Standing here holding this wonderful award that is today, I wish to thank my mother for loving me as only a mother can; my father, whom I called Daddy, for remaining in my heart and mind; my sons, who call me Dad, for calling me Dad; teachers through the years, official and unofficial, who have challenged and encouraged me; my dogs for being dogs; my friends for accepting me; my wife for loving me through it all and managing so beautifully my world; and you for being the church.  Thank you.

But even as the little warning light flashes, and the orchestra strikes up, I know I haven’t said enough.  Something still remains, somewhere between my heart and throat, too great to speak, too obvious to ignore.  When I have thanked everyone there is to thank, there remains a gratitude beneath it all, embracing it all, that can only be directed toward God, from whom all blessings flow.

Try it yourself.  List all the stuff and people and moments you can.  Name all the folks who have cared for you, who have guided or forgiven you or shared with you some stupid joke just to make you smile.  Think back on accomplishments and, yes, failures, and remember that neither can fully define you.  Name names; tell stories; count heads; take stock.  Then say thanks.

And there’s still something there, isn’t there?  You haven’t covered it all.  Beneath and around all the gifts of life is the gift of life—this moment, this breath—the mystery of consciousness, the miracle of being.  There remains a gratitude we can never fully express, and that gratitude brings us to church.  Week after week, we express a little more of it, only to find, to our joy, that the mystery has grown once more, too great to speak, too obvious to ignore.  And so we give thanks.  What else can we do?

See you Sunday.  We’ll try again.

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