Sermon:
November 8, 1998

Scripture:
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 voter to 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. It read: "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 hearing him preach it).