Let’s Stop Beating Up on Martha….and Martha’s Husband

Dr. William A. Ritter

First United Methodist Church

Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: Luke 10:38-42

Dorothy Nickel was a Martha. More to the point, Dorothy is still a Martha. Now living with her husband, Warren, in our Clark United Methodist Home in Grand Rapids, I talked with her just a few months ago. But the years when Dorothy and I crossed paths weekly (if not daily) were my Dearborn years at the beginning of my ministry, where Dorothy and Warren could not have been any kinder to me, to Kris, or to anybody else for that matter. Dorothy was the ultimate behind-the-scenes dispenser of Christian charity and performer of good works. Casseroles to the sick. Cards to the lonely. Flowers to the grieving. Clothing collected here and recycled there. Need a driver….need a donor….need a server….need a chief cook and bottle washer….Dorothy would do it, uncomplainingly and well. She took me under her wing until my soft, downy ministerial feathers hardened into a tough-enough skin to enable me to survive ecclesiastical life in a local congregation.

Early on in our relationship, Dorothy said to me….in the church kitchen, as I remember it…. “Bill, you don’t know me all that well. But when you get to know me better, you’ll learn that I’m a Martha.” Which, when I thought about it later, was not so much her way of telling me who she was, but who she wasn’t. She wasn’t Mary. Meaning that while I would see her in church, I shouldn’t expect to see her in front of the church. While I would see her reading, I should never expect to see her teaching. And while her daily planner would record the comings and goings of a life of lived-out prayer, I shouldn’t call upon her to pray in public or lead a 24-hour prayer retreat. Organize it, maybe. Drive the van to it, probably. Prepare and serve meals at it, likely. Whitewash rocks for an outdoor meditation circle overlooking the lake, certainly. Bake bread for the closing communion service, unquestionably. Good things. Practical things. Needful things. Which, across the years, have become identified as Martha-type things.

As to whether First Church, Dearborn has ever been able to replace her, I cannot say. Given the number of years she’s been gone, I am sure they have. But I wonder how many people it took. More than one, I reckon.

All of which comes to mind every time I read this little five-verse story in Luke. The story is simple. Jesus is coming from north to south….from Galilee to Jerusalem….when he pauses in a small village and accepts an invitation from a woman named Martha. It is entirely possible that the village is Bethany (a mere seven miles from Jerusalem). And it is equally possible that this is the same Martha of “Martha, Mary and Lazarus” fame, who figure so prominently in the gospel of John…. where they are identified as good friends of Jesus at whose home he often stopped. But if this is true, Luke does not say it. Nor does he seem to know it. Meaning that Martha and Mary could be anybody to Jesus. Or they could be prior friends.

No matter. The story speaks for itself. What we’ve got is Jesus….on the road….in a home…. along about mealtime….with two sisters (of different temperaments and inclinations). The text doesn’t tell us a whole lot. But it does tell us that Mary sits at Jesus’ feet, listening to his teachings, while Martha busies herself with much serving. The text does not say “with much cooking.” But in the days before carryout chicken and home-delivered pizza, one can safely assume that serving implies cooking. The text also says that Martha is “worried and distracted”….dare we say “irritated”….and wonders aloud why she (Martha) is on her feet, while her sister (Mary) is on her….whatever. Whereupon Jesus identifies Martha’s problem not as overwork, but as anxiety, and dares to suggest that Mary has something that Martha could use a lot more of….namely, himself.

Which is, when you think about it, something of a put-down of Martha. At least it feels like a put-down of Martha. And it is virtually always preached as a put-down of Martha.

But I have noticed something odd over the course of my ministry. I have had any number of women identify themselves to me as a “Martha.” But I can’t recall that anybody has ever identified herself to me as a “Mary.” Not that I haven’t known some. But none of the Marys of my acquaintance have willingly owned their identity (at least out loud). Funny, isn’t it, that Martha, as the lesser character….or as the seemingly-lesser character….is widely embraced, while Mary, whose “part” Jesus said was the “greater part,” is seldom embraced by women of the church. In other words, why would church women identify more readily with the scolded character than with the praised one? A feminist scholar could have a field day with that one. But I will simply point it out and leave it alone.

I do, however, have some comments to make on the text. And it seems that the best way to organize them is around the three characters in the story, namely Martha, Jesus and Mary (in that order). Martha first.

I do not know everything Jesus feels about Martha. But I am here to tell you that if she didn’t exist, the church would have to invent her. Which is why the church loves her. Because the church desperately needs her. So it rewards her. Which, in turn, puts out the welcome mat for more of her.

And not just for her, but for her husband. I am talking about Mr. Martha. Don’t tell me she didn’t have a husband. I know better. Because I see her husbands over all this church. Martha was a bigamist….praise God. And I can’t imagine life in the local church without Martha’s multiple offspring of either gender.

Three weeks ago, to this very day, I was trailing my wife through an antique shop in Kennebunkport, Maine, when I came across a dust-covered frame holding an artistically-embellished poem. I quickly discerned that it was a poem about today’s text. And I secondarily discerned, upon locating the price tag, that I was unwilling to purchase it (just so that I could hold it before you as a sermon prop). So while my wife and the proprietress were otherwise occupied….buying and selling, as it were….I copied it so that I could read it to you this morning.

Lord of all pots and pans and things,

Since I’ve not time to be

A saint by doing lovely things

Or watching late with Thee,

Or dreaming in the dawning light,

Or storming heaven’s gates,

Make me a saint by getting meals

And washing up the plates.

Warm all the kitchen with thy love

And light it with thy peace.

Forgive me all my worrying

And make my grumbling cease.

Thou who didst love to give men food

In room, or by the sea;

Accept this service that I do,

I do it unto thee.

                                                --Klara Monkres

Quite apart from the pedestrian quality of the poetry, it occurred to me that many of you might like it. Just as many of you, upon learning of her, readily identify with Martha. That’s because temperamentally, there are far more Marthas in the world than Marys. Hear me out.

Many of you have taken the Myers-Briggs Typology Inventory, if not here at church with Dick Cheatham, then at the university where you study or the industry where you work. You know whether you are an INTJ, an ESFP, or any one of the 16 possible combinations….I won’t stop to explain them here. And you know that for purposes of simplification, these 16 categories have been boiled down into four basic temperaments labeled SP, SJ, NF and NT. What you probably do not know is that in addition to having enormous impacts on your marital, familial and workplace interactions, much has been written about how each of these four temperaments impact your life in a local church….in short, how you approach things like religion, worship and prayer.

Focus on the SPs of the world, often called the artisans. These people are flexible, free-flowing, adaptable and easy to get along with. They live in the present (rather than the past or future) and prefer a life of action over contemplation. They like their reality literal, not symbolic….simple, rather than complex. For them, work is prayer, and they love to work with their hands or tools. They would find a liturgical retreat boring, and a silent-contemplative retreat positively stifling. In fact, they wouldn’t sign up unless they were given something to do (drive the bus….bake the bread….or carve little communion cups from blocks of balsa wood).

Now throw in the SJs. Unlike the SPs, SJs have a strong sense of tradition and prize their continuity with the past. Which is why they tend to appreciate liturgy. But they are also extremely practical and are possessed of a strong work ethic. SJs desire to care for those in need and have a desire to be useful. Religiously, they would much rather give than receive.

Both groups are filled, don’t you see, with Marthas. And how many SPs and SJs are there as a percentage of society? Over seventy percent….that’s how many. Which means that seventy percent of church members are temperamentally inclined to Martha-like behavior. Which is why most church people, in confronting a hard-to-resolve problem, are far more likely to respond to suggestions of what they might do, than about how they might pray. Or when I suggested to a man that he might “pray about it,” he answered: “And then what?”

Enough about Martha. Let’s turn to Jesus. Who, in his own life, needed somebody to behave in a Martha-like fashion. I mean, somebody had to cook, wash clothes, buy food and count money. As I recall, someone was dispatched, by Jesus, to make dinner arrangements….upstairs….in Jerusalem….on a Thursday. Just as someone else was dispatched to borrow a colt….four days previous….to ride down a mountain….on a Sunday. And it was Jesus (in the story Luke told just before this one) who praised a man who stumbled upon a mugging victim….bandaged him up….lifted him up….delivered him up….and then anted up….leading Jesus to say: “You want to see what I mean by ‘neighbor?’ That guy is what I mean by ‘neighbor.’” No, Jesus is not without a warm spot in his heart for Marthas.

So what is this about? Well, part of it is about timing. Earlier, I said that Jesus was on his way from Galilee to Jerusalem….his last visit to Jerusalem….his dying visit to Jerusalem. Does he know that this is his “dying visit?” It would seem that he senses it. Which certainly changes his demeanor. And which certainly changes the tone of his encounters. After all, don’t most people suspend normal routines at such moments? I certainly think they do.

It is 10:30 at night. Your daughter calls from the car phone to tell you that the love of her life has just slipped an incredible diamond on her finger. She wants to swing by and show you. You don’t say: “We’d love to see it. But tomorrow’s a work day. And when tomorrow is a work day, we are always in bed by 10:30 and asleep by 10:45. Why don’t you come by on the weekend? That way, we’ll have more time.” You wouldn’t say that. Please tell me you wouldn’t say that.

Or perhaps a college friend calls from the airport. You haven’t seen him in 35 years. But he remembers that you live in the general vicinity and tracks your name through the phone directory. He has three hours before his connecting flight. What do you do? You drop everything and go to the airport. That’s what you do.

Or your son finishes basic training and has one day before shipping out….a Monday. But Monday is your wash day. And most Monday afternoons you go to K-Mart. But you don’t tell that to your son. Of course you don’t tell that to your son.

I was talking this over with Dick Cheatham when he suddenly started to sing an old World War II song. Not one that I remembered. But I can see how Dick would. It was recorded by the Hoosier Hotshots. Surely, you remember them. The song depicts a father who hears a doorbell and opens the door to greet the surprise arrival of their boy….in full uniform….home from Germany. Whereupon dad turns in the general direction of the kitchen and sings:

            Leave the dishes in the sink, Ma,

            Leave the dishes in the sink.

            Each dirty plate will have to wait,

            Tonight we’re gonna celebrate,

            So leave the dishes in the sink.

Sometimes you drop everything when the beloved makes an entrance, no matter how unexpected or unannounced.

But enough about Jesus.  How about Mary? What makes hers “the better part?” Well, that’s harder to define. But it’s not because spiritual things always trump practical things. No, that’s not it at all. For I would contend that hands-on work….practical work….Martha-type work….can often be incredibly spiritual, and that “serving” Jesus is a wonderful way of attending Jesus (and as good a means of praying as ever there was).

No, Mary’s part is “better,” because it suggests an antidote to the inevitable frustration experienced by those who serve. Martha’s sin….if there is one….is not the sin of dishing plates or washing plates, but becoming anxious and irritated that everyone else isn’t doing it and applauding it.

I know the feeling. I sometimes get frustrated, even with you….when you don’t work as hard as I do….go as far as I go….care about the same issues….put your shoulder to the same plows….or log the same number of hours. “Lord,” I cry, “do something about this.”

That’s one frustration. And the second flows from it. In addition to sometimes feeling unsupported, preachers have a tendency to feel that their labors are unrewarded. I’m not talking “finances” here….but something deeper. Everything I want to fix, doesn’t get fixed. Or stay fixed. People don’t stay fixed. Churches don’t stay fixed. Society doesn’t stay fixed. Sin….especially sin….doesn’t stay fixed. I have learned that both dishes and people have a remarkable tendency to re-dirty themselves. And you have no idea how few permanent victories I really see. Which is why idealists sometimes turn into pessimists….and why youthful, bleeding-heart liberals retire (if they’re not careful) as 65-year-old cynics.

Which can happen….ever so easily….if your focus is solely on the work. If, however, you occasionally throw off your apron, lay down your toolbox, and come out from behind your plow (your desk, or even your pulpit) to sit at the feet of him whose work it is you do….cynicism, like fat, tends to flake from your frame. And you’ll arise leaner and lovelier than you were before you assumed that Mary-like posture. So much leaner and lovelier that you might even volunteer to get up before the crack of dawn, put on the coffee, and make biscuits from scratch for Jesus…. and whoever else happens to come along.

Notes:  To make sure I wasn’t on the wrong track in my interpretation of this narrative, I consulted the work of Lukan scholar Joseph Fitzmyer (the Anchor Bible Commentary on Luke) who writes: “To read this episode as a commendation of contemplative life over against active life is to allegorize it beyond recognition and to introduce a distinction that was born only of later preoccupations. The episode is addressed to the Christian who is expected to be contemplative in action.”

As concerns the relationship between the timing of Jesus’ visit and the gentle rebuke of Martha, I have taken instruction from Thomas Cahill (in the book, Desire of the Everlasting Hills: The World Before and After Jesus) who writes: “Rather, we should read this anecdote in the context of Jesus’ understanding that his time is short and that his entire life is lived against the horizon of apocalypse. Mary is one of the wedding guests who rejoice while the bridegroom is yet among them, refusing to deprive themselves of the joy of his presence for the sake of some lesser goal. Whatever Martha is huffing and puffing about can be put off till Jesus moves on.”

For more information about “prayer and temperament” with reference to the Myers-Briggs Typology Indicator, see a book entitled Prayer and Temperament: Different Prayer Forms for Different Personality Types by Chester Michael and Marie Norrisey.

True Grits 11/22/1998

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: Exodus 16:1-4

Knowing my wife’s reputation in the kitchen and her penchant for trying new things, someone recently gave her a “mountain and plantation” cookbook entitled “Cookin’ Yankees Ain’t Et.” Which made for good reading….including recipes for a lot of things I’d never tried. I learned about things like Hog Jowl Turnip Greens….Hopping John….Cabin Cucumber Ketchup….Pot Likker (which has absolutely nothing to do with what you think it does)….and Brunswick Stew (how can anything be other than wonderful when it starts with two large tablespoons of bacon grease).

But at the top of my list of “Dishes Yet to Be Tried” is a southern Appalachian Mountain concoction called Baked Grits and Pork. Not that I know all that much about grits. Or even like grits. Truth be told, I have yet to meet a grit I couldn’t walk away from. Which probably has to do with being a Yankee. Because Yankees didn’t grow up with grits….don’t understand grits….and have no feeling for grits (given that they have no memory for grits). But before the morning is history, I’ll hear from every grit lover in the place. In spades. Both barrels.

While spending some time in Myrtle Beach with Ann and Zeno Windley, Ann tried to introduce me to this beloved morning repast. Four mornings in a row, she served them. Four mornings in a row, I ate them. Truth be told, they got better each day (even though I swear they were warmed over from the days before). That’s because Ann kept adding more stuff. And quite apart from the blandness of the grits (which never did improve), I found myself falling in love with the add-ons. That’s because grits without add-ons don’t impress anybody. You need cheese….butter…. egg….salt….pepper. Or you can add other stuff like garlic, redeye gravy and thick, heavy cream. Or you can throw stuff on top like shrimp (and, apparently, pork). As to whether you can add anchovies and pepperoni, Ann declined to say.

Grits, of course, are nothing but coarsely ground corn. You can cook ‘em in water. Or you can fry or bake ‘em, once they harden. The corn, in question, is not the corn most of us eat off the cob. Neither is it the same corn the Jolly Green Giant tosses into those cute little cans. Grits come from corn that is raised for milling. In the same family can be found cornmeal, polenta, and hominy (which has to be an acquired taste, if ever there was one). Hominy starts with really big grits which are then mixed with ashes or limestone (the better to remove the hull).

When Ann learned of my interest in grits, she began surfing the Web. Whereupon she discovered that while the first mention of the grit was in the Sinai Desert (more on that in a moment), the next mention was found amidst the ruins of ancient Pompeii in a woman’s personal diary. The woman’s name was Herculaneum Jemimaneus (better known as Aunt Jemima to her friends). The Internet also contains the “Ten Commandments of Grits,” four of which read: “Thou shalt not put syrup on thy grits.” Apparently syrup is a really big no-no. Another of the commandments reads: “Thou shalt not eat Cream of Wheat and call it grits, for this is blasphemy.” And the fourth commandment stipulates: “Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s grits,” (which is one commandment I can truly say I have never broken….or even thought about breaking). And the Internet goes on to describe ways you can cook grits, eat grits, store grits, and use leftover grits. As concerns the latter, it has been suggested that grits are very good for patching blowouts, caulking bathtubs, and making a pleasing party punch. I won’t tell you, however, what you have to add to the grits to make a “pleasing party punch.”

All of this is more than you care to know. So why am I telling you? Well, consider this. Recent research suggests that grits are the food that most commonly resembles the mysterious manna that God rained down upon the Israelites during their sojourn through the Sinai. Some critics disagree, stating that there is no record of butter, salt or cheese raining down from the sky, and that God would not punish his people by forcing them to eat grits without these key ingredients. But Barbara Brown Taylor, who is as good a preacher as the South has produced in the last 20 years, writes: “Whenever I hear about manna, I think of grits.” Although she admits she never knew what grits were until she was 12. Which was when her cousin told her that grits were small bugs that lived in colonies on the surface of ponds and lakes, like algae. At the end of every summer they were harvested, shelled and dried in the sun, so that little girls could not tell, upon eating them for breakfast, that they once had legs on them.

Her reasons for equating grits with manna are threefold. Both are fine. Both are flaky. And both are absolutely no good as leftovers. Concerning manna, God told Moses: “Each day the people shall go out and gather enough for that day. One day’s worth. No more.” Manna would not keep. Whenever the people tried to hoard it, it spoiled overnight. In the morning it stank and crawled with worms. When the sun got hot, it melted.

The only exception was the Sabbath. Since God meant for the people to rest on that day, God let them gather twice as much on the day before. Manna was the Israelites’ food. Raw manna…. boiled manna….baked manna….ground manna. Manna was a symbol of God’s very practical care for them. Long after their sojourn in the desert was over, they remembered their manna meals. Which is why they kept two quarts of it in a jar by the tablets of the Law as an everlasting reminder of their dependence on God….who gave them (each day) their daily bread.

There has been a good bit of speculation about what manna was. The Bible simply says (Exodus 16:31) that it was “like coriander seed….white….and the taste of it was like wafers made with honey.” The linguistics scholars don’t help us much. For the word comes from the Hebrew “man hu”….which means: “What is it?” But if you go to the Sinai Peninsula, it will not stay a mystery for long. The Bedouin shepherds still gather it and bake it into bread….which they still call “manna.” The flakes, themselves, come from plant lice that feed on local tamarisk trees. The lice go to the trees to suck the sap. But since the sap is poor in nitrogen, the bugs have to suck a lot of sap in order to live. In point of fact, they suck far more sap than their bodies can retain. So they excrete the extra in a yellowish-white flake (from a juice-like secretion) that is rich in carbohydrates and sugars. Once exposed to air, it decays quickly and attracts ants. So a daily portion is the most that anyone gathers.

Some believers reject this explanation because they think it takes away from the miracle of manna. In other words, if it comes as a byproduct of nature, God can’t be in it. But think about that. Does manna have to come out of nowhere in order to qualify as a miracle? Or does the miracle consist in the fact that God heard the complaining of hungry people and fed them with secreted bug juice….fried into bread cakes….which was something that would never have occurred to them to eat? Or, to put it another way, what makes something “bread from heaven?” Is it the thing itself….or is it the one who sends it?

Which is not an idle question. How you answer has a lot to do with how you sense God’s presence in your life. If your manna has to drop straight out of heaven looking like a perfect loaf of butter-crust bread, then chances are you are going to go hungry a lot. When the bread you get does not look like the bread you are praying for, you tend to think God is ignoring you, punishing you, or….worse yet….non-existent. Then you start comparing yourself to other people and wondering why they have more to eat….or get more of their prayers answered….than you do. Meanwhile, you miss most of the things that God is doing for you….because they look too ordinary (like bug juice), or too transitory (like manna, which melts the minute the sun gets hot).

Isn’t that the point of that old-as-the-hills story preachers love to tell about the storm that floods the town and threatens the inhabitants. One man’s house floods, whereupon he stands on the porch and prays to God to save him. A rowboat comes by and offers him a ride. “No thanks,” says the man. “God’s gonna rescue me.” Flood rises. Man climbs. From the second floor balcony, the man prays again. Second rowboat comes. Same offer. Same refusal. Finally, the man is on the roof, praying for all he’s worth. A helicopter flies by and offers to drop him a ladder. “Thanks a bunch,” says the man, “but God’s gonna be along any minute.” Five minutes later, there’s no more footing on the roof and no more life in the man. “Death by drowning,” is what they write on the death certificate. On to heaven he goes. Looking like a drowned rat, he confronts God for failing to answer his prayers. Causing God to say: “Hey, I sent you two rowboats and a helicopter….”

The issue is not whether that joke is old or new, witty or lame, funny or unfunny. The issue is whether it’s true or false. Because if it’s true, then you’ve got to be willing to look at everything that comes your way as a gift from God. Which, if you do, will mean that a can of soup can be manna….a buck to buy it can be manna….a pot to cook it can be manna….a fire to warm it can be manna….an appetite to enjoy it can be manna….and a friend to share it can be manna. Especially the friend to share it, given that even manna braised in puff pastry (with a gentle whisper of Bernaise on the side) doesn’t taste like all that much, when night after night you have to eat it alone.

Now, if I have convinced you that the sustenance of God can be incredibly ordinary, give me half a chance to convince you that the sustenance of God can also be incredibly daily.

When Kris and I were a whole lot younger than we are now, somebody tried to sell us a food plan. For a mere several hundred dollars….in monthly installments, of course….we could have a year’s worth of meat (roasts, chops, loins, ribs, patties, stew scraps) along with a whole lot of other stuff to go with it. Leading us to exclaim: “So much food. We’ll need a freezer to store it.” And leading the salesman to answer: “That’s the idea, Mr. Ritter. For a few hundred extra, a freezer can be part of the deal.”

Needless to say, we didn’t buy the plan. We didn’t buy the freezer. And we’ve never even opened the huge freezer chest we found in the basement of the parsonage. Instead, we use it for a shelf. Still, we’ve got two full refrigerators and a well-stocked pantry, so it’s not like we’re living on roots and berries. I suppose you could call it our “manna insurance,” in case God does not come through. But, then, where did we get this “insurance,” if not from God?

But prudent as we may be….and careful as we try to plan….some of the stuff in there spoils. Just like God said it would. So we have to clean it out and flush it down the disposal….lest it turn to worms, or something equally gross and smelly. Point being: some things nourish us, only if consumed in a timely fashion. Like when they are given. Or as they are needed.

Over and over again, I see people with terrible problems….great burdens….devastating illnesses….unraveling relationships….and I find myself wishing I could make it all go away and praying that God will make it all go away. But I can’t. And God doesn’t. Which does not always make perfect sense to me….until my head comes to terms with what my heart never fully accepts….that some storms have to be ridden and some valleys have to be crossed. Although God can….and does….provide shelter in the storm, while setting tables in the valleys.

What am I talking about? I am talking about the sustenance of God, most of which comes in bite-sized chunks….a mouthful at a time….an hour at a time….a day (or a night) at a time. A favorite verse from a cherished hymn reads:

            Lead kindly light, amid the encircling gloom,

            The night is dark and I am far from home.

            Keep thou my feet; I do not ask to see

            The distant scene….one step enough for me.

As concerns the Christian faith, I signed up (50 years ago) for the lifetime food plan. But there are days, even now, when I go to the cupboards of the spirit and find them bare. And so I pray: “Give me, O God, whatever you can give me. Right now. For now.” And I leave it for you to judge if God has answered that prayer or not. I mean, do I look undernourished?

And while you’re considering that, chew on one thing more. The gospel tells me that Jesus once fed people in Galilee….thousands of them. I don’t know how he did it. But, then, neither did they. Still, while sopping up the last little bit of fish juice with the last little hunk of bread, it must have occurred to them that this was remarkably reminiscent of the “manna stories” they had heard since they were little kids. So they figured that maybe (in Jesus) they had a second Moses in their midst….an eternal bread truck that would follow them wherever they went. So they stuck to Jesus like glue. I mean, it was like living above a bakery.

But to the disappointment of everybody, nothing ever appeared “fresh from the oven” again. Which led some to say: “What happened to the butter-crust?” And which led Jesus to answer: “I am the true Bread from Heaven….the Bread that gives life to the world.”

And the ones who didn’t go chasing the skirts of Sara Lee, understood. Which is why they said: “Lord, give us this bread always.”

Which was their choice. And a good choice, I might add. But would it….would he….be your choice? A loaf of bread versus a relationship with Jesus. A loaf of bread versus a relationship with Jesus. That’s a pretty weighty question.

But before you answer, think back to when you were young….single….smitten. One night the two of you went out to dinner. Nice place. High price. Wonderful chef. Great reputation. Sterling service. And you ordered well….and sat long….endlessly talking…..discreetly touching…. searching and discovering.

Food came. Food sat. Food went. Back to the kitchen….barely picked at….largely uneaten.

Two questions:

            Did you go home hungry that night?

            If not, how can you remember it as being the best meal of your life?

Note:  I am indebted to Ann Windley for her meticulous research on the issue of grits (and for preparing some). I am also grateful to Barbara Brown Taylor and her most-thoughtful book, Bread of Angels.

If I Had a Hammer 11/8/1998

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scriptures: Isaiah 44:9-20, Jeremiah 23:23-29

Shortly after the earth cooled and Twin Pines stopped delivering milk, door to door, I graduated from Yale Divinity School and launched my career as a youth minister in Dearborn. That’s right, I did what Matt does. And we had a good program, for it was a great time to be working with teenagers. Kids were questioning a lot of things, but had not yet begun their surly revolt against everything. Times were a’changing (as Bob Dylan sang) and feet were a’marching.

But most of the kids I worked with were tame for the time. They hadn’t dropped out. They weren’t dropping acid. They were still in church. And they were still singing songs. Which was why I learned to strum the guitar. Not many chords. And not many keys. Just enough to lead a hootenanny (how’s that for a word that dates me?) and sing a little Peter, Paul and Mary. Whatever else we did at MYF, we sang. We sang fun songs. We sang faith songs. We sang folk songs. And we sang freedom songs. I knew every possible chorus to “Do Lord.” And I knew every possible chorus to “We Shall Overcome.” And, of course, there was “Blowin’ in the Wind,” “Michael, Row Your Boat Ashore,” “Where Have All the Flowers Gone?” and the never-to-be-forgotten “If I Had a Hammer.”

Which, unfortunately, has been forgotten….by far too many. But not by me. Which is how it found its way into this morning’s title. And which is why it finds its way into this morning’s lyric.

If I had a hammer, I’d hammer in the morning,

            I’d hammer in the evening, all over this land.

            I’d hammer out danger; I’d hammer out warning;

            I’d hammer out love between my brothers and my sisters,

            All over this land.

And there were additional verses….about songs that could be sung and bells that could be rung. But there’s no need to sing or ring them now. Although should you feel differently, just do it under your breath.

Actually, the word “hammer” may not be the best possible choice for this particular morning, given the local news about a pair of recent hammer murders, including the latest one in Holly…. where we have been reading about a 25-year-old with a smallish drug debt (and a largish drug habit) who broke into an Oakland County home and finished off the four people sleeping there with a claw hammer. Which proves, once again, that hammers can be dangerous tools to use…. and dangerous tools to talk about. But, for all their danger, they are also decisive. Hammers are not dainty. A hammer is a tool with which a statement can be made. One swings a hammer…. making things happen….making things fit together….or making things fly apart. A hammer is an impact tool. Screwdrivers and socket wrenches are finesse tools.

Go back to Peter, Paul and Mary’s song. It, too, makes a statement….concluding (as it does) in a make-it-happen manner:

            I do have a hammer….of justice.

            I do have a bell….of freedom.

            I do have a song….about brother and sisterly love.

With the implication being that,

            I’ll swing it….ring it….sing it,

            Here….there….everywhere,

            And good stuff will happen as a result.

Like most of the songs I sang in the sixties, it was both “feel good” and “do good” music.

But few of us feel that way….or sing that way….anymore. The get-it-done spirit of the sixties has been replaced by something else….harder to pin down….but harder, still, to shake. Namely, a feeling that the solitary individual can’t get much done. That hammers (when swung) won’t connect. That songs (when sung) don’t motivate. That bells (when rung) no longer call anybody to action.

Parents know the feeling. Consider the TV commercial for some frozen taco product. It’s dinner time. Mom is in the kitchen, slaving over a hot microwave. Junior’s in the bedroom, surfing the Net. Mom wants Junior to come down to dinner. But Junior is not budging. Until, that is, he gets wind of the fact that tacos are on the menu. Apparently he likes them, for he comes down. The implication being that if he didn’t, he wouldn’t. And Mother would be powerless to make it otherwise. Moral of story: Isn’t Mother lucky that the frozen taco people have come to her rescue so that she won’t have anarchy on the home front? I mean, what’s a mother to do?

But don’t all of us feel that way from time to time?

What’s a mother to do?

What’s a father to do?

What’s a voterto do?

What’s a concerned citizen to do?

What’s a committed Christian to do?

There we stand….hands heavenward….heads lowered….knees buckled….the posture of those who bemoan their fate. Which, along with impotence, bleeds into the spiritual issue of insignificance. Colin Morris writes: “Much of the despair of our time stems from the individual’s sense of his or her insignificance….the disproportion between the size of the world’s problems and the slenderness of one’s personal resources for dealing with them.”

Somewhere, Morris adds, are world leaders whose decisions affect the destinies of nations. Somewhere, are prime movers whose “movings” can affect the price of prime. Somewhere, are employers who can create heaven or hell for those beneath them. “But for all our huffings and puffings, most of us can’t even frighten the dog. We are layers in a meat sandwich that grows more gigantic (and claustrophobic) by the hour.”

Even the future, which was once the singular province of the dreamers, has now been co-opted by the mathematicians (armed with their statistical paradigms and computer-projected trend analyses). I’ll never forget the day some genius announced to the Annual Conference that, as a result of feeding declining membership statistics into his computer (and adjusting for certain selected variables), he concluded that the last member would turn out the last light in the last Michigan Methodist church, sometime during the summer of 2046.

And while a part of me thought, “Hey, I’ll be a member of the church triumphant by then (and its numbers are surely rising),” the other part of me thought: “What’s the use? What’s a poor preacher to do?” So I skipped the rest of the session and treated myself to an ice cream.

What I totally ignored, of course, was that such trends are reversible and that there are a pair of factors that can orchestrate such reversals….human effort and Holy Spirit….the combination of what man can do and what God is already doing. Someone once reminded me that had computers existed in the 1890s (when horse-drawn transportation was well-nigh universal), they would have predicted that by the 1990s, every last street in America would be covered with seven feet of horse manure. Which it isn’t….pointing to the fact that something (or someone) made one heck of a difference.

The truth of Christianity can be dismissed (by some) as outdated and illusory. But what cannot be dismissed is that the entire course of history was impacted by a group of rather ordinary people who sensed that something, or someone, had entered their lives….a man worth following….which translated into a song worth singing, a word worth preaching, a work worth doing and a cause worth advancing.

Like them, we may be mere individuals. But we are individuals plus the ideas for which we stand. And I have seen what can happen when ordinary people become possessed by extraordinary ideas.

Do you know the most extraordinary idea in the Gospel? There’s a lot of ‘em in there. Were I to stop the sermon and invite you to discuss the matter among yourselves, you’d come up with most of them. But I am willing to bet that nobody would come up with this one. For me, the most extraordinary idea in the Gospel comes out of a conversation between Jesus and his disciples. They are marveling at his power while lamenting the lack of their own. It’s the old “you can do anything….we can’t do squat” conversation that crops up from time to time. But, on this occasion, Jesus dropped everybody’s jaw when he said: “Everything you have seen me do, you will do….and more. Nothing shall be impossible for you.” Which is a most extraordinary idea by which to be possessed, wouldn’t you think?

Funny, though, one of the places we find it hardest to believe is in the church. Oh, maybe not this church. But most churches. When I came here (five and a half years ago) I was told over and over again:

            This church can do anything it wants to do.

You have no idea how many times people said that to me. Which put the onus squarely on my shoulders:

            How do I get it to want to?

Do I preach and prod? Do I offer the energy of my own example? Do I hire and unleash gifted people whose talents dwarf my own? Do I keep throwing out ideas, in seed-like fashion, and then rake the ground onto which they fall? Or do I listen carefully to what lies deep within you….your dreams….your gifts….your ministries…and then play the midwife so that you can give birth to that over which you’ve been laboring?

I’ve tried all of the above. And met with some success. But there’s so much more that could be done. Some of which will be done. Let me fuel your imagination for a minute. Can you envision:

            A new organ?

            A new worship option?

            A church-wide living prayer weekend?

A partner church relationship in Eastern Europe (with a Methodist congregation in Prague or Budapest)?

            A shared staff person (employed half-time here and half-time in an inner city church)?

            A lecture/concert series of community-impacting proportions?

            A Habitat for Humanity home, funded and executed by First Church?

That’s not a refined list. That may not even be a doable list. But it’s a starter list. All I have to do is keep reminding you that, as a church, you have more tools than even you know. And since we’re one week from D-Day (in our stewardship campaign), I should remind you that some of your tools are financial. I’m certainly not embarrassed to ask you for more money, because I know the basic levels of your giving. And one of the functions of my asking….along with your responding….will be to ease your embarrassment before God (as concerns the basic level of your giving). Or let me simply remind you of what you said to me when I came:

            This church can do anything it wants to do.

* * * * *

But maybe I’ve overstated things. Maybe you don’t see yourselves as hammers. Maybe you see yourselves as nails. Which is all right. Because sometimes I see you that way, too.

I see some of you as spikes (sort of like the Trustees)….invisible to the naked eye….but down there in the foundation, holding stuff together.

I see some of you as regular nails (two penny, four penny, six penny, eight)….different sizes….different lengths….but holding up your end….doing your part.

I see some of you as roofing nails….short….squat….more head than shaft….making sure that everything we’re about doesn’t float mindlessly into thin air.

And I see some of you as finishing nails….pretty little things….binding beauty to belief and fine arts to firm foundations.

But about nails of any kind, I know three additional things.

             First, they gotta have a head.

Second, they gotta have a point.

Third, it will take a power greater than they possess to drive them into place.

Which, don’t you see, puts things in proper perspective. As Jeremiah suggests, God’s Word is the hammer that drives everything else.

Let me close with this. My father taught me that every tool has its place. And he taught me that every tool has its time. Then came a clergy colleague, who taught me about a man who went into the bus station at Athens, Georgia, to buy a ticket for Greenville, South Carolina. He was told that the bus would be a little late. So he thought he’d take a walk around the station and have a look at things. He came upon a machine that advertised: “I will tell you your name, your age, your home town, and other interesting information.” Curious and mildly skeptical, the man put a quarter into the machine. A card came out of the slot. It read: “Your name is Bill Jones. You are 35 years of age. You live in Athens, Georgia. You are waiting for a bus to Greenville, South Carolina. Your bus is delayed.”

The man was dumbfounded. This couldn’t be possible. So he reached for another quarter, put it in the machine, and received a second card. Itread: “Your name is Bill Jones. You are 35 years of age. You live in Athens, Georgia. You are still waiting for a bus to Greenville, South Carolina. Your bus is delayed a little longer.”

This was beyond belief. Now he was truly fascinated. He thought: “I am going to stump this machine.” He left the station, found a five-and-dime store, and bought a pair of those Groucho Marx glasses with eyebrows and mustache, along with some fake ears, a wig and a cane. Hobbling back into the station, he approached the machine and inserted a quarter. Out came the card. “You name is Bill Jones. You are 35 years of age. You live in Athens, Georgia. You are still waiting for a bus to Greenville, South Carolina. You look ridiculous in that get-up. And while you were horsing around, the bus left.”

Unfortunately, my colleague horsed around (if you know what I mean), so the Bishop took his tools away from him. But we have ours….tools, that is. We’ve got hammers….songs….bells (whistles, too). And the bus is waiting. Not the bus to Greenville. But the bus to greatness.

Note:  Colin Morris first suggested the sermonic possibilities of the hammer in his marvelous book on Christian hope entitled The Hammer of the Lord. It was the late Harrell Beck of Boston University who first talked about “nails” and the Kingdom. Unfortunately, I can’t track the reference (but I remember h