A Throne to Thank: Sermon on 1 Chronicles 16

It had been almost three hours since the big Macy's parade had come to an end in streets not too many blocks away. A man pulled his coats firmer around him as he walked hurriedly down Manhattan's East Eleventh Street through the crisp air of an autumn afternoon, pitying in his heart the denizens of the Hooverville in Central Park – but that wasn't where he was headed. The man – let's call him 'George' – rushed – he didn't want to be late, of course – rushed to Webster Hall, a tall, red-brick building fully restored after the fire eighteen months earlier. A notorious event venue alternating high society and radicals, that was Webster Hall.  George ducked in and grabbed a seat just in time before the special service started. But, that famous last Thursday in November, maybe not quite the kind of service you'd imagine or expect.

At the front of the hall stood Woolsey Teller, 41 years of age, not too tall – maybe an inch taller than me – and slender of frame. His brown hair sat neatly atop his head; blue eyes peered out through his glasses at the three hundred people gathered for the service he was to lead. His skin was a bit darker than George expected – the curious case of Woolsey Teller, the white supremacist with a Nicaraguan grandmother and a Cuban wife. But there he was. As he opened the event, it wasn't long before he bade George and the rest to sing together the opening number. A “Modern Doxology,” the program for the service touted. And the lyrics began like this: “Blame God from whom all cyclones blow, / blame him when rivers overflow, / blame him who swirls down house and steeple, / who sinks the ship and drowns the people. // Blame God when fell tornadoes spread / disaster, leaving maimed and dead; / when dread volcanoes vomit death, / destroying towns with liquid breath.”

It was a start to just the kind of service George had come for, that afternoon after the Macy's Parade – a service sponsored by “the 4As,” as they were popularly called: the American Association for the Advancement of Atheism. Woolsey Teller had been one of its co-founders six years before, alongside Charles Lee Smith and Freeman Hopwood. George was an atheist. Nearly everyone there was. He looked around, a smirk on his face as they sang their 'Modern Doxology,' and felt a sense of camaraderie in a lonely world and rough city. Nearly all the faces George saw were men, mostly about his age. He thought he spotted a teenager or two – perhaps members of the 4As' affiliate, the Junior Atheist League, a nationwide atheist youth network headquartered in a small Pennsylvania town called Gap. But few Junior Atheists were in Webster Hall that day; most were grown men.

The 'Modern Doxology' droned on: “Blame God for nature's brutal plan, / for jungle law of Kill, who can; / blame him for all the grief and pain / which hellish war brings in its train.” George thought back to the Great War.  Thirteen years and fifteen days had now passed since the signing of the armistice.  Now it was November 26, 1931 – with the Great War still in living memory for everyone, that was the day George and his fellow God-deniers gathered in frustration in Webster Hall. 

The plan had all started earlier that year, when the 4As held their annual convention in February in the Pythian Temple east of Broadway. There was little thought among the 4As to wage any sort of 'war' on Christmas. That wasn't the holiday that caught their ire – it was Thanksgiving they hated. (I get it.  You can be glad all on your own, but giving thanks requires a direct object, a Someone to receive the thanks – no wonder atheist activists of the era wanted to overthrow Thanksgiving.) And how dare the president issue proclamations asking American citizens to spend a day in worship? An offense against the separation of church and state! – that's how they saw it. Much worse still to give thanks when so many people were suffering in their Hoovervilles 'midst the Great Depression.

So in February 1931, like the year before, they resolved to call on the president to make a change. Later, they sent President Herbert Hoover an open letter, calling on him not to issue a Thanksgiving Proclamation. But November rolled around, and as you'd expect, he'd ignored them. President Hoover said it had “become a hallowed tradition for the Chief Magistrate to proclaim annually a national day of thanksgiving,” a day “set apart to give thanks even amid hardships to Almighty God for our temporal and spiritual blessings.” So President Hoover, listing America's blessings, singled out November 26 as the day when he'd “recommend that our people rest from their daily labors and in their homes and accustomed places of worship give devout thanks for the blessings which a merciful Father has bestowed upon us.” It was almost more than the 4As could take. But they'd had a back-up plan. If President Hoover insisted on calling to give thanks to God, they'd hold a protest holiday committed to the opposite: not a Thanksgiving Day, but a Blamegiving Day – the same day.

And that's where George found himself singing the closing verses to their 'Modern Doxology': “For clergy who with hood and bell / demand your cash or threaten hell. / Blame God for earthquake shocks; and then / let all men cry aloud, 'Amen!'” And the long-winded service proceeded from there, organized as what the 4As had called a protest against divine negligence. They aimed to put God on trial, organizing a mock debate. Woolsey Teller, the 4As' vice-president, argued the prosecution against the God he denounced as “Public Enemy No. 1” (suspending, for the day, their disbelief in God's existence, of course).

Later, Woolsey ceded the stage for a while to the 4As' president, Charles Lee Smith. George had heard him a few times before – most recently in late October at Columbus Circle, where Charles had gotten himself arrested while advertising the Blamegiving Day service. Charles was a few years older than Woolsey, and not quite an inch taller, but over twenty pounds heavier – no mean feat, after a hunger strike three years ago while in prison on blasphemy charges. Similar pale blue eyes stared out through similar glasses, but Charles substituted a thin shock of white hair for Woolsey's brown. And as Charles spoke, George could instantly hear the telltale signs of his Arkansas birth and upbringing on a farm in Oklahoma. It was from there that Charles' parents had sent him to Epworth University to study for the Methodist ministry; but he'd only finished two years of college before his lost faith – haunted by his dad's death in 1909 – led him to drop out, study law, fight in Siberia during the Great War, return as a veteran to New York City, tour the country doing debates, and occasionally harass local pastors with dirty magazines in the mail. That was the notorious Charles Smith, pugnacious celebrity atheist of his day.

The service wound down – after the free-will offering, of course – with an invitation for the people to air their grievances. George thought about going up, but never got a chance. An intruding evangelist, John L. Mathews of the African Methodist Episcopal Church, briefly sermonized the crowd – calling most of their objections mere word-plays and trifles – “They are not important. What is important, brothers, is to be born again!,” he exclaimed. George was hardly won over, but he had to at least mildly applaud, in amusement, the evangelist's courage in boldly plunging into an atheists' den. 

And Rev. Mathews was, at any rate, more friendly and cordial than the other nuisance faction: the Communists, who'd been distributing handbills outside denouncing the 4As as “a lot of bourgeois” in the pay of capitalists.  Those Communists now used the opportunity afforded by grievance time to argue that all atheists should throw their allegiances to Soviet Russia and commit to converting America to atheism by exterminating the upper classes and by force, not by persuasion. And so, though some voiced their grievances and listed the things they weren't at all thankful for, the service rather degenerated around George, Woolsey, Charles, and the rest. Not that it was a pretty sight to begin with, I reckon, this whole Blamegiving Day affair in Webster Hall.

It really happened, that Manhattan autumn day. The day those particular zealous atheists assembled to make protest against God – on behalf, they said, of the poor. The same day, of course, when churches throughout New York City were working to mercifully provide turkey dinners for the poor, and when pastors preached a special emphasis on the need to do justice to the poor. Yes, that very day was, for a few hundred atheists in the city, not for thanking but for blaming. It really happened.

But nearly three thousand years earlier, another day really happened, far away from the future site of Manhattan and its Webster Hall. And I'd bid you picture that earlier day, too. A farm in the Judean countryside is a bustle of activity in the early hours of dawn. And then they set out. Leaving behind the farm of Obed-edom, a convert to the faith of Israel and a former neighbor of Goliath of Gath, the elders and priests and Levites march in a slow but steady parade. Asaph ben Berechiah, clad in a linen robe, clangs his cymbals joyously. He's a Levite, of the Gershonite line. With him, clanging their cymbals, too, are a representative from each other main Levite division. From the descendants of Merari, there's Ethan. And from the prestigious descendants of Kohath, next to Asaph stands Heman, clanging his cymbals. Heman only wished his grandfather Samuel, the great judge and prophet, were still alive to see this day.

Around these three percussionists, a few other Levites play strings – some on the harp, some on the lyre – while a few priests blow their trumpets. This band of holy musicians is next in the parade behind a set of six elite Levites, who grasp the poles. Between them – and Asaph and Heman can hardly believe it – rests the ark of the covenant. They can't see it – it's draped with a layer of goatskin and a blue cloth over that – but ever since their childhoods, they heard the stories from Exodus about how it was built, this holy wood box where the gifts of God rest, all overlaid with gold and topped with a pure gold cover flanked by gold cherubim, and over which the presence of God the King speaks to the high priest in the tabernacle.

Near the Levites who carry the ark by its poles – they dare not touch or even look at the holy thing – march two priests, Zadok and Abiathar, who pause the parade every six steps to sacrifice an ox.  Another six steps, another ox.  Another six steps, another ox. It's slow-going, to say the least. Asaph's not in a mood to mind, though. He's shouting and banging his cymbals. Out in front, he can see the back of the king – David, in a matching linen robe and linen apron, dancing his heart out with excitement. He can't contain his joy. Neither can the Levites and elders. It's infectious, a pandemic of Israelite delight. Not all the Macy's parades from first to last can compete with this.

The day wears on, but by afternoon, the parade of king and priest, elder and Levite, serving as an honor-guard for the God of all, approaches David's little citadel, the fortified city he captured on the lower part of an eastern hill. Mount Zion, they called it – not quite as tall yet as Mount Moriah, the higher peak where their forefather Isaac saw God provide Abraham with a ram to substitute for Isaac's life. But Mount Zion's slopes held the fortified city. There, near its top, was a grand cedar building, David's new palace. And not far away was a large tent he'd pitched. That was their destination. So as David's wife stared from the palace windows in disapproval and blamegiving, the thanksgiving parade made its way with loud hurrahs and hosannahs and hallelujahs into the city, and up to Zion's crest (1 Chronicles 15:1-29).

Once the priests and Levites had installed the ark in its tent, as the people gathered 'round, the priests began yet more sacrifices – burnt ascension-offerings and peace-offerings, olah and shelamim, by the dozens, as incense perfumed the air.  If you close your eyes and focus and imagine, can you see the bright colors of the procession, the gleam of the gold poles in the Levites' hands?  Can you hear their instruments and shouts?  Can you smell the fragrances mingling in the Jerusalem breeze?

King David pronounced a blessing on the crowd, and gave an order for each man and woman there to get a round loaf of bread, a raisin-cake, and a portion of meat from all the peace-offerings (1 Chronicles 16:1-3). Ascension offerings, or burnt offerings, rose as smoke entirely to God, entering his heavenly presence on the nation's behalf. Peace offerings (or fellowship offerings), meanwhile, were shared, the classic way of showing thanks.

But David had more in mind. He'd been consulting with Gad the seer and Nathan the prophet, and saw it was time to take Israel's worship to the next level. It was time to get musical. It started with the parade, but now that the ark was on Mount Zion, it was high time for a concert. And so we read that “then David appointed some of the Levites as ministers before the ark of the LORD, to invoke, to thank, and to praise the LORD, the God of Israel. Asaph was the chief, and second to him were Zechariah, Jeiel, Shemiramoth, Jehiel, Mattithiah, Eliab, Benaiah, Obed-edom, and Jeiel, who were to play harps and lyres; Asaph was to sound the cymbals, and Benaiah and Jahaziel the priests were to blow trumpets regularly before the ark of the covenant of God. Then on that day, David first appointed that thanksgiving be sung to the LORD by Asaph and his brothers” (1 Chronicles 16:4-7). Asaph and his colleagues were to stay there at Zion with the priests Benaiah and Jahaziel, while Zadok the priest were to return to Gibeon to the tabernacle and altar for sacrificial ministry; but with them, they were to take Heman and Jeduthun to extend musical ministry there, too (1 Chronicles 16:37-42).

It was all so new! So fresh! Until this surprising day, the introducing of God to Zion, the liturgical revolution of David and his booth, music hadn't been a big part of Israel's worship. But this was new, different. Asaph was thrilled. Centuries later, people would look back on this time as “the days of David and Asaph” (Nehemiah 12:46). For his music ministry, they'd remember him as “Asaph the seer” (2 Chronicles 29:30). But for now, he was lost in the momentous moment. So was Heman. So were the rest of the Levite musical team. And at the king's direction, they'd prepared a song for their choir. So with the grandest musical accompaniment, they sang their song of thanksgiving.

They celebrated, appealed to the people: “Oh give thanks to the LORD; call upon his name; make known his deeds among the peoples!” (1 Chronicles 16:8). The choir called Israel to “remember the wondrous works that he has done, his miracles and the judgments he uttered” (1 Chronicles 16:12), and to likewise “remember his covenant forever, the word that he commanded, for a thousand generations” (1 Chronicles 16:15). They called Israel back to those days of Abraham and Isaac and Jacob, the days when promises were made that they'd since seen fulfilled, the days when God made a covenant and protected the patriarchs, God's very own band of roving prophets and messiahs (1 Chronicles 16:16-22). They called on Israel to call on the rest of humanity to give up their idols and meet the LORD as their Creator, Redeemer, Master, and Friend (1 Chronicles 16:23-29), “for great is the LORD, and greatly to be praised, and he is to be feared above all gods. For all the gods of the peoples are worthless idols, but the LORD made the heavens” (1 Chronicles 16:25-26).

The song of the choir called on Israel to call on humanity to call on the whole creation to worship the LORD, the God of Israel: “Let the heavens be glad, and the earth rejoice, and let them say among the nations, 'The LORD reigns!' Let the sea roar, and all that fills it; let the field exult, and everything in it! Then shall the trees of the forest sing for joy before the LORD, for he comes to judge the earth” (1 Chronicles 16:31-33). Their song was living testimony that the LORD their God was and is on his throne, ruling and reigning over even a broken world, and would bring cosmic joy when he came down personally to set things right. “Oh give thanks to the LORD, for he is good; for his love endures forever!” (1 Chronicles 16:34).

And as they heard it, the whole city of Jerusalem, that fortified town built around the slopes of Zion where King David had built his house – this whole city, and all the people who swarmed in with the parade, they shouted and sang, “Amen!”, and they give praise and glory and honor and thanks to the LORD their God (1 Chronicles 16:36). From there, after singing and celebrating, the people took their food back to their houses, with a song in their hearts. Even the king retreated to his palace to bless his house (1 Chronicles 16:43). But Asaph stayed at the tent on Zion. Heman went back to the tabernacle at Gibeon. There to make music. There to minister.

Did you catch that job description David gave them? He appointed them, and other Levites under them, to this very kind of thing: “to bring to remembrance, to thank, and to praise the LORD” (1 Chronicles 16:4). That was their job! Thanksgiving was a professional task of theirs. And let me tell you, they never ran out of things to sing about. That's not to say that everything was roses. Heman, the thank-artist of the tabernacle, wrote the very darkest psalm in the whole Bible. Some of Asaph's works remember harsh times, times Israel found itself at odds with the God they claimed to worship. Asaph rehearsed the poverty of the righteous and the prosperity of the wicked (Psalm 73:3). His songs wrestled with doubt, but then, he says, he “went into the sanctuary of God” (Psalm 73:17), and in that tent he came to realize, “For me it is good to be near God; I have made the Lord GOD my refuge, that I may tell of all your works” (Psalm 73:27-28); “Whom have I in heaven but you? And there is nothing on earth that I desire besides you. My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever” (Psalm 73:25-26). And one of Asaph's own psalms prophetically relays the voice of God saying, “The one who offers thanksgiving as his sacrifice glorifies me; to the one who orders his way rightly, I will show the salvation of God!” (Psalm 50:23).

Asaph and Heman knew well that there's a time for lament. But not for blamegiving. Even in dark days, even when crying out with lament and doubt and fear, even when heart and flesh fail and everything else on earth falls away, still God is strength, still God is a saving God, still God is a desirable refuge, still it's good to be near God, still he wants to be our portion forever. Still he's glorified by thanksgiving. Because God is on his throne. And their songs started that day with the parade – the day Asaph was appointed to give thanks on Mount Zion. And I'd bet you just about anything, it was a beautiful day that day.

Two days. Two scenes. One in November 1931 in New York City. The other in ancient Jerusalem in the days of David and Asaph. I've tried to paint you two pictures. I've spent a long time doing it. And there's a reason, a question. Where are we? Right here, right now, where are we? Which scene sets our geography? Have we moved to Manhattan? Have we entered Webster Hall? Or are we destined to be somewhere else?

The last book of the Bible paints a picturesque portrait, and I'd like to read you a couple verses from there, from the visions of John. John tells us, “Then I looked, and behold! On Mount Zion stood the Lamb, and with him 144,000 who had his name and his Father's name written on their foreheads. And I heard a voice from heaven like the roar of many waters, like the sound of loud thunder. The voice I heard was like the sound of harpists playing on their harps, and they were singing a new song before the throne...” (Revelation 14:1-3a). That's the geography of the Lamb: Mount Zion, where those sealed with his name sing as harps play.

And in a spiritual way, we're there already. Listen to the author to the Hebrews: “But you have come to Mount Zion, and to the city of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem, and to innumerable angels in festal gathering, and to the assembly of the firstborn who are enrolled in heaven, and to God the Judge of all, and to the spirits of the righteous made perfect, and to Jesus, the mediator of a new covenant, and to the sprinkled blood that speaks a better word than the blood of Abel” (Hebrews 12:22-24) – and, I might add, speaks a better word than every ox offered along the parade route, a better word than every ascension-offering and peace-offering that was made that day in Jerusalem of old. In a better way than they, “you have come to Mount Zion” (Hebrews 12:22).

So we know where we are, what our geography of the soul is. It's Mount Zion. But given where we are, what are we building? Is it Webster Hall, brick on brick? Or are we pitching David's tent of praise? Which way of living is more beautiful to us, which holiday are we celebrating: Blamegiving Day, or Thanksgiving Day? The choice is ours. But only one choice fits our geography. It would be terrible to build Webster Hall atop Mount Zion, and hold a Blamegiving service there in the presence of the Lamb slain from the foundation of the world. And it would go against our job. You see, the prophet Isaiah heard God promise to adopt foreigners into his service in the days of the new covenant – foreigners, God said, “I will take for priests and for Levites” (Isaiah 66:21). People adopted as new Zadoks, new Hemans, new Asaphs, enrolled in the service of great David's greater Son, Jesus Christ, in whose resurrection the tent of David is raised up again for good (cf. Acts 15:16).

And that means that, when we read the Chronicler talking about Asaph and Heman and the Levites, when their job description is given, that's for us. Thanksgiving is our job description. Because we stand where they stood, cast in their roles writ large, to call all humanity to call all creation to give thanks to God and to the Lamb, who reign from one throne. If we bear the name of Jesus in our lives, if we are the ones who've come to Mount Zion where the Lamb is, then ours is the call to sing before the throne, to give thanks and praise to the LORD. Jesus is on his throne. Tomorrow may be the eighty-seventh anniversary of the 4As' ridiculous Blamegiving Day service in Webster Hall. But today, in the bright shadow of Thanksgiving Day, is the Feast of Christ the King.

No matter what cyclones blow, no matter what rivers overflow, he is King. No matter what disaster tornadoes spread, no matter all earth's volcanoes dread, he is King. No matter the outworking of nature and its brutal plan, he is King. In days of war as in days of peace, he is King. He is not negligent. Even when heart and flesh may fail, even when gloom falls like arrows from the skies, he is King, the Good King, and all creation can and rightly should give him thanks. And leading the way is the job of us honorary Levites for the Lamb. For us it is good to be near God. And he has brought us near at his Zion. So don't live a Blamegiving life on Mount Zion. That's not who you are. We are the People of Thanksgiving, called to lead the way in remembering, thanking, and praising God from Mount Zion, where it's Thanksgiving – year-round – in Jesus' name. Amen.