Giving thanks

Image description: A scene from the film Where Olive Trees Weep. Palestinian journalist and therapist Ashira Darwish is seated on the floor, sandals on her feet, with her hand pressed to her heart as she sings. She has long brown curly hair. She is wearing dark-framed glasses and has a white meditation shawl draped around her shoulders.

Earlier in January, St Clement’s had the privilege of going on a 5-day silent retreat at Rivendell Retreat Centre on Bowen Island. There were 11 of us from the parish who attended. The retired dean of Christ Church Cathedral, Peter Elliott, was our retreat leader for the week. During one of the sessions, we were talking about the afterlife—how we understood heaven and hell. Peter proposed that when Jesus descended to the dead after his crucifixion and death, that Jesus descended to hell and cleared it out! That hell is empty and heaven is a place where even human beings who have done terrible things find the love of God, finally, to be irresistible. 

I find this idea compelling. Bishop Lynne McNaughton—former rector of St Clement’s and one time instructor at the Vancouver School of Theology—I’m told that she used to have students gather around a table, with an empty chair on their left and an empty chair on their right. She would ask the students to imagine that they were seated at God’s banquet table in heaven. The chair on the left was for someone they really hoped to see in heaven and the chair on the right was for someone they really hoped they wouldn’t. 

For lots of us, I imagine, the seat on the left would be for a beloved family member or a friend or a pet—who we love, but see no longer. And, the seat on the right might belong to anyone from Aunt Helen who talks your ear off at Christmas, to Hitler. 

So, if everyone gets a seat at God’s banquet table, does that mean that the last word—at least in eternity—isn’t evil, but love? 

I find that idea really compelling; it’s also really challenging for me. While hell might be absent in eternity, it certainly doesn’t feel absent in the present. There is no shortage of personal or corporate ‘hells’ in our world today. There is disease, and violence, and war, and fear, and depression, and unemployment, and high cost of living, and the breakdown of relationships and families and countries. 

It’s into this reality that the book of Psalms is written. We read from the book Psalms every Sunday. We recited Psalm 138 today. It’s one of the foremost hymns of thanksgiving in all of scripture. But, the setting for Psalm 138 doesn’t exactly seem like the kind of place for giving thanks. Psalm 138 is written after the people of God have returned from exile. They’ve lost family members. They’ve faced starvation. They’ve had their land and their livelihoods ransacked. They’re returning to very different homes than the ones they left behind. So, why on earth are they giving thanks?

Scholar Dennis Tucker Jr. writes “In Hebrew, the name for the book of Psalms is tehillim, or ‘praises,’ . . . . Yet we must be clear, this unbridled praise is always grounded in gritty reality. There is no room for escapism or denial in these texts; the Psalter does not afford us this kind of luxury. What the psalms do provide, however, is a lens through which to see this world.”

He goes on to describe how, in the ancient world, the “rise and fall of empires” were closely tied to the different gods that each nation laid claim to. These gods were, of course, subject to the dictator of the day. Whatever ruler was rising to power, they had to be seen as more powerful than any god the people were worshipping at the time. 

So, when the psalmist in today’s psalm comes out and says, “Regardless of how terrible life is right now, I worship a God who even the kings of the earth will one day bow down to”—this is quite a statement. It’s the psalmist demonstrating how giving thanks can be a form of resistance. It’s the psalmist declaring that one day even those who rule with terror will find the love of God irresistible. 

It reminds me of something a friend of mine was telling me the other day. She was describing a saying spoken by Palestinians, namely, by Muslims and Arabic-speaking Christians. The phrase (if I’m remembering it correctly) is alhamdulillah. It’s roughly translated as a shrug and something along the lines of, “Give it back to God” or, “All praise is due to God.” 

It’s used, as I understand, as a prayer of thanksgiving—for the little things as well as in more serious circumstances. My friend told me about a Palestinian woman in Gaza she’d seen on the news. The woman’s arm was missing, a wound from a recent military raid. The woman is telling her story to the reporter and as she’s speaking, she lifts up her other arm and says to the reporter, “Alhamdulillah.” “Praise God; I still have another.”

Giving thanks—specifically giving thanks in the presence of one’s enemies—this is the kind of praise, the kind of thanksgiving we see in the psalms. It’s about a belief in God, a way of orienting our hearts that says, “Even if every last one of my limbs is taken away, praise God, because love will have the last word.” 

I wonder if this is a form of giving thanks that resonates with you? I wonder if Psalm 138 is a prayer you have prayed? 

To conclude my sermon today, I want to tell you about a project Lynley and I have been working on. We are putting together a public  screening of a film called Where Olive Trees Weep. We’ve received permission from the filmmakers to show the film for free here at St Clement’s at the end of April. We’ll be joined at the screening by a panel, including a professor of politics in the Middle East from SFU, a Palestinian Canadian, and a Jewish Canadian. 

The film, Where Olive Trees Weep explores themes of loss, trauma, and the quest for justice. It follows, among others, Palestinian journalist and therapist Ashira Darwish, grassroots activist Ahed Tamimi, Israeli journalist Amira Hass, and renowned speaker and author Dr. Gabor Maté. There’s a scene in the film where Palestinian journalist Ashira Darwish is recounting her time in prison. She talks about everything being taken from her. She has nothing left, and so she sings. I’ll play the song now, which Ashira sings in the film. It’s in Arabic. I don’t know what the lyrics are in English; but, when I hear them, I hear Psalm 138. 

Works referenced:

W. Dennis Tucker Jr., “Psalm 138:1-8” in Working Preacher. Accessed online on 08 February 2025. 

Where Olive Trees Weep. 2022. A film that follows, among others, Palestinian journalist and therapist Ashira Darwish, grassroots activist Ahed Tamimi, and Israeli journalist Amira Hass. Accessed online. Ashira's song can be found here.