Give Me a Hammer and the Power to Swing It
Sharon K. West
September 21, 2009
Prophetic words come to email inboxes, yet they speak of tiring things. Quips. Inspirational stories. Concocted analogies. Stroking the soul, yet the spirit hungers to hear an open word. A word which breaks open in newness of understanding and keeps on breaking open, on and on, knocking things down, building things up---like the very hammer of the Lord.
Where are the prophets? My heart cries.
The church powerless, building buildings instead of people. Serving bean suppers instead of meat of the spirit. Lofty songs in comfortable spaces. Ever praising, but not knowing. Spending time voting when the Lord has already voted. Exiling those who walk ahead to walking alone on islands as Patmos safely put away. Flesh speakers, abortionists of spirits, promoters of money changing, curators of tradition, annulling the power of God.
Yet where are the prophets? My heart cries.
Oh, give me a hammer and the power to swing it! Let me have a voice that will sound forth as the voice of a lion in dominion, a tone that will surely echo in seven thunders! A sound that will drown the din of the mocking, raging, vain imaginations to herald the catching up of the body to vanguard, scout, and pioneer whilst feet still touch the earth!
Where are the prophets? My heart cries.
And greater things shall you do. But not now. Only silence. Waiting. Escape. Nowhere to go. Heads turning, looking anywhere.
And where are the prophets? My heart cries!
Give me a hammer and the power to swing it, oh Lord!
The open word.
Where are the prophets? My heart cries.
The church powerless, building buildings instead of people. Serving bean suppers instead of meat of the spirit. Lofty songs in comfortable spaces. Ever praising, but not knowing. Spending time voting when the Lord has already voted. Exiling those who walk ahead to walking alone on islands as Patmos safely put away. Flesh speakers, abortionists of spirits, promoters of money changing, curators of tradition, annulling the power of God.
Yet where are the prophets? My heart cries.
Oh, give me a hammer and the power to swing it! Let me have a voice that will sound forth as the voice of a lion in dominion, a tone that will surely echo in seven thunders! A sound that will drown the din of the mocking, raging, vain imaginations to herald the catching up of the body to vanguard, scout, and pioneer whilst feet still touch the earth!
Where are the prophets? My heart cries.
And greater things shall you do. But not now. Only silence. Waiting. Escape. Nowhere to go. Heads turning, looking anywhere.
And where are the prophets? My heart cries!
Give me a hammer and the power to swing it, oh Lord!
The open word.
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