Every Thanksgiving it’s the same: we beat ourselves up over the fact that we’re not as “thankful as we ought to be.”  We chide ourselves—and others—for the presumption that describes our thankless “comfort with comfort.”

A thankful spirit is hardly optional, not if you read Scripture.  So I suppose there’s a place for thwacking ourselves with this kind of jolt. Yet, for my part, I shall not attempt to preach at you in this blog.  Instead, I would like to reset the stage of that very first pilgrim Thanksgiving celebration.

In his book, “The First Thanksgiving,” Robert McKenzie does an eloquent job of taking us to that little gathering on a dreary Massachusetts shore.  He writes,

And yet in the autumn of 1621, the wounds were still so fresh.  It would be no stain on the Pilgrims’ faith if their rejoicing was leavened with a lingering heartache.  Widowers and orphans abounded.  Fourteen of the eighteen wives who had set sail on the Mayflower had perished during the winter.  There were now only four married couples, and one of those consisted of Edward and Susannah Winslow who had married that May shortly after both had lost their spouses.  Mary Chilton, Samuel Fuller, Priscilla Mullins and Elizabeth Tilley each had lost both parents, and young Richard More, who had been torn from his parents before sailing, had since lost the three siblings banished with him.  That the Pilgrims could celebrate at all in this setting was a testimony both to human resilience and to heavenly hope.

No doubt the capacity for the pilgrims’ thankful spirit had its anchor in the rock of Romans 8:38:  And I am convinced that nothing can ever separate us from God’s love. Neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither our fears for today nor our worries about tomorrow—not even the powers of hell can separate us from God’s love.

This Thanksgiving, there’s no need for a guilt trip.

But a simple, honest, heartfelt prayer of thanks is more than in order.

If you are searching for an unforgettable picture of intensity, I know a two-year old who can help.

What the scent of blood is to a shark, the sight of a book is to young Caleb.  He doesn’t merely read books—he inhales them.   From the moment his sense of balance enabled him to toddle across the floor, he has dragged books all over the house and on to the lap of anyone—I mean anyone—who will read to him.

As Caleb’s “Poompah Di-Di” (the name he has cobbled together borrowing my wife’s moniker, “Di-Di” and his own attempt at “grandpa”), I have shared his love of books—and the sense of his wiggly body on my lap.

While most children his age are content to sit there as long as the pages turn quickly, Caleb will stay as long as needed on any given page.  And while most kids are “sort of” into the images and text, Caleb’s ferocious interest is off the charts.  He will do anything it takes to get front and center with a book.   And happily hear it read ten times in succession.  No title ever gets boring.  No page is ever unworthy.

So lost in the wonder of his books is young Caleb, that his own head gets in the way of my ability to read the page!   I have to dodge his noggin to do the readin’!  Now throw into the mix the shared interest of his older sister in the same story and you can begin to appreciate I often have a very full lap.

Without wishing to strain at a spiritualization, I sometimes feel “shown up” by Caleb and his intensity. To the point:  When am I ever this intense when it comes to reading the Bible?  Why do I not read like Caleb reads—no chapter ever gets boring, no page is unworthy?

Jeremiah 29:13 “You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart.”

I’m pondering Caleb’s intensity—and wishing I had more of it.

What's the strangest place you have ever visited?  Traveling to 35 countries has taken me to some unusual locations, but none as bizarre as a trip to the ancient city of Hierapolis in Turkey. 
 
After a considerable hike through this historic city, you finally arrive at the Gates of Hell.  I'm entirely serious.  To the untrained eye (mine) the Gates of Hell appear entirely unremarkable.  Imagine a mound of dirt covered with cut stones that form a wall behind which are said to be the actual Gates of Hell.
 
How it is that long-ago-locals came to identify this spot as THE entrance to the world of the condemned is worth a brief excursion. 
 
The site is built on top of a cave which emits toxic gases, making it a convenient spot for the ritual sacrifice of animals.  Tied with ropes, the animals were tossed into the cave where they died, reinforcing the notion that this place of death represented the actual gates of Hell.  According to some reports, the cavern still maintains its deadly atmosphere.  Birds, attracted by the cavern's warm air, have suffered after breathing the toxic fumes. 
 
Having been to the place, it hardly seems fitting as an entryway to the lake of fire which burns forever, the final judgment.  Turkey’s so-called “Gates of Hell” make for an interesting visit but we would do well to separate biblical truth from lore and legend.
 
When the Bible speaks of Hell, it refers to a real place where real people will spend eternity.    Who will be there?  The Bible tells us in Revelation 20:15.  “Whosoever's name was not found written in the Lamb's Book of life was cast into the lake of fire.”  The only escape is to “confess with your mouth the Lord Jesus and believe in your heart that God has raised Him from the dead.”
 
Unspeakable agony, unending damnation—this is the real Hell, not some tourist site in Turkey. Unlike our visit to the supposed “Gates of Hell,” in Hierapolis, the real Hell is not a stopping off point.   It's a destination.  And having arrived, there is no going back.

His king was vanquished, his country conquered, and Daniel's future seemed dim.  Captured and then carted off to a strange land, he had no idea what lay before him.  What could he have been thinking as passed through the gates of Nebuchadnezzar's palace, its walls adorned with artwork in relief?

Large segments of those very walls are on display today at the Istanbul museum in Turkey. Recently I gawked at several sections of them featuring beautifully preserved images of lions and dragons.   Gorgeously carved and colorfully painted, these panels are about four foot by six foot— and stunning. It's hard to believe these pieces date back 2,600 years. 

Staring at these treasures, I tried to process that these are the very same images—the very same walls with the very same lions--that Daniel would have seen once pressed into palace duty.  Perhaps his hand reached out to trace one of those same lion's paws that caught my attention.

Remember that as Daniel took in the exotic palace imagery, he did so without benefit from any previous perspective such as Discovery Channel, books, Blue Ray or even a county zoo.

I continued to stare at the walls Daniel stared at.  What thoughts raced through his mind as he pondered the lion with the blue background I was photographing?  It must have been jolting—terrifying: lions everywhere!

But most of all, I wonder if Daniel connected the painted palace creatures with the real lions in the pit into which Nebuchadnezzar eventually placed him.  Did he tremble at the smell of these beasts?  Quiver at the feel of their hot breath on his skin?

Someday, I shall ask Daniel myself.

Meanwhile, Daniel has a question for me—and you: Is the power of the living God a thing that we merely archive between the leather covers of our Bibles—a sort of museum for heroes long past?  Or is it a force that moves us and motivates us on a daily basis?

Staring into the eyes of the painted lions is haunting.  But what will it be like to one day lock eyes with the Lion of Judah?

There's something about a room—any room—whose name begins with the word, “Treasure.”  In a visit to Istanbul’s Topkap Palace Museum, I was obliged to spend time in the Treasure room of the Sultans.

Personally, I'm not much for jewelry, especially the gaudy kind.  And Sultans—like so many rich folks in history—had a penchant for serious bling.  Yet I was stopped in my tracks at the window showcasing the Kasicki Diamond.  At 86 carats, this diamond is considered to be one of the largest in the world.  Set in silver, it is surrounded by a double row of 49 cut diamonds.

The sight of the pear-shaped gem grabbed my attention, but the story behind it kept me lingering.  According to “reliable” accounts, a poor fisherman walking the shores of Istanbul looked down and saw something shimmering in the sun.  Stooping down for a closer look, he scooped up the shiny thing which appeared to him as a piece of glass (either this man was more ignorant of jewelry than even me, or there must have been a boat load of sea weed wrapped around the thing!).

Any way, he took it to a jeweler who feigned disinterest insisting it was merely a piece of common glass. Yet—out of the “goodness of his heart” the jeweler offered the ignorant fisherman three spoons in exchange for his find. Eventually a vizier, doing business on behalf of the sultan, purchased the diamond and it made its way to the palace.

The story you may find unlikely.  But what is certain is that you and I may be engaging in the same kind of foolish trades every day.

We trade the diamond of God's indwelling power for three spoons of our own puny effort.

We trade the diamond of Christ's rest for three spoons of anxiety.

We trade the diamond of the Spirit's guidance for three spoons of self-centeredness.

2Co 4:7  But we have this treasure in earthen vessels, that the excellency of the power may be of God, and not of us.

Today there will come your way—and mine—a thousand opportunities to trade away the treasure God has already given us.  But spoons are a poor trade.  For ignorant fishermen—or those bound for streets of gold.