Going Around In Circles

Much of a grain farmer's life is spent going around in circles. Round after round is made in each field, moving from one side of the field towards the other depending on the equipment being used and the task being accomplished, and all of this is repeated multiple times throughout the year (tilling, planting, spraying, fertilizing, mowing, cultivating, harvesting, etc . . .). To the casual observer it all may seem a bit redundant and monotonous, but to the farmer, it is part and parcel of the circle of life. No matter how large the tractor or how wide the equipment being used, still, every task to be completed in the life of a crop requires making the rounds necessary to complete the field. If all the operations are not done completely and well, the harvest suffers. It is as simple as that.

So it is with the Church and with our personal faith journeys: If all the rounds are not made, if they are not done completely and well, the final harvest suffers. It is as simple as that.

Mom and Dad always told me, "Anything worth doing is worth doing well." So it is with the way we tend to the God of our faith. Time spent is prayer, reading the Bible, attending worship, participating in ongoing Christian Education, giving time to mission, talking about issues of faith with family, living faith in the daily decisions made in every context, are all part and parcel of the rounds which must be made for the field of our life to be done completely and well. Short cuts reduce yield potential, even threaten crop failure. Any God worth worshipping is worth worshipping well. Any faith worth living is worth living well. Every task must be completed, every round made, the entire field covered.

This is not to say that every person's journey is the same journey as the next person. God did not make us that way. Just as every farmer approaches the fields of their stewardship differently, so every person of faith approaches their journey differently. Yet, no matter how differently the approach, certain key elements must occur, critical operations tended to in a timely manner, attention paid throughout the growing season. It is the way of the farmer, just as it is the way of the One who creates the potential for a bountiful harvest in every life.

Sometimes a field can look incredibly large as you pull into it with your equipment to begin the journey, but don't despair: each pass made, each round completed, adds to the last and, if you keep your eyes on the Goal, before you know it, it's where you are. It is the circle of Life, enter into God's harvest.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

My Father's Hands

This Father's Day has had me thinking a lot about my Dad and, in my mind's eye, the most distinguishable characteristic of my father is his hands. Dad was born in 1925 and, in his 83 years of life, his hands have become an incredible measure of his life and faith. Let me explain:

In my Dad's lifetime he has driven horses and mules, which has much to do with explaining the curvature of his fingers. All you have to do is imagine the traces of the rigging's of a team of horses running through between the fingers of a young boy becoming a man on the farm and you can see why his fingers turn in such seemingly odd ways.

In my Dad's lifetime his hands have delivered calves and kittens with equal care. His hands have held the multitude of hammers which are a part of a farmers craft while building and repairing barns and sheds and they have, as deftly, held the handles of crowbars, pry-bars, sledge hammers and axes which have torn down outdated walls and buildings to make way for whatever the current age demanded.

In my Dad's lifetime his hands have turned the hand cranks on motors which powered tractors, cars and trucks, and, just as capably, his hands have been at the controls of everything from a Ford Model T to the modern combines and tractors which utilize 'touchscreen' technology for 'on the go' adjustments.

My Dad's hands have reached down to inspect an alfalfa leaf for aphids and leaf hoppers, carefully turning the leaf without disturbing the pest so that an accurate identification could occur, and, just as carefully, his hands have picked up his most recent great-granddaughter to hold her close so he could rock her to sleep in the love only a great-grandfather can offer.

My Dad's hands have paddled my bottom at those times when I crossed the lines of discipline and, just as firmly, his hands have pulled me close when most I needed to be reminded how loved I am and how close family always will be.

My Dad's hands have shoveled rock and gravel to fill in the holes left in dirt roads by rainy seasons and spinning tires and, just as surely, his hands have opened the Bible to scripture which has given him a foundation upon which his life continues to be built in every season and distress.

My Dad's hands have worked to build ponds, cisterns, and wells that water for livestock and human beings alike would be plentiful, and his hands have, as lovingly, been a part of the baptismal cycle of life which is met in the waters which flow in the Spirit over the heart of a newborns life.

My Dad's hands have taken hold of more than a few heavy loads and lifted them with the brute strength that a farmer's will and muscled body can abide and, just as powerfully, he has clasped his hands in prayer on a daily, even hourly basis, trusting God to meet every need, to share in every joy, and to be a part of his every decision.

My Dad's hands have cut the hair of all four of his boys, doing his best not to burn our necks with the clippers as they grew hotter with each passing minute he worked and, just as wonderfully, his hands have clasped ours in congratulations, never waiting for the heat of success to cool, always wanting to congratulate on goals accomplished and dreams achieved at the moment they occurred, desiring each of us to personally know how proud he is of us.

My Dad's hands have held the hands of my mother while they sat on the glider on the front porch of our home, together singing the sweet, sweet harmonies of the songs of love and faith, while the cool of a Summer's evening gathered our family into the moment along with the enveloping darkness and, just as tenderly, some years later, his hands held hers in comfort and assurance of unending love as Parkinson's did its worst and slowly silenced the music in her hands (which once had played the piano and organ) and, finally, the song which was in the heart of her living.

My Dad's hands have milked thousands of cows, baled hundreds of thousands of bales, and harvested acres upon acres of hay and corn silage. His hands have planted soybeans, corn, wheat, milo, grasses of every kind, trees, vegetables, flowers and shrubs. His hands have been enjoined with God's in the building of a home and the establishment of a family. His hands have tilled the soil of contours and terraces, while carving the waterways which prevent erosion and, in so doing, became a steward of God's household, a living witness to the nearness of the Kingdom.

My Dad's hands have labored over facts and figures as, carefully, he accounted for what his hard work had yielded and, just as carefully, his hands pushed the pencils which drew the future out for others, far beyond the ways and means of his own farm or life, but sharing fully and completely of God's gift in his life for creative conservation and shared responsibility in those organizations which shape a community and a country.

My Dad's hands have cranked the handles of many an ice-cream maker and, just as joyfully and skillfully, his hands have thrown horseshoes and softballs while celebrating the gift of friends and family with carefree abandon.

My Dad's hands have held the hands of friends and family in moments of grief and, just as resolutely, have been the hands that others have sought in wanting to share the load of wounded souls and broken hopes.

My Dad's hands are the hands I want my hands to become: The hands of God powerfully present in the care one child of God extends to another.

Though a Pastor's hands may never become as toughened and cracked and weathered as those of a farmer, I pray my hands become as wise and tender and faithful as those of my father, for I know in my heart of hearts, his hands are shaped by those of our Father in heaven and, in this son's humble estimation, there is no higher goal to seek, in heaven or on earth.

On this Father's Day, I pray my Dad's hands are the hands my hands become, that others might see God in me the way I see God in him.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

A Few More Peppers

I just finished planting eight new pepper plants in our garden. Nancy looked at me like I was nuts when she arrived home the other day and saw them sitting on the sidewalk next to the garden but, as only a 'Papa' might be able to explain, I reminded 'Nana' that our granddaughters would be with us today and I wanted Cailin to help me in the garden. These are to be her contribution to the family dinner table, planted where the lettuce crop once stood. Together, we planted tomorrows delicacies and together we will tend them through the summer. I'm not sure what Cailin will learn from all of this, but I am looking forward to teaching her the fine art of working hand in hand with God in creation,while leading her towards the exquisite joy that dirty hands and a sweaty brow bring to the things one picks in the garden and places on the table.

Such are the holy moments of family and the sacred joys of a faith family. Each generation takes their place with the young ones among them and passes on the intricacies of intimate conversations with God, whether in the garden, in a field, in an office, or on the road between here and there. Ours is the privilege of shaping the moment with the wonders of our own experiences, with the possibilities that are limited only by our imagination, and ours is the responsibility of inviting, even encouraging a personal commitment to the endeavor, that what happens is more than a 'buying into a particular way of thinking' but, rather, is an evoking of a response born of a communal spirit finding a home in the One who is the dirt under the fingernails as well as in the Food upon the Table. It is an awesome notion, indeed, that God is capable of using an old Papa like me, a garden shovel, a pepper plant, and the fragrant soil of God's own creation to teach a young girl about love, shared labors, struggles, and joys, all of which are a part of life's flowing stream.

The question has never been, "Will Cailin and other children like her really want to learn what we have to teach?" History has shown us time and time again, the desire to experience and understand that which is bigger than ourselves and our limited place on earth is forever in the heart of humanity. The real question is, "If we don't teach our children, who will?" Because, you can bet on it, someone will meet their need and answer their questions . . . and if, in the questioning, in that moment of wonderment, we who are closest to our children do not speak up and articulate in word and action the love of God in Jesus Christ, then what they receive and decide to believe is as much what we have taught them in our silence as it is what has been told them by those who only see them as a pawns for their amusement and power.

So, pepper plants, rototillers, garden rakes, and garden shovels, mixed with a fair amount of fertilizer, hard work and a little bit of sweat, are the things which make for a teachable moment, a shared experience, and the baptismal love that washes the soul and feeds an emerging life. If in the course of my lifetime our granddaughter remembers nothing else about me than her old Papa helping her to plant some pepper plants on a June afternoon in the garden behind our home, I will know that she will hold close the knowledge that she is always loved, that the best labors are those which are shared, and the most wonderful of moments are the ones filled with laughter, love and dirty hands nurturing new life for all to share at the Table where God's family is fed.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

Listen Up

Sometimes, the hardest thing about writing is listening, and the hardest thing about listening is hearing, and the hardest thing about hearing is perceiving, and the hardest thing about perceiving is learning, and the hardest thing about learning is adapting, and the hardest thing about adapting is owning, and the hardest thing about owning is living, and the hardest thing about living is being, and the hardest thing about being is . . . . .

And it goes on and on. "The greatest risk of being ecumenical," said Rev. Dr. Allen Miller from Eden Seminary, "is that of being converted. For once you fully, truthfully, enter into a conversation with a person of another tradition, you risk being changed. And any change, no matter how minor, is in some small manner, a conversion, because your being can no longer live as once you did." I have never forgotten that lesson from the World Religions Class which Dr. Miller taught and he was probably one of the first 'ecu-maniacs' of which I became aware. He believed folks from every tradition, every religion, should always sit at table together and learn from each other. Dr. Miller believed, and I have come to firmly hold that, in so doing, the world would find its way to peace and justice, for the greatest schisms in peace and many of the greatest injustices throughout history have been inflicted upon humanity and justified in the courts of public opinion for the sake of religion, whatever its ilk or name. Listening, and all of its various manifestations and extensions, is the hardest task any one of us will undertake, for active listening requires the one with ears to fully hear the words, context, and feeling behind the words spoken by the other. Maybe that is why Jesus said that so often, "Let the one who has ears to hear, listen."

I was in Barnes and Nobles the other day and, as nearly always happens, started paging through the volumes upon volumes of 'best sellers' which were on the front tables. So many words being written, so many books being bought and sold, so many thoughts being presented, but what difference do self-help books really make if the person reading the words is seeking only someone else's opinion of how to make their life better? What ever happened to listening to the Word talk about how life is 'good' from the very beginning of creation? Or does that thought scare us, for it might mean that there is no one else to blame for our bad attitude and behaviors other than ourselves, and we certainly don't want to hear those words, do we?!

Jesus prays out loud that we might intimately understand that God prays for our welfare, for our understanding, and for our very lives. Maybe we would be well served to listen for a while, that in listening, we might hear the meaning of our name spoken on the lips of the God of all creation. Who knows, maybe the swords will become plowshares and the spears become pruning hooks? What will it cost us to listen? What will it cost us if we don't?

Only God knows.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

Of Bruised Thumbs and Colorful Language

In the course of unhitching the blade (an earth moving/scraping tool) from one of the tractors on the farm today, my thumb managed to find itself pinched between the swivel ball on the three point hitch arm and the side of the blade three-point hook up, both of which are solid steel. How it exactly happened is still something of a mystery, but suffice it to say, in a heart-beat, in an instant, I was moved to speak in 'tongues'. Why is it when something like that happens, the first instinct is to wave your entire hand rapidly like a fan, as though trying to expunge the point of pain out the end of the injured digit? And, where do those stars come from that you see for just that thousandths of a second when it happens? Are they just waiting there, somewhere back in your brain, for the 'appropriate painful stimulation' to set them free in flight through your eye sockets? What about the choice of language that inevitably becomes a part of the event? What hidden truths are revealed about us in the words which come flying out of our mouths when least we have control of our reactions?

Looking at my thumb this evening, finding it somewhat painful even to type these words, and thinking about the events of the day which led to the black mark running under my thumbnail, got me to thinking about those points in life's journey that leave us speaking in tongues, shouting words that we pray our children will never use, waving our hands in space and praying the pain will quickly subside. It got me to thinking about those times and places when, intentionally and sometimes unintentionally, choices were made that bruised a part of life, that left a pain which took a long time to go away, even marking our being with a kind of bruise that, like my thumb, will only disappear when the entire nail is shed and a new one grows into its place. And, it got me to thinking about how it feels to God when we make such choices: If it hurts us so badly, how does it feel to God?

As a parent, I have a pretty good idea of the pain I feel when one of our children is in pain, whatever the cause. It is a lot like being hit in the gut or having your thumb smashed when one of your children finds themselves in a situation bound in the complexities of pain. How can it be any different for the One who is Parent to us all? To the One who births each of us from nothing and offers to us everything? What must God feel when children lose limbs to landmines or when those with much refuse to share with those who have nothing? Does God speak in tongues when we manage to bruise our Parent's heart with misbehavior or unwise choices? Does God wave God's hand in the air trying to exude the pain out of the joint of God's being when we smash God's hand away in headstrong anger? Is this why Jesus said from the cross, "Father forgive them, for they know not what they do."?

It is certainly something to ponder as the throbbing in my thumb finds a rhythm similar to that in "What A Friend We Have In Jesus", which just might be God's way of reminding me that the choice of tongues in which I spoke this morning wasn't in the best of taste. Or, it could be God's way of telling me, 'Wise up next time and don't put your hand on the linkage when the three-point arm swings away. Don't be such a putz or the next time you do it you will learn some really wild words.' Either way, God is in the pain, so I know that God will also be in the healing, for God never lets any of us alone whatever we do. Thanks be to God!

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

Back in the Days of the Two Bottom Plows

"Back in the days of the two-bottom plows, this kind of weather didn't make much difference. Farmers didn't farm so much that a late Spring planting would break them and seed corn was 7 or 8 dollars a bag. Now they pay $150 to $175 a bag and farm so much they're not even farming. We need to get back to two-bottom plow days."

These are the words of an old farmer who spoke with me yesterday and, clearly, he remembers two-bottom plow farming . . . and can't remember a Spring that was ever quite so wet, which is going a piece when you think on his age. He remembers not being quite so pushed or quite so financially extended. He remembers when, even if you weren't a farmer, your neighbor was likely to be one or, at the very least, you knew one. He remembers the time it took with a two bottom plow to turn a field over in preparation for planting - and he remembers the time it took so well that he equates it with not being able to farm as many acres as farmers do today. He remembers . . . and he longs for what has been parked in fence rows and forgotten, or recovered and set in the front yard like a trophy, for the two bottom plow way of farming no longer exists any more than $7 a bushel seed corn.

My heart ached for this farmer as he spoke his piece for, in my heart of hearts, I have thought the same sort of thought: 'Why don't we all just slow down, do a little less, be willing to live on a little less, put in a little more effort, and recover the life we know once was ours to claim.' There is a part of me, too, that knows he is right . . . and that, I think, is what makes my heart heavy, because I know we can never go back to two bottom plows. Too many people depend on too few farmers for the consumable goods which grace the tables of homes all over the world.

Improved genetics have pushed the price of seed skyward. Intensive marketing has made the sweat of the farmers brow worth more - in more places - than ever before. And, the variables of petroleum costs, herbicide and insecticide costs, fertilizer costs, machinery costs, product development and marketing costs, educational costs, home costs, etc . . . all add weight to an industry that has a hard time holding young farmers on the farm anyway, thus even more dramatically reducing the number of farms, while increasing the size of those remaining. There is such an inevitability to this cycle that, in the name of soil conservation in many of our most heavily farmed areas, farmers no longer plow at all . . . and no-till farming is on the rise. Reduce cost, increase the potential for profitability. Put the two bottom plow at the bottom of the ravine and hope it slows down the erosion of our nation's greatness.

Some might say the church should take a lesson from all of this, but I wonder who folks thought taught the farmers this approach in the first place. So well have those lessons of progress and 'utilizing the most up to date practices and approaches to life' been preached from the pulpits, that the very parishioners who once has time to listen to the messages are nowhere to be found in the pews anymore. The two bottom plows of family time, prayer time, congregational fellowship time, youth ministries that don't require 'youth specialists', worship that doesn't require a 'technology minister', and evangelism that doesn't rely on a marketing and communications degree, have been left in the bulldozed tree lines of our lives, buried with the very soil that once had been its pride to work. And, when times get hard, the economy slumps, the Springtime of our life is wet, and folks aren't sure which way to turn, what they are left with somehow doesn't measure up to what they know their soul really needs . . . and the oldest among us quietly says, "Back in the days of the two bottom plows . . . ."

It is something to think about in our 'bigger is better' culture, with our 'we deserve more and should pay less' attitudes, that smirk in the faces of those in other lands that 'just don't seem to get it'. It's something to think about before we just dismiss the quiet words of an old farmer as he reflects on our current condition from the context he continues to live. Maybe, in the name of Jesus Christ, there is still something to be learned from two bottom plow living . . . maybe . . . if we haven't buried the possibility too deeply or rolled the stone into place too tightly.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

A Prayer for Farmers in a Wet Year

We offer this prayer, O God,

for those who till the soil,

for those whose hands

and lives

are entwined with Your Own,

in a time when they

perceive their hopes

sinking beneath

the rivulets of water,

washing the seed

and dreams

of a bountiful harvest

into rivers of despair.

We pray for Sunshine

to dry the soil

and lift the spirit.

We pray for Your Spirit

to blow across the land

and give growth

and strength

to struggling plants

and people alike.

We pray for Safety

in the moment

when waiting gives way

to doing,

that the doing

not be undone

by hurry

or shortcuts.

We pray for Wisdom

in the midst

of the rush,

that bodies not become

so tired

that minds make

costly errors.

We pray for Patience

that the hurried pace

of fevered opportunity

not become the seed bed

of short tempered,

unlistening ears,

which hear not Your call

to walk in peace

the path set before us.

We pray for Discernment,

that adversity not be

the final answer,

that difficulty not be

the only direction,

that hardship not be

the last straw,

before understanding

that You are in all things,

bringing Hope.

And we pray for the farmers

themselves.

We pray for those with whom

You partner

to feed the world,

that they not be lost

in the fury of the

Springtime storms

your ongoing creation

whips over the land.

We pray for those

whose tender hearts

and toughened hands

wait in prayerful vigil

for the shed door

of your growing season

to open

and welcome them

into Your future

for us all.

We pray for the farmers,

O God,

and in so doing,

we pray for ourselves,

for these faithful few

among us,

still do with You

what the majority

in our world

cannot do for themselves:

They raise the grain

which make the loaves,

they nurture the vineyards

which yield the wine,

and in Your Strong Hands

and in Your Gentle Voice

we hear the blessing,

"My Body"

"My Blood",

the crop becoming

sacrament,

the harvest

a resurrection.

We pray for the farmers

and their families,

that in Your Love,

their prayers

would be heard,

and our world

receive your caress.

In Jesus' name.

Amen.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

A Moment in Time

Even as I write this in my office, there are a group of folk at work in the kitchen of the church readying a dinner for after worship. Normally I am helping in the kitchen, but today am banned from assistance for my dear sisters and brothers in Christ are preparing to kick off the 140th Anniversary of St. Paul United Church of Christ and celebrate my 20th Anniversary of Ordination. This is their gift of love and fellowship to me and my family . . . and I am completely humbled.

June 5, 1988 was the exact date of my Ordination, which is just yesterday in my mind, so quickly have the years flown by. As Nancy and I shared a cup of coffee last evening on the front porch of our home, which looks out over the worship and fellowship facilities of St. Paul, she reflected that, "It's probably a really good gift from God that these 20 years have seemed to fly by. Imagine what it would mean if they had seemed to be an eternity." I think that is one of the reasons I love her so, she is always right (or so she tells me).

These years have flown by, with two congregations and a whole host of saints who work hard to embody the kingdom in their everyday living, 20 years is but a day, a moment, a breath. And, if so for me, how is it with God? The Psalmist says, "For a day in your courts is better than a thousand elsewhere." (Psalm 84.10a) A thousand elsewhere would be that, a thousand days lived out of God's presence, which would be Hell. One day in God's courts is immeasurable in joy and unfathomable in completeness. It is a day of sacred journey and holy living. It is every bit of 20 years in ministry, yet so much more.

I am blessed to have shared 20 years of ministry with two wonderful congregations and a loving family who patiently understands and lives through the quirks of pastoral ministry. They have made 20 years fly by and seem as a day in the courts of God. Thus, I am twice blessed: the first blessing is the people with whom I share ministry; and, the second blessing births the first, for it is ministry lived in the very presence of God, making life complete.

Where ministry goes from here I do not know. That is up to God, as have been the first 20 years. What I do know is this: I would have no other purpose than to serve God in walking with Christ in the power of the Spirit. For whatever years of ministry are left in my life, may they be as a day in the courts of God, for there my heart will always reside.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don