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