one of those annoying internet commercials you have to watch for 29 seconds before you can skip it with a click.

Maybe we should just give in, nodding in Thanksgiving’s direction, saluting it as we rush to the mall. Perhaps we’re made for Franksgiving. It’s simply part of human nature to desire the best product at the lowest price, and if Thanksgiving is merely a commercial warm-up for that, so be it.

But then, we are also wired for thankfulness. The spirit of thanksgiving didn't begin at Plymouth Rock in 1692.

Those early settlers in North America brought thanksgiving with them.  And their ancestors celebrated fall harvests with festivals of thanksgiving. Thanksgiving is built into our collective consciousness. In reality, when the earliest settlers arrived in North America, thanksgiving was already here, already a part of the Native Americans’ cycle of life. No wonder Squanto met the Pilgrims with gifts of thanksgiving.

Instead of bypassing Thanksgiving, on the one hand, or feeling guilty about shopping, on the other, maybe we should recognize our dual personalities: We are givers and getters, passers and receivers, grabbers and releasers, Thanksgivukkahers and Franksgivers.

So, why not start Thanksgiving with Christmas? I mean, why not combine the spirit of thankfulness with the spirit of gifting (shopping)?

Call it Thanksmas.

Yes, we may charge to the malls on Black Friday, or even on Thursday afternoon, trying to find that deal of the day, in hopes of surprising our loved ones on Christmas morning. It’s not necessarily a bad thing.

But before bolting for the door, try pausing and letting the spirit of Christmas---the attitude of gratitude for grace--- invade your Thanksgiving Day. The commercialization of these two holidays doesn't have to dominate the entire holiday screen, although it will certainly make its presence known.

But when it does, threatening to dictate its agenda, try retreating if only for a moment to a quiet place--- maybe outdoors, or a secluded room, even if it’s a closet---and get alone.

Then, taking a deep breath, thank God for life--- as difficult as yours may be today---and for yourself, that special person you truly are, even though you may have difficulty believing it at the moment.  And remember to be thankful for others, the special ones that make life so much better, as well as those in the other room right now, the ones aggravating the stew out of you.

And recalling that Jesus was born in a day when people were haggling over the best price for a night in the inn while grumbling about paying their taxes, thank him for life’s messes, for from them can come life’s greatest miracles.

Now exhale.

You've just experienced Thanksmas. 

No escaping the reality of global warming

I sat down to the evening news. That’s not always the best thing to do if you want to unwind for the day, which was my intent.

I had been to a conference sponsored by the Sustainable Religious Lands Committee of the Festival of Faiths. In partnership with the Center for Interfaith Relations and Bellarmine University’s Campus Ministry, I had heard speakers address issues intended to raise our awareness of the alarmingly high environmental and human risks resulting from the much-acclaimed national “Energy Independence” boom. Speakers underscored how a new generation of fossil fuel extraction infrastructures threatens the health of our planet. This holds particular relevance for me, a resident of central Kentucky, because the proposed Bluegrass Pipeline carrying dangerous fracking material that, if spilled, could harm people and the land, is scheduled to be operational in our region by December, 2015.

Although the conference had been most helpful and hopeful, I was a bit overwhelmed.

And so I slouched down to the evening news, which I caught in progress, just in time to listen to Anne Thompson’s report, “Unbearable Neighbors.” 

Cute title, I thought. I’ll relax.

She reported how for many years tourists have gathered in the small northern Canadian town of Churchill to watch the gathering of polar bears. The bears and the people coexist from late June when the ice disappears around Hudson Bay to late November when it reforms. But the ice is reconstituting about a month later these days, causing the bears to endure the land that much longer without their main food source: ring seal, which thrive in the sea ice.

 “Greenhouse gases threaten the existence of the polar bears,” said Dr. Steven Amstrup, chief scientist for Polar Bear International.

I jumped up and proclaimed to my wife that I had heard about this at the conference.

‘“The Unbearable Neighbors?”’ she asked.

“No, the sea ice,” I exclaimed.

One of the conference speakers, Samuel Avery, had spoken of what scientists call “positive feedback loops,” associated with the earth’s climate.  A positive feedback loop is basically an effect that makes itself worse, and ice melt is one of those positive feedback loops. Sea ice helps keep the earth cool because its shiny surface reflects 80 percent of the incoming solar energy back into the atmosphere. But as ice melts, the water’s darker surface reflects only 5 percent of the sunlight, absorbing the other 95 percent, which in turn heats our planet even more, causing more ice to melt, which leads to more absorption. 

Once it gets started, it’s hard to stop. So here is the conundrum: How can we as addicted as we are to fossil fuels reverse a trend that mightily marches toward wrecking our climate?

If you refuse to stick your head in the sand, pretending global warming doesn't exist and poses no real threat to life as we know it, you too feel at least a little frustrated about untangling the mess we humans have made on our little planet we call Earth.

Speakers at the conference didn't only describe the problem, they offered solutions as well. But there is no silver bullet, no quick, easy fix to what we've created on this, the Lord’s creation.  As I was reminded by the evening news, environmental issues related to greenhouse gases are interrelated. They affect seals and polar bears and weather patterns and drinking water.

Finding answers will require a paradigm shift---a different way of thinking. Viewing the environment as a trust God has given us to care for and develop and not as a mere commodity to be exploited for our personal gain and profit is a start in changing our direction.  

Perhaps recognizing that God not only owns “the cattle on a thousand hills” (Psalm 50:10), but the land beneath their feet as well will remind us that we are after all only renters, stewards of this earth; God is the owner.

And harming one part of his property---yes, even a small piece of land beneath what appears to be a harmless pipeline--- affects the whole.

You can’t escape that fact.

Not even by watching the evening news.

On a van with the nuns

I first planted a garden because of something an Italian monk wrote some 1500 years ago.

His name is Benedict--- St. Benedict of Nursia. And the document he penned became known as his Rule or guide for monastic life. As author Jon Sweeney has noted, the Rule of St. Benedict became not only the basic guide for generations of monks in various religious orders, but it established a “way of life rooted in the Gospel and grounded in the scriptural principles of charity, stability and faithfulness.” 

Benedict didn't want the monks to be “idle,” so in addition to their time spent praying and reading the Scriptures, he required them to work with their hands. “When they live by the labor of their hands, as our fathers and the apostles did, then they are really monks,” wrote Benedict. He saw everything done for the Lord as an act of worship, whether it was kneeling at an altar, crafting a table, or working the land.

I wasn't attracted to woodwork, but I could plant a garden, even though I’d never done that either.

So this city boy grew to love that little plot of ground in our back yard that my wife so generously allotted me.

One of my proudest moments as a keeper of God’s good earth came when my friend, Brother Paul, a Cistercian monk from the Abby of Gethsemani, stopped by on his way to a dental appointment and cast an approving eye on my little Garden of Eden.

I secretly turned more grass into garden, and Lori pretended not to notice.

One thing leads to another: My concern and love for the land soon extended far beyond the piece of earth I tended.

And so last week I found myself on a van with several of the Sisters of Loretto. They were a small representation of the nuns who so courageously refused to allow the powerful Bluegrass Pipeline to survey their land.

Why did they do that, and why was I on the van with them?

The liquids the pipeline would carry contain dangerous fracking material that if spilled---and at least one spill involving all kinds of pipelines occurs every day---could seriously harm the land God has given the nuns and us.

In fact, according to the U.S, Pipeline and Hazardous Materials Safety Administration, a “significant incident” involving a hazardous liquids pipeline occurs every three days. Due to the highly toxic nature of these natural gas liquids, any spill or leak---however big or small---could be extremely harmful to local residents, the environment, and the land.

And so I joined the nuns in delivering a petition to Kentucky Governor Steve Beshear’s office, urging him to oppose this pipeline, which will threaten homes and drinking water --and would cut through the heart of Kentucky, including my beloved Abby of Gethsemani, the oldest operating monastery in America, where Brother Paul and others live, quietly abiding by St. Benedict’s Rule.

Traveling with the nuns, we talk of how we are up against it. The Bluegrass Pipeline is a powerful entity and promises jobs, although most are temporary, and offers money to landowners for easements.

But my traveling companions are full of faith. There’s the diminutive Sister Mary. You’d never guess she’s been at the Motherhouse since 1958, for she is still as feisty as a Terrier pup. Sister Pauline, a member of the community since 1951, speaks with measured words of wisdom indicative of a life spent in contemplation.  Sister Ceciliana’s 63 years as a nun apparently hasn't dulled the effervescent glow constantly beaming from her jovial face. (Or is the 63 years the reason for her glow?)

The nuns are joined by Co-Members of the Loretto community: Peg, whose smile is infectious, is of the United Church of Christ; Susan, whose quiet reserve belies her wealth of knowledge about the pipeline’s dangers, is a Mennonite; and JoAnn, a Catholic, serves as our capable and faithful driver, as well as a sensitive conversationalist.

We are bound together by the love of Christ that also binds us to the land he entrusted to our care.

“Look at the sun breaking through those clouds,” declares Sister Ceceliana, as we bump along in our van. “It’s almost like a second sunrise.”

Later that day, having returned from our mission to the State Capitol, I stroll around the grounds surrounding the Loretto Motherhouse and see an amazing thing: the sun suddenly splitting the clouds, much like it did earlier that morning. St. Benedict’s words echo in my ears until the wind whispers that it’s time to return to work.

And then I realize I've already been there.

Living on the way to life’s exit

“Tonight
We are young
---Fun.

It’s 7 a.m. on any given weekday, and the regular crowd shuffles in. No one asks where to sit; it’s been settled by habit over the years.

I’m at the retirement facility in Lubbock, TX, where my mom and dad live. And on this day, I join my dad’s breakfast bunch. This morning Dad, age 89, is undergoing a knee replacement while Mom, 92, waits in their apartment.

At the breakfast table, Larry, the retired cotton farmer, sits to my left, calmly smiling beneath his red suspenders and flannel shirt. To my right Bob, once an entrepreneur has a back problem that forces him to hunch over just a bit. He leads the discussion as to the whereabouts of the missing Tabasco sauce. Next to him is Leonard, whose wistful eyes, shock of gray hair and lean frame could give you the impression he might just don a hard hat and build another house in South Bend, Indiana. Then there is the soft spoken, unassuming Elvin, who at 99 years young, just had his driver’s license renewed for two more years. Dr. Holmes, the retired pediatrician, sitting across from me, speaks tenderly and respectfully but with a measure of authority, and tucking his chin to his chest as he speaks, reminds me of a wise owl. I assume Tom, the former art teacher, sported his trimmed goatee when he taught years ago, for it still fits the professorial part.

And here they hold court on the events of life as summarized on last evening’s news.

Sitting with my elders, I at fifty-seven, feel somewhat like the Sigma Chi pledge I once was, communing at the breakfast table with the older guys at Baylor’s Student Union, cautious of saying too much yet feeling compelled to join in. A brief semester later and I would have a pledge fetching coffee for me. Ahh, we were young frat boys clad in our saddle oxfords, button down shirts with frat pins--- sipping our coffee, sitting on the edge of our seats, anxious to implement our plans to set the world ablaze.

We were young.

At least for a night.

Or a wake up coffee at the Student Union.

And then I was gone.

I moved on from the table.

In the passing years, I watched as others, including myself in certain seasons of life, tried to cheat the Time Keeper. But like Billy, the character Michael Douglas plays in the just released movie, Last Vegas, we can put on a slick image in an attempt to outrun the aging process that relentlessly chases us. Yet the truth is impossible to hide: Sooner or later time catches us all. “Your teeth, your hair, even your tan is phony,” his friend Paddy (Robert De Niro), tells Billy.

The fact is, we can deny it; we can resist it; we can fight it, but we can’t hide from it: We all grow older. And, at some point, we are gone.

Dying is a process that begins at birth and must be allowed to happen in predictable and unknown ways. The God of the present moment fills in the gaps and all points in between, making living worthwhile. I’ll do all I can to look and feel as healthy as possible while anticipating fellowship at another Table set by the Friend of Friends.

In the meantime, we sit at the table with each other, appreciating each moment for all it’s worth.

It’s Larry ordering an extra poached egg and slipping in one of his stripes of bacon for me to take to Mom (“It’s what your dad does each morning,” he whispers to me); it’s Everett taking Mom and Dad’s dog out while I’m taking care of Dad at the hospital; it’s Bob printing my airline tickets so I can spend some extra time with Dad; and it’s the Dr. listening for me to tell him how Dad is doing while showing me how to adjust that little gadget on the stationary bike in the exercise room. And it's Tom and Leonard repeatedly asking how Mom and Dad are getting along.

Little slices of caring in a time where time is all we really have.

“I’m sure your parents are glad you’ve come all the way out here to help take care of them,” Bobbie at the ladies’ breakfast table says to me as I walk by on my way to the airport. “But then, I guess you had it coming,” she laughs.

“Oh yeah,” I chuckle back to her. “They spent plenty of time taking care of me.”

I find my way to the exit.

And then, I am gone.