Listen to the Sauerkraut

Deuteronomy 26:1-11

Every Thanksgiving meal is a story.

Or lots of stories.

On the Thanksgiving table of my childhood there was always a dish of sauerkraut.
It was Silver Fleece canned sauerkraut, and it wasn’t the most delicious thing on the table – at least to my taste! – but it was there every year.
That particular sauerkraut was there because my grandmother’s mother’s family had come from Germany. And that family had brought to their new American Thanksgiving table a piece of who they were, and where they had come from, every year until, in our generation, it simply wouldn’t have been Thanksgiving without that particular fragrant dish of pickled cabbage.

There are other stories at other tables.
Stories about cranberry sauce almost left on the kitchen counter in another state, and rescued at great peril of rush hour traffic. Stories about recipes, passed from mother, to daughter, to son; stories disastrous dishes of Thanksgivings past, and about why it wouldn’t be Thanksgiving without that particular dish.

Funny stories, loving stories, a few sad stories. Stories that shape our lives, and reflect our relationships.

Close your eyes for a minute, and see the dinner table in your imagination.
Where do those foods come from? Why are they right for this meal? Who is in the stories that sit on your table today?

Of course, there are probably some things on your table because of “Tradition” and not because of someone specific, and those dishes tell a community story.
A story that starts with the one we learned in elementary school: about hungry, hard-working Pilgrims and generous Indians making friends and making peace over a harvest feast.
That story goes on, integrating stories of new immigrants. Hungry Poles, or Irish, or Italians, and a new generation of “natives” to teach the harvest feast. Hard working Chinese, and Mexicans, and a new kind of “Indians,” and another new generation of natives to pass the tradition on. And each new generation makes the story its own.

Like all the stories on our tables, the national story of Thanksgiving is a story about who we are, and where we come from.
And it’s a story about coming home.

So is the story that Moses teaches the people of Israel to tell on a similar occasion. When you bring your harvest to the altar, you tell a story:
A wandering Aramean was my ancestor….we went to Egypt as a stranger, and became many; we were oppressed, and cried for relief; God brought us out of Egypt into an abundant land.
And that’s where this food came from.

These stories are our salvation history:
the story of who we are as the story of whose we are, and why.
On days like today, we’re more aware than usual that we belong to our ancestors, for better or worse. We belong to what happened to our families. And we belong to God, who brings us home.
And that’s where this food has come from.

The stories aren’t usually perfect. To claim a shiftless Aramean as your father wasn’t something to be especially proud of, and it is hard to remember slavery, even – or especially – after you’ve been set free.

But the messy bits – from turkey disasters to broken relationships to slavery – all the sins and the griefs belong in our stories, along with the healing and joy.
The messy bits, just like the joyful bits, are our salvation story, because they are who and where we were when God called us to be God’s own. Even the messy bits that happen every year, and get cleaned up at every Thanksgiving meal.

When we hear the stories – at the altar or on the table – and remember who and whose we are, and why: That’s what makes it a holy meal.

That’s what we do here this morning. We gather around a table, and tell the story of our salvation to make holy the meal we share, and to make holy the community that shares it.

Just like it’s what we do later today: gather, tell, and eat. And eat some more.

So listen to the prayers,
and listen to the sauerkraut.
Listen to the turkey, and the yams (or the sweet potatoes) the dressing (or the stuffing), and all the other dishes on the table.

Listen for the stories, sad or funny, loudly repeated or quietly heard,
the stories that remind us of how we belong to our family, and our community, and our God.
About who we are, and whose we are,
and about coming home.

Listen especially today, but not only today
and when you hear each story, say Thank You.

Thank you.
Amen.