What Really Means a Lot to Me

As a young priest (yes, young is something I really once was), I once brought a youth group to work at the soup kitchen at Holy Apostles Church in Chelsea.  Being I priest, I reasoned, is about creating opportunities for those in my care to meet Jesus, so what better place than a church that housed the largest soup kitchen in New York City and transformed its nave and sanctuary from worship space on Sunday to a place to feed the poor the rest of the week.  Oh, wait.  That really isn’t such a transformation after all.

This is the tale of two different reactions to the experience from two very similar teenagers.  Both were children of significant privilege.  Neither had ever experienced anything like Holy Apostles before.

After we got home, I asked the group what their reaction had been.  The only response I remember was from one of the two teenagers I mentioned, who said, “I learned to be thankful for everything I have.” 

It wasn’t quite what I was hoping for, but it wasn’t entirely negative.  At the very least, he had learned that there was a vast gap between how he lived and how much of the world lived.  Still, I was perhaps unrealistically looking for some sense of questioning that gap and maybe asking, as teenagers like to do, if it were fair.  I hoped he might ask some questions about all he had and not revert to a sense of entitlement to it.  I hoped, again unrealistically, that there might be some connection between thanksgiving and sharing.  It was not to be.

The other teenager at issue was a neighbor and close friend of the other.  His name is Jamie.  Like his friend, Jamie also had led a pretty sheltered life with just about all the material possessions a teenage boy could hope for.  Frankly, I don’t remember much about him in New York the summer of our trip.  And I don’t remember what he said as we debriefed the experience together after we got home. 

But I happened to see Jamie this fall.  I preached at the church where I had known him as a teenager, the first time I’d been there in 20 years.  He was there with his son of about eight.  I didn’t meet his wife.  She was home caring for their new baby.

The subject of our conversation turned to mission trips we had taken when I was his priest.  I asked him about Belize, which I assumed would be the one this fairly well-off young man would remember.  He turned the conversation to the soup kitchen.  “No,” he said, “the one that really meant a lot to me was New York.”  And that made me deeply thankful, both to God and to Jamie.

Maybe it’s just that Jamie had learned to be thankful for everything he had.  Somehow, though, I think it’s a lot more than that, and I think that has infinitely more to do with the direction his parents were steering him than anything I did.  Still, I may have had a very small influence.  After all, going to New York to work in a soup kitchen was my idea.  And, of course, you know what I hope.  I hope he met Jesus there. 

So this Thanksgiving I’m thankful, not so much for what I have, although I guess I should be.  I’m more thankful for people along the way who have allowed me to share their lives for a little while or a long while.  I’m thankful for Jamie.  I’m thankful for Jamie’s friend.  I’m thankful for all of you. 

And, of course, I’m thankful for Ginger, Matthew, and Andrew and Jessica, and of course, Annie the Labrador Retriever. 

I am thankful for the part of my life I’ve been able to share with others, and the parts others have shared with me of theirs.  I don’t know what Jamie meant for sure, but I know that’s what really means a lot to me.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Peace,