Thoughts on the Farmers Among Us

Driving through the country on my way to a hospital this afternoon, the mounting heat combined with the ongoing dry conditions in our region left me feeling really worried for the farmers. The corn is starting to whorl and the beans are looking a sickly lime green. Dust-devils spin their way through acres of field and pastures, giving the sky the tannish-hue of baby poop. The birds are perched in shaded protection, leaving only the occasional Turkey Vulture to scout the roads for a wayside buffet. Livestock are seeking out the remaining mud puddles of winding creeks and watering trough overflows. Even the barnyard dogs have left their watchful positions, seeking the cool earth underneath hibiscus plants and grape arbors.

It is a worrisome time for those who have invested so much to feed so many and, despite the very best of varieties and tillage practices, still find their gaze lingering on the sun drenched skies, piercing the blue for the prayer of a cloud bank. It is as if a faucet has been turned off. Those who have never farmed will never fully understand the intimate connectedness of a farmer's hand with that of God in tending to all of God's creation and, for those who deny either the connectedness or God . . . . well, they are denying even their own existence for wont of the 'logical' explanation.

The farmers I know are the true high priests of the faith, for they are constantly on bended knee before the One who calls them to labor mightily for the sake of the other. Theirs are the hands that feel the soil and know its worth, whether in need or in abundance. Theirs are the eyes that can scan the earth and see the vision of Eden proclaimed before them. Theirs are the ears which hear the most ancient of Voices call them to labor in the fields which were long before them and will survive long after them. Theirs are the taste buds which savor the wonder of a sprig of alfalfa in the same way they marvel at the first of tomatoes, the sweetness of new potatoes, and the humbling awe of grape jelly made from the sweat of their brow. Theirs is the sense of smell which can discern the ripeness of wheat, the warmth of the soil, the nearness of rain, and the majesty of country lilacs . . . all without having to take a step off the front porch of their home.

Farmers are the ones among us who should be the honored guests in every home, yet are most likely to be among the lowly who enter from the back door and settle at a seat in the kitchen, a glass of water or a cup of coffee their only request. Farmers rise with the emerging sun to meet the pressing need and are often found lingering on the smallest of chores long after the moon has claimed its spot in the sky. Farmers speak the liturgy of Body and Blood in the birthing of calves, their care for foaling, and their attention to lambing. Farmers baptize in water and Spirit all that is holy in the presence of God as they nurture the tenderest of shoots with the same passion and conviction as given to the tallest of trees and the broadest of fields. With sweat marked caps and grease spotted shirts and pants, farmers take on the yoke of Eternal Ordination unlike any the Church could ever know, for they are called and equipped for the highest of service in the feeding of God's children and the care of God's creation. No priestly stole is necessary, for the simple folded hands of a farmer in prayer are sign and seal to all who would observe that these are a special people in the sight of the One who sets them apart for service.

I have no doubt in these driest of days, God hears the voice of the farmers and will tend to their cries. There is a balm in Gilead and we, who so depend upon the faithfulness and labors of farmers, would do well to pray for them and with them in equal measure. The Service of Word and Sacrament begun in the Spring moves steadily towards the Benediction of Winter's lingering response. God bless us, everyone, in this life of worship, but especially the farmer, God's truly chosen and appointed servant.

The Streets Smell Like Curing Hay

It smells like curing hay in town, so full of battered green leaves are our streets. Another sobering reminder of the storm which passed a few short days ago.


The smell reminded me of days gone by, when once such a storm stopped the baling of a field of hay which was dried and ready on our farm. The rain poured down for a day, then continued in fits and starts for another day (one of those 'surpri...se' rains no forecaster foresaw), while the hay laid raked and ready for the baler. By the time the field and hay had dried enough for us to even think about baling, the hay was, in fact, moldy and wasted. Too much time had passed, too much water had soaked it, too much moisture was still trapped underneath the rows. All that was left to do was chop it onto the ground and wait for the next crop to ripen, praying all the while that the next crop would be more bountiful than ever. It is a sad day on a dairy farm when that happens, both in mourning the loss of critical winter feed for the cows and in anticipating what it is going to take from slim profits to purchase enough from other sources to make up for the difference. Many is the farmer which has looked up to the sky with questioning eyes in such moments and voiced a deep disappointment.

I can't speak for other farmers in similar situations, but I can tell you of what I observed in my Dad in comparable moments. When such things happened Dad never blamed God, yet he shared his disappointment as a precious gift of trust with the One to whom all people can go. Even the voice of disappointment in the ear of God is a precious gift of intimate prayer, for both the one who prays the truth of their heart and the One who hears those pained words are moved by that moment of closeness - and out of that shared wound comes healing.

Trust God enough to share everything with God, including the pain, disappointment, grief and anger. In Christ, we are taught that no more honest language can be shared than that of child and Parent.

If the god you believe in isn't big enough to take such candor, than it is a very small god you believe in, indeed.

God can take it all . . . and more, which is good to remember when the streets smell like curing hay. Have a blessed day.

The Smell of Corn Pollenating

It is said that one of the human bodies strongest senses is that of smell - and that the sense of smell is intimately tied to our capacity to remember. All it takes for me to think of Grandma Wagner is to smell bread or coffee cake baking and all it takes for me to think of summers past is the smell of corn pollinating.

Driving along our Southwestern Illinois highways last evening, the air was ripe with the smell of corn pollen. Many of the fields have tasseled and the dark green company of stalks are nearly all sporting two immature ears of corn, the silks of which are pushed out to receive of the tassel's gifts. Now, for many, this time of the year is reason to stay inside near the air conditioner breathing air which has been filtered many times over, recognizing that such natural events do have the possibility of being brutal on those with allergies. Yet, for those of us who thrive in such conditions, this is the time of year that, not only can you hear the corn growing, so abundant the soil moisture and summertime heat, but you can also smell the corn doing what corn does so well, 'producing', and outside is the place to be.

The smell of corn pollinating, in my memory, is the smell of mid-summer joy: It is the smell of long summer days and humid evenings play; It is the smell of farm chores being completed and summer spare time spent in the pond; It is the smell of long walks with Dad along the field roads of our farm, checking the progress of the crops and listening to the stories of the development of our family farm; It is the smell of homemade ice cream being churned with the hand-cranked ice-cream maker on the front steps of our home, being made with cream skimmed from the top of our milk tank after milking was done; It is the smell of bicycles racing along the country roads of our neighborhood as my buddies and I raced each other around the country block; It is the smell of hay being ready to bale and straw already put away in the barn; It is the smell of cow feed and the nearing Winter's challenge to prepare months in advance; It is the smell of humidity and heat mixed with an invigorating splash of faith and hope to produce anticipation of what God has yet to reveal of God's own abundance; It is the smell of sitting on the front porch of our home listening to Mom and Dad sing to each other in the dark evening's coolness while gliding together in their love; It is the smell of brother's and friends playing hide and go-seek in the lengthening shadows of our farms many barns and nearby fields; It is the smell of contentment, the likes of which I continue to yearn for today, but find only completely embodied in the memories of my boyhood. For me, corn pollinating still remains the smell of sensuous rural living, accented by the hand of God brushing over the canvas of my life in strokes and hues of laughter, music, good food, hard work, family, faith, and friends.

Though my prayers are with those who suffer greatly in this time due to the high pollen counts in the air, my fervent hope is that the smell of corn pollinating lingers for a long time to come. It quiets my soul and strengthens my heart, while taking me back to where I want to go in God's own good time for me. May you be so blessed to smell and remember with such joy.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

Marker Tracks

Planting second crop soybeans into wheat stubble is an art. Unlike planting in conventionally tilled or even no-till fields, planting or drilling into wheat stubble introduces the variable of recently made tracks in the field: combine tracks, truck tracks, tractor and wagon tracks, not to mention the tracks of the sown wheat itself. Tracks run all throughout the field and, if you 'double over' or 'criss-cross' the field as a part of the double-crop planting process, then you also have the most recent tracks of the planter itself adding to the milieu of patterns which make it 'interestingly difficult' to follow the marker tracks and make straight rows as you progress through the field. And, believe me, straight rows, even in double-cropped fields, are important - because Dad is watching.

At 83 years of age, Dad has done more than his share of planting and drilling fields of grain and has become somewhat of a connoisseur of attractive and well-tended fields. As he drives around the countryside, his farmer's eye scans every corner, every headland, every long-running row, quietly assessing the efficiency and accuracy of every planter, drill, and operator in the area. Dad has never regarded farming as a contest, but has long held that any job worth doing is worth doing well. In Dad's eyes, straight rows and consistent stands are marks of care and time taken, energy given to ensure pride of product, and the effort made to reflect the heart of farming, which he believes is intimately tied to putting one's best foot forward in offering a pleasing gift of beauty to the Creator. I cannot tell you how many times, riding with Dad in the truck from field to field, I have heard him say, "They just don't care how it looks." or "With just a little bit of time and effort . . ." or "Isn't that a beautiful field?" or "Someone cares.", all spoken in the humble tones of someone who knows how hard it is to do it well and how great the cost of taking time to follow the marker tracks, regardless of difficulty.

Taking the time to follow the marker tracks in a wheat field is the difference between acceptance of whatever happens in life and aspiring to be a part of the design the Creator intends. Anyone can drive a planter or drill. Anyone. Yet, much like discipleship, choosing to follow the marker tracks in the field - and taking the time to do it well - requires something more than just being 'anyone', it requires focused determination. In the milieu of competing tracks, in the confusion of directions one might choose to go, and in the press to 'just get it done', lies the challenge, even the call, to care about the outcome, to be concerned what Dad thinks and sees.

In my heart of hearts, when Dad drives past a field I planted or drilled, I long to hear him say, 'Now that is a good looking field!' But, more than that, when my days on earth are finished, I long to hear the voice of our Creator say, 'What a beautiful job of following the Marker Track I set before you. What matters to Me has become for you a reason to care. Enter into my Joy.' And that will be enough.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

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

Praying In The Rain

How many times have I heard it said, "Farmers are never satisfied. It's always either too wet or too dry. It's never 'just right'."? Well, my friends, on the 27th day of May in 2008, more than 12 inches above average rainfall, with few fields in this part of the country planted with anything, and hay crops cut in anticipation of the predicted 'sunny weekend' that was to come this last Memorial Day weekend now laying in water . . . it is too wet. There isn't a farmer who isn't thinking it, and quite a few are saying it, yet not a one utters those words or thinks those thoughts without wondering if the weather will remember how to do any of this come late July and August when the heat of the sun is doing its' worst and whatever crops they are lucky enough to get into the ground will be struggling in the throes of summertime stress. It is, as they say, " . . . the nature of the beast." Farming is a struggle in the best of years, but add to that the huge amounts of rain we have seen in this part of the country, coupled with record high petroleum costs, seed costs, fertilizer costs, and spraying costs, then add to it more than a few of the farmers have contracted a goodly portion of their anticipated Fall 2008 harvest in order to take advantage of the high grain market prices this Spring, I will guarantee you, there is a lot of prayer going on right now. Just like the old saying, "There are no atheists in foxholes or emergency rooms", likewise, there are no atheists among farmers, especially when the tide is, literally, rising. Everybody is praying to Somebody.

More than a few of my folks have chided me about getting on the 'hotline' with the 'Big Fella' and 'saying a good word or two' on their behalf, but something within me already knows that God hears their voices loud and clear . . . and probably a whole lot clearer than God would ever hear my voice praying for them, because they are crying out from the depths of their being and such are the prayers God hears first. The Bible is filled with such stories. Though it is incredibly important for the entire faith community to walk with and pray for anyone who is in distress, it is all the more important for the person in distress to trust God personally with that distress. Faith is a big thing with God. Always has been, always will be.

Some have suggested that God is 'trying them' with this weather. Yet, if you believe that, then you have to also buy into the notion that God is trying the folks in Myanmar, or China, or Iraq, or (you fill in the blank), like it is some sort of Holy Game with God. If that were true, then why send Jesus to show us that, in fact, 'God With Us', Messiah, is with us in everything that is part and parcel of our living? Granted, the wet weather we have been enduring is very trying, but then, so was the dry weather of last year, and the cold snowy weather of last Winter, and the drought in the Plains States, and the fires in the Western States, well, you get the picture. We don't get to pick and choose who gets tried one year and off the hook the next: God's creation is an ongoing, dynamic creation of which we, too, are part. If the weather doesn't behave the way we think it should, maybe it is because the weather is a better indicator of human nature than we would care to acknowledge, so pray for grace and mercy in all things . . . even with the weather.

Most of all, pray. In season and out, pray. Wet year and dry, pray. Good crops and crop failure, pray. Cloudy days and sunny, pray. When you feel most alone and when you are surrounded by those who love you, pray. When you are ready to give up and when nothing could ever stop you, pray. On the tractor in the field or changing the oil while water runs down the gutters, pray.

Maybe the question isn't, "What will God do about this?", but, rather, "How much do you trust God in the midst of this to see you through, no matter what?" You want predictable, get a job on an assembly line. You want to work as a direct partner with God in stewarding the earth and all its untold, unrevealed resources for others, pray. Only the best of friends can trust each other with everything . . . and, I think, God is big enough, true enough, and proven enough a Friend to us all that you can even trust God with your biggest frustrations, doubts and angers. Just don't forget to listen for God's response. Sometimes, it is the still, small Voice that most surprises us when we are waiting for the big dramatic changes. Sometimes, the stone is simply rolled away from the door of the tomb while the world rushes by unaware.

Some say the prayers which are never spoken will not be heard, yet even then, I'm not so sure. God is funny that way: Before a word is spoken, God has heard it and considered its' meaning. So, may God hear the farmers as they cry out in the midst of these waters of tumult. So may God hear us all.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

Science Class

All this work on the farm lately has gotten me to thinking about the science of modern day agriculture . . . and of what science must have been like in Jesus' day. On the other hand, how would you have liked to have been in science class with Jesus? How hard must that have been? What science project could you have done that would have competed with Jesus doing, "The Hydroponic Dimensions of Dividing the Red Sea", or "The Case for Elongated Necks: Defending the Creation of the Giraffe", or maybe the ever popular, "Redefining Life in Light of Death's Defeat in Resurrection: Lazarus, An Ongoing Project"? And we are so proud of ourselves when we genetically modify a seed to make it drought resistant. Who is it that has power over the drought and the rain? You got it, the kid in the back of the class whose mother thinks He is a prodigy: Jesus. And, what kind of a 'Teacher's Pet' do you think He was . . . inviting the instructor home for dinner just to show how sight can be restored to a blind man by mixing spit and dirt together and rolling it up in your hand and pressing it into his eye sockets?

Just where do scientists believe the very art of their discipline originated? While they are arguing over Big Bang and Evolution, God is at work designing and birthing a star. While they are patting themselves on the back for the creation and launching of a telescope that can 'see' beyond our galaxy, God births skill and surgical giftedness which affords the blind to see and the deaf to hear. While scientists balance the genetic arguments of cloning, God is at work making millions of originals which each are uniquely distinctive.

What is hard core, test and proof, scientific study and research to humanity today is, to God, yesterday's considerations. Science is humanity's way of beginning to approach the 'how' of God's 'been there and done that'. Science is our avenue to understanding, not an end in itself, which might explain why one of my favorite "Far Side" comics is that of God as a scientific 'chef', with the world in a sauce pan and a beaker posed in God's hand, ready to pour into the pan an ingredient which is labeled, 'Jerks', and the caption reads, "Just to make it interesting." The trick, I think, is in being an observer to the process and not the ingredient in the beaker.

Science on the farm today begins with a humble appreciation of the One who gives the soil, the rain, the sunshine, and the seed. 'Hard Science' is rooted in the awe of knowing that anything we might conceive of doing to 'improve' the genetics, messes with the intent of the original and, as scientific theory holds, 'For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.'

I am grateful for all that science does in advancing food sources, medicines, and life itself, I just pray that we do not get so caught up in being God that we forget who God dynamically continues to be . . . and the equal and opposite reaction to our actions destroy the good which has been achieved. Thus, the best personal quality any scientist might hope to embody is that of the One who is the original Scientist: humility. Humility says, "Good" when looking over all creation at its' completion. So when will 'Good' ever be good enough for us? God only knows.

In all that is God's science for you, I remain

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

You Smell Like the Farm

There isn't much that can really make my day like someone who loves me telling me, "You smell like the farm!" That is exactly what Nancy did last night as I trudged up the stairs, long after the lights had been turned out, and trying quietly to enter our room. "You smell like the farm!" wasn't an insult, it was a commentary on the events of the day and a reminiscence of how nearly every day used to mark its presence in my life when I was a dairy farmer.

It was in the way I smelled . . . and last night, as I walked up the stairs, I smelled of raw gasoline and grease. I had been repairing and readying the rototiller for working up the garden, which included the necessity of tearing apart, cleaning and rebuilding the carburetor. When all was complete, I fired up the old Briggs and Stratton on the Springfield rototiller and, much to the dismay of our nearby neighbors at 10:00 at night, I tried it out on a corner of the garden. It worked! And, it left me smelling of all that I had been doing. Ah, what a smell!

In stopping by the farm briefly today, between a regional pastor's meeting and hospital calls, I stepped out of the car only to be frozen in mid-stride by the smell of Springtime on the farm. That smell includes cattle, liberal doses of corn silage and alfalfa hay, manure spots over the driveway where yesterday the manure spreader had passed several times, grease and diesel fuel undertones from the shop area, all intimately wound in the spacious lifting of red bud and magnolia trees in bloom. Ah, the smell of the farm in Springtime! If Ralph Lauren would ever deign to bottle it, maybe marketing it for the more romantic ones among us as, 'Springtime in the Cow Barn', he would probably sell more of it than all the other 'toilet waters' combined. Maybe it is the redneck in me, but there is something about that combination, especially in this time of the year, that just makes me feel good about life.

These are the smells of a new chapter being turned in God's creation. These are the smells of stewardship and machinery mechanics blending their time together. These are the smells of livestock running and kicking up their heels in the pasture, relishing these first moments of freedom after a long Winter of being cooped up. These are the smells of God's work in the birthing of the buds in the trees, in the lively response from the waters of the pond, and the distant echoing of robins in the field. These are the smells of life, God's life opened up and poured out for all people to drink in and be satisfied. It can't be smelled through the closed windows of a car or soaked in through the tightly shut doors of our living.

You have to step out of your comfort zone and take it in, gift that it is, and savor it. It is about getting your hands dirty while cleansing your heart in hard work. It is about sweating over the details while celebrating the bigger picture. It is about joining hands with God in the earthiness of who we really are while delving deeply into the soul of God in tending to the earth as you pray God tends to you.

To me, it is about smelling like the farm. There is really no greater compliment, especially in times like these. It roots me. It restores me. It gives me strength for another day.

I slept well last night in the knowledge that the farm was not far away, its' smell a part of me, my soul a part of it. It is God's tender blessing for those who farm, for those who work God's fields, and my heart is full, pondering that anyone could think that I could be of such a distinctive order and nature. May you be so blessed.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

Different Kinds of the Same Thing

Well, the gardening began in earnest this morning. I took a couple of hours off and spaded a 12 by 12 section of the garden, raked it down and then went to the local hardware store to purchase seeds. Do you have any idea how many different kinds of lettuce and radishes there are? I just wanted to sow a couple of rows of each to get started, but there I stood, at the Mt. Rushmore of seed selections, trying to make up my mind.

Black Seeded Simpson lettuce I knew I wanted, but there were so many others that I knew Nancy loved in her salads. I stood there for a few moments, maybe even a few minutes, overloaded with choices and not sure which would be best. Even now, as I sit and write this article I am struggling to remember which ones ended up 'being the best for us' . . . and whether or not they were, they are sown now. The same with radishes. I wanted red radishes and white radishes (I plant what I remember loving to eat when I am at the table. So much for a discerning selection.), and what I was faced with choosing was between about a dozen different types of each. When it came time to select spinach and carrot seeds, I closed my eyes and grabbed the seed, ran to the counter, paid for my purchases and headed out the door. It was far more work selecting what I wanted to sow than it was preparing the ground. But, it got me to thinking.

If we were all the same it wouldn't be much fun would it? Life would be pretty mundane and there would be no choices of what to do with whom, because we would all do about the same thing, the same way, with the same emphasis. God must have foreseen this when God began the work of creation and, if you look around at all the different kinds of people there are in the world, you get the idea God has quite an imagination about how different all of God's people are meant to be. Not only are different ethnicity's set up to succeed in different climates, much like seeds, but different genetic traits enable the different peoples to perennially thrive and improve from one generation to the next, again, much like the plant world around us. It is an awesome idea to ponder!

So, are the people that are hybrids or the ones which are raised in inappropriate environments considered the 'annuals' of the species? Are certain kinds of people just are not designed to thrive in different kinds of places, even though they may be found there? Those are the kinds of questions I can ponder on for long periods of time, not that I have come to any sort of resolution regarding the different kinds of peoples, but just ruminating on the possibilities brings me to a greater awe of the God who is still at work in creation. It also makes me wonder about me . . . and where in the world I really belong.

For now, I have planted three different kinds of lettuce, two different kinds of radishes, a row of spinach, and a row of carrots. There are four different kinds of tomatoes, two different kinds of peppers, cauliflower, string beans, and sweet corn waiting in the wings for the rest of the garden to be tilled, and potatoes and sweet potatoes are yet to come. Look around at the plantings of God and dare to dwell in the wonder of what variety you are and for what reason you are birthed as you are. God is as much in you and in what you are capable of producing as God is in everyone else, just as they are.

God's world in never mundane, so hang on to your britches and leap for joy! God's planting in you is for a reason and there is a purpose for where you are: You are a specific variety God intended to happen. Now the universe waits in breathless anticipation to celebrate what will be produced in you. Thanks be to God for God's gardens!

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

Sign for the Week:

LOOKING FOR SOMETHING

DEEPER THAN DOGMA?

YOU ARE WELCOME HERE!

Hard Times in the Fields

The equipment is ready. After months of down time through the Winter, after endless hours spent going over every disc blade, every field cultivator shovel, the bill hooks on the baler, all the sprayer nozzles and hoses, the sickle sections of the windrower, servicing the tractors, turning the points on the chisel plow, checking the planter and calibrating the monitoring equipment, stock-piling the necessary seeds and insecticides, making sure the combine is ready for wheat harvest which inevitably happens either on the heels of, or in the midst of, planting, and going over the trucks, trailers and wagons necessary to make the entire operation portable, nearly every farmer in the region is poised at the back door of their homes, waiting for the fields to dry and the work to begin in earnest. The refrain for this particular song, which is being sung quite frequently this year is, "Last year this time, we were already planting corn. This year nothing has been done yet."

Add to the angst the highest petroleum prices our country has ever seen, which in turn has created much higher fertilizer and anhydrous prices, pushing up per acre tillage costs, increasing the cost of seed being delivered, and quickly eating up any additional profitability recent grain prices might have provided, and what you have is a recipe for deep despair and disaster. The humbling thing to me, though, has always been the resiliency of the farmer in the face of all that would crush others.

Perhaps our nation's most current pure minority, farmers constitute approximately one percent of our population, yet feed the world. Farmers sow in hope and reap in reality. Farmers tend to the soil and are rewarded or punished by the weather. Farmers pray over their seed in planting and the sweat of their brow is the moisture which wills the growth. Farmers sell wholesale and buy retail. Farmers work hand-in-hand with the God of all creation, yet their livelihood is controlled and manipulated by strangers negotiating the Board of Trade. Farmers are incredibly communal in the care for the greater good of the vocation and the land, yet are pitted one-against-the-other by absentee landlords who care more for profitability than with stewardship. Still, in the midst of it all, farmers continue to plan, to work, to till, to plant, to cultivate, to mow, to listen, to watch, to harvest, and . . . perhaps most of all . . . to pray.

The higher free market economics builds the wall of improbability for making a life, the more likely it is that the farmer will effectively find a way, not only to scale the wall, but to articulate God's faithfulness in achieving success. Consequently, the better the farmer does in meeting the challenge, the more likely it is that a very hungry world will be fed and the American 'way of life' will be given hope for another day. The local family farm has more on the ball in continuing to exist than Donald Trump or Bill Gates could ever muster in all of the golden cities they could hope to build.

Sound romantic or idealistic? It isn't. There is nothing romantic or idealistic about paying 5$ or more for a 60 pound bale of alfalfa hay to feed a cow who will consume it in minutes, while the farmer prays she produces enough milk to pay for it and all of the other grain and dietary supplements necessary to make dairying viable. There is nothing romantic or idealistic about forward contracting and/or paying for fuels, fertilizers, herbicides, insecticides, seed, and equipment parts, months before the first furrow is opened in any field. There is nothing romantic or idealistic about standing at the back door of the house or next to the open shed door watching flood waters cover your land and the winds of tornadoes tear apart your dreams, while whispering a silent prayer that tomorrow will be better and another chance to farm will be yours.

Farming is a vocation, a calling, a sacred trust. Those who live to farm do not farm to live, they farm for life, your life and my life. Our faces are in their eyes as they kneel down next to a newly planted row of soybeans, scratching away the soil to reach the bean and visually confirm the depth and accuracy of the planting. Our children's faces are in their dreams at the end of a long Summer's day of work under the sweltering sun moving bales from wagon to shed. Our children's children's faces are in the planning they do each day, the details negotiated in each moment, as the stamp of this world's success or failure stands imminently ready to judge their work by standards their hearts just cannot understand or accept.

There are hard times in the fields today, but I am grateful that the fields of my future are in the hands of the ones called to farm and whose life is lived in an intimate partnership with God. I am grateful to God that the soul of a farmer is not measured by the number of acres they own or till, but by their capacity to participate faithfully in the sharing of all that is good, right, and holy of God's abundance. I am grateful for the lessons we are taught by the ones who are fewest in number and greatest in service among us, for in their example our world finds continued reason to hope, to dream, to pray.

This day I stand at the back door of the house with them and pray for the sun to shine and the ground to dry. It is all in God's time, I'm sure, but there is much to learn in standing in solidarity with the ones whose steadfast love feeds the world. Thank you, my farming family, for allowing me to stand with you in the hard times, and may the good times for which we pray be made better by the unity we practice today.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

Church Sign for the Week:

OIL COMPANIES GOT YOU

BY THE GAS? KICK THEIR

CAN, SHARE THE JOURNEY.

The Changing Face of Farming

In the Winter of the year is a good time to assess the changing face of farming. The trees and shrubs have lost their foliage and farmsteads are visible to the passerby on the roads. Increasingly, more homesteads are present in rural areas, but less have equipment sheds big enough to house anything more than a lawnmower or hobby tractor. Increasingly, old homesteads have barns which are leaning or being taken down, indicating fewer farmers are tending to animals as a part of their operations. Increasingly, all that is left of old rural homesteads is a few trees clumped together at the end of a road, far back from the highway, while new homes appear in close proximity to major thoroughfares.

Many want to live in the country, few want to be rural. Many want to have their own space, few want to be very isolated from civilization. Many want to remember the farming roots of their family, few want to engage in that kind of work. For all of the romantic notions that exist about 'having a place in the country', few want . . . or can afford to make their living in the country, so today approximately 1% of the American population strives to feed everyone else. That, my friends, is a true minority. And, the changing face of farming is reflecting the strain.

As I drive along our rural highways, I wonder: How many more 'country homes' will be allowed to be built by folks who have no stake in rural living, other than removing a few more acres from active food production? How many more farm families will be displaced by subdivisions and cash payouts for acreage which will disappear under the cold darkness of asphalt and concrete? How far will we be able to stretch the American farmer's ability to produce, while at the same time exponentially reducing the number of available acres on which to produce the very food we need? How much are people really willing to spend to live in the country?

As the face of farming changes in rural Amercia, I suspect we will find the answers to many of those questions as the price of agricultural goods goes up in correlation to declining supplies of available acreage on which to grow them. I suspect, if not in our generation, then in our children's generation, the economy of greed and atmosphere of personal gratification is going to come face-to-face with the reality of not having enough to feed all of the non-farming families. Then, whose 'inalienable rights' will be on the chopping block? Those who take the risk and expend the dollars and energy to produce the food the world needs in order to exist? Or, the those who hunger for that which they do not labor . . . and thirst for the water which they do not draw?

One percent versus more than ninety-nine percent . . . the odds are not in favor of the minority. Maybe that is why the sacredness of the rural landscape is already being sacrificed on the altar of self-righteousness. Sound bitter or sardonic? It's not . . . it is realistic. Take a look around as you drive through the new subdivisions in your area - and imagine the crops which will never grow on those lands again.

Not unlike the Native Americans before them, the American farmer is rapidly disappearing. They are holding on by the fingertips, trying to exercise their right to life, liberty and pursuit of happiness, tilling the soil that all may eat, while the vast majority of the American public shoots the last of the buffalo, exercises eminent domain in acquiring properties for 'progress', and expedites corporate growth with tax advantages at the expense of the very individuals who represent, congressionally and legally, little more than a bump on the rural road. I pray for the children who will inevitably inherit the folly of our 'right' to own our personal space in the world, without having to have a plan in place of how to serve or feed anyone but ourselves at the table of God's gracious abundance.

The face of farming is changing rapidly and I wonder how long we will be able to view that changing face before we are forced to look away in shame. Farmers, the ones who purchase everything retail, sell their product wholesale . . . and we who expect everything at wholesale prices are retailing our future to the highest bidders, including the very soil needed to grow the stuff of substance for life. Such scenery is not the prettiest I have seen in my travels, but it is the truth of our existence on display before our eyes. I hope we have the stomach to see the changes which are happening, and the heart to change what is happening before our stomachs are starving.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don