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.

Tilth

'Tilth' is the language of farmers and gardeners, referring to the materials (humus) in the soil which both make it loose and enable available fertility. Tilth. It is the way the soil feels, the manner in which the earth works, the capacity of the land itself to provide a home for the seed to sprout and grow.

Tilth isn't something which just happens. Tilth develops as the result of conscientious stewardship of the soil in the blending of last year's crop residues with what is to become this year's crop seedbed. Tilth takes time. One year, one moment of time, one effort is not enough. The development of tilth in the earth takes decades, even generations.

So, why are we surprised when soil which has been mined for every ounce of production it can offer, including the very life of the previous crop itself, doesn't produce well? Why are we offended when cuts appear in fields where water runs from one place to the next for lack of honest faithful stewarding? Why are we saddened when the methods we employ to raise a bumper crop fail for the lack of simple tending to the tilth of the land from which we hope to feed the world? Adding fertilizer only masks our pain, only meets the short-term goal. The earth requires the humus of the season's cycles to have the tilth required to build it for children yet to be born who will eat of its goodness. Tilth.

As it is with the earth, so it is with faith. As it is with the land, so it is with discipleship. As it is with the soil, so it is with the work of God's people. Tend to your faith, your discipleship, your service to the One who knows and creates you, lest in avoiding the need for tilth in your life, you end up with a barren spirit, a life incapable of receiving the goodness of God's Baptismal waters. God waits for the generations of tilth in your life to make all the difference in the journey and feeding of another. So the Kingdom grows. Tilth.

An Afternoon on the Farm

I spent yesterday afternoon with my older brother, Larry. Most days, when I go to the farm to visit with Larry, the time includes working in the fields or with some special ongoing project around the equipment. Yesterday, we just visited. Oh, we picked up a piece of equipment the farm had purchased for planting and we worked some ground in Larry and Martha's garden where we are going to plant potatoes together but, more than anything else, we just had time to visit, to be brothers, to be friends.

Have you ever had the opportunity to smell fescue grass growing in the Spring? Or to watch the robins hopping over the ground on the prowl for worms? Or to taste the succulent sweetness of newly emerging sweet clover in the lawn? Or to have a 'friendly' steer lick your arm trying to get your attention? Or have a giant of a farm dog trot along next to you just trying to place his head in your hand so that you will pet him? Or to have a small herd of cats follow you around, weaving in and out of your feet, so that you will pet them . . . and feed them? Or to watch young calves kicking up their heels in delight as they raced down a pasture? Or to visit with one of your best friends in all the world?

That is what yesterday afternoon was all about. Social psychologists might call it mental health time. Spiritualists will call it a form of spirituality in the renewal of the soul. Theologians might be tempted to label it taking Sabbath. Yet, beyond all of the framings and namings, the time I spent with my brother was time spent tending to loving bonds, much in the same way, I think, that God longs to walk with all of us.

In the midst of constant movement, constant communication, constant doing, constant planning, constant 'getting done', constant being at the beck and call of so many, time spent with the best of friends is time spent on the mountain away from it all. It is time spent with God's gracious gift of 'nearness', even 'at-one-ment'. Jesus moved away from everyone, including the disciples, to be alone with God. Jesus called the disciples apart to fill their souls with something more than laws and 'shoulds'. Jesus, in the garden, prayed earnestly to the One whom He knew always listened to every word. So, at what point is it that, on our road to 'maturation', we are taught that we don't need such things and time or when is it that we simply begin to forget how important such time really is to the holiness of our living? I'm not sure, yet, it seems that claiming such moments takes an extraordinary amount of energy purely because we have let such time be named as 'unnecessary' or 'forgotten'. God help us.

Walking with him from his home to my car after supper, under the gaze of emerging stars and sounding frogs down by the pond, we simply stopped together to take it in. "You don't get much of this in Lebanon." he said. "No," I replied, ". . . not nearly enough anyway." I think he was talking about the frogs and the wind and the trees and the smells of the country. I was talking about him.

I haven't been getting enough of time spent with one of my very best of friends . . . and it is unnerving, for if I have been so casual about the relationships which should be the most precious to me on earth, what does it say about the time I spend with my best Friend in heaven? Closing my door and starting up my car to back out of the backyard, Larry said something I had trouble hearing, so I rolled down my window to hear him say again, "I love you."

I love you, too, my brother, my friend, and thanks for reminding me of that most precious of gifts from God.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

Fall Harvest On The Farm Is Complete

"Fall harvest is complete on the farm." Seven words which took what seemed to be a lifetime to accomplish in their being spoken, yet the phrase is true, "Fall harvest is complete on the farm."

It was a bountiful harvest whose beginnings in the rain-filled Spring seemed nearly impossible. Planting in this area did not begin in earnest until in early June, which by most standards is nearly two months tardy. Yet, once begun, everything was planted in one fell swoop: corn, soybeans, and double-crop soybeans, that latter of which only occurs after wheat harvest and in the middle of baling alfalfa. To say the least, the Spring planting was arduous and offered little hope for the Fall harvest: To paraphrase university agronomists, 'Once beyond May 15, with most crops you begin subtracting potential yield.' June 5 was the day we started planting.

Fortunately for most of the farmers in the area, neither God, nor the weather and fields, pay much attention to university agronomists. Periodic rains throughout the Summer, with few 100 degree plus days in a row, mixed with a long-term fertility plan already in place on the farm, and blessed with expanding knowledge and use of newer seed hybrids, proved to be a combination that no university expert could predict. Harvests of corn, soybeans, milo and other more specialized crops in the area were 'bin-busters'. God's abundance for humanity was given just one more expression in the fields and labors of Southern Illinois farmers. Thank you, God.

One aspect alone, though, made the harvest prolonged and tedious, especially of the corn in this region: a wind storm in mid-September. The remnant of a hurricane absorbed on the southern coastal regions of our nation found its way to the mid-section of our croplands, flattening thousands of acres of corn and beans in just a few short minutes of severe blowing. Affecting an area reaching as far north as mid-state Illinois and swooping well into the southern reaches of Kentucky, these winds featured both straight-line force and down-draft destructiveness. Corn fields which, minutes earlier, had stood ten or more feet tall, were nearly instantly reduced to the height of an overgrown lawn. Acres and acres of crops were laid over, some broken, some churned as though pelted with hail and razors. Hearts sank, despair set in, and the grim ordering of reels for combine corn heads began in earnest. What lie ahead did not look good.

Entering the fields this Fall proved to be every bit the challenge farmers anticipated. The reels on the corn heads helped but, working through thousands of flattened acres of material, some of it splayed in multiple directions in the same field, no reel could magically make the harvest go the way farmers hoped it would. Yet, and that is a very BIG 'yet', there was a surprise waiting in the fields that few if any of the farmers could have fully anticipated: The harvest was producing better than any other 'ideal' year before. Soybean and corn yields tipped the scales with numbers far beyond what most farmers had ever seen in their lifetimes. This, with early harvest higher grain prices, proved to be the saving of many a farm family in the region. It was a blessing that waited for those who wept just weeks before. Joy comes in the morning.

In retrospect, the lavish rains throughout the Summer had been both blessing and curse: Blessing in that the crops grew with little challenge or difficulty; Curse in that the crops grew with little challenge or difficulty. Corn plants that, in most years, routinely set large tap roots on the outer base of the plant for stability and extra moisture absorption, this year did not need to, thereby making the heavily laden plants susceptible to the kind of destabilizing effects that a hurricane wind might provide. Additionally, the bounty of full soybean pods and large ears of corn proved too much for narrowly rooted plants to hold up in the face of a blowing crisis. What produced an incredible yield also made the harvest nearly impossible. Just ask the farmers who shelled corn diagonally across the fields in order to pick up the greatest amount of grain.

Talking with my brother and Dad about this phenomenon, it humbled me as to how deep God's wisdom goes. Nearly without fail across the region, the higher the yield in the individual fields, the more likely the greater amount of wind damage. Were it not for the more challenging days in our lives, we would be like the ten foot high corn plants with great big ears of grain: unstable and vulnerable to every wind that blows. Yet, it is the difficulties, the high temperatures and the dry spells, the weeds which compete, and the late planting which impedes, that make us heartier in faith, more prepared for the storm, ready to stand in the faces of the challenges before us. Without occasional hardships, there would be few who kneel in prayer. Without occasional difficulties, stabilizing taproots would not be established in the soil of our soul. Without the competition of weeds that threaten to undo all that is done, our stewardship would become lax, our attitude one of laizze-faire.

The combine is in the shed, the wagons and trucks are put away, the bins are closed and the batch drier is cleaned-up: Fall harvest is complete on the farm . . and I thank God for the lessons learned upon the lap of a very loving, very present Parent, who opens our minds to see that not everything we pray for (in a very protected and challenge-less life) is necessarily good for us. Make me, O God, open to your every wisdom shared that I might walk in all your ways.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

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

Unexpected Surprise

The other day I had the great joy and fearsome responsibility of applying anhydrous ammonia (a nitrogen fertilizer) to standing corn, a process which requires a great deal of attention to detail and orientation in the field, so I spent very little time looking around at the scenery: the acres I had to cover, the machinery I was operating, and the task at hand was quite enough to keep me occupied. Yet, as the day neared evening and the creatures of the woods began to poke their heads out of their hiding places, there appeared, near the end of a field I was working in, a deer, a big, tawny, deep-bodied deer, eating in the tall grass near the woods.

At about 200 yards, the deer appeared to be a big doe, "Probably has a fawn hiding nearby while she checks out the commotion", I thought as I neared at about a 30 degree angle from where the deer stood. Then, when I was about 50 yards out, the 'doe' raised its head from feeding and there in front of me stood a handsome 10 point buck, calmly chewing and watching me as I neared with tractor, applicator and nurse tank at a speed of around 7 to 8 miles an hour. He never moved from where he stood. He just kept chewing on what he was eating and watched me as I neared the headland, shifted down, lifted the applicator, made the turn, dropped the applicator, and shifted back up for the long drive up the field again. I was within about 50 feet of him and he never moved, his majestic, growing, 10 point, velvet covered rack, taunting me the entire time I passed by with a wonderful side-view of his deep-bodied frame and, conservatively guessing, somewhere around 200 pound field-dressed proportions. I was salivating and he could care less. He knew he was safe and he knew I wasn't stopping with that rig to watch him.

The next time down the field he had moved about 25 feet or so to a small watering hole in a ditch and was taking a drink. This time, as I shifted down, lifted up, and began my turn, I throttled down and stopped to 'count points' and watch him. He lifted up his head, looked at me, drank a bit more, then slowly began to walk to the other side of the ditch, pausing to take a bite or two of grass as he moved. It was an absolutely breathtaking and thrilling sight, and there I was, with not a bit of Mossy Oak camouflage on me, wondering where he would be on opening day when I would be ready to hunt for him. Chances are, he won't be anywhere near that ditch or that bit of woods but, then, he might. Hmmmmmmm.

As I throttled the tractor back up and eased into the next pass of applying anhydrous, I thanked God for that beautiful sight, that unexpected surprise and delight at the end of a long and tedious day, a day which was leaving every muscle in my body aching with tension and my eyes bleary from counting rows and focusing on staying straight with my rig. There, in the midst of all the strain and toil of daily cares; there, in the heart of 'getting everything done quickly and efficiently'; there, in the press to reach the goal and claim the prize: There stood God's natural commentary on all that humanity deems important - a gorgeous buck eating grass at the edge of a woods and taking a drink from a waterway. "Do I not provide for all of the beasts of the field?" I heard God ask, "So, too, will I provide for you."

I am not sure where the tears came from, but I was glad no one else was there in the tractor with me. So many times we allow ourselves to be owned, even consumed, by our need to get everything done in a particular way, on a particular schedule, and in a particular manner that no-one else can duplicate, that we miss the wonder and joy of the world around us. We are so easily lured into believing the world cannot get along without our efforts that we make the lives of those around us a living hell in building the kingdom in our own image. In this one, humble, quiet gesture, God reminded me that I am a part of God's universal vision, not the culmination of it. We are called to contribute our gifts and talents to the care and proclamation of God's Good News to all the world, not be the ultimate definition of it. That job is already taken and Jesus is quite capable of being Savior for all, thank you very much.

Pushing the extra hours to get everything done in a rain-delayed Spring planting season may make exceptionally good sense to nearly every farmer you talk to and, I am reasonably certain, God's care and rewards for those folks and their efforts is expressed in unwavering steadfast love all the days of their lives, but I do have to wonder if the end justifies the means when, in the push to get everything done, little time is taken in the heart of the farmer, God's peculiar steward of the earth, to savor the call, the vocation, to which God has called them, regardless of the weather or the conditions. It is something to ponder as the tawny colored buck of immense frame and beauty walks across the neighboring bean field disappearing from sight as he goes, again, into the woods. It is something to ponder as I push the throttle forward and focus my eyes once more on the acres which still need to be covered. Maybe that is why the tears began to fall.

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

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

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

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

Life At An Angle

The first time over a field in the Springtime, especially since we haven't moldboard plowed for ages, is usually at an angle. Working a field at an angle, whether with a disc, a heavy field cultivator, or chisel plow, opens the ground in a new way and reduces drive wheel compaction from working a field the same way every time you drive across it. Working a field at an angle is also helpful in allowing the water paths which occur throughout the year to find new ways of flowing, reducing erosion and increasing percolation of the rains which (hopefully) will follow. One side benefit that few farmers will publicly acknowledge is that working the fields at an angle is an effective way to reduce 'end of winter waistline bulges' which have grown in direct proportion to the number of months since last the farmer was in the field . . . but, that is topic for another day. Suffice it to say, working fields at an angle the first time over them in the Spring isn't always the easiest thing to do: It is not easy to 'draw a straight line' from one end of the field to the other when you are doing it at an angle (and you know that every other farmer that drives by is keeping mental tabs on how well it is done); and, if you are working at an opposite angle to the angle with which you worked the ground for the last time in the Fall, what the 'up and down' of the tractor doesn't do to you from one end to the other, the 'side to side' will. Working fields at an angle is not for the feint of heart.

Yet, that is exactly what Jesus did in His ministry: He worked the fields at an angle. He observed how faith had been compacted by religion, with heavy burdens being driven over it the same old way year after year until those who were called of God to care for the human family became so stiff-necked they couldn't even begin to imagine doing anything different, regardless of the vision or the benefit. Jesus saw the erosion of hope, the washed away mercy, and the windblown barrenness of unoffered grace, all wearing away the very soul of the people God's love was sent to save. The big waistedness of those who consumed the good the land had to offer at the expense of those whose labors fed the presumed landlords of the Temple did not miss His eyes either. Jesus saw all, then He put His hand to the task and turned God's community in a different direction: He worked the fields at an angle; He invited the people to an alternative vision; He stewarded the planting with a new determination. He regarded His work as holy . . . and the ground He walked, and the people with whom He journeyed, as sacred. His words aerated the soil of belief. His touch opened the hearts of God's children that the Spirit could percolate and nourish. His care for creation changed the landscape of the human endeavor for life abundant. His life, death, and resurrection charted the course of a new way of working the fields, from one end to the other, regardless of the ride on the way.

I am grateful for Jesus the Farmer, the Steward of human faith and community. The Church would be well served to listen, even today, for the lessons He teaches calls us to work the fields at an angle: Not just for the sake of being different, but for His sake to be dynamically transformative in doing God's will wherever we are. It is who He is and it is who His disciples are striving to become in His grace. Thanks be to God for Life at an angle.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

Grease On My Hands

I have had the incredible pleasure of spending the last two days working at the Wagner farm. The ground has been working well and the planting has begun . . . finally. For me, this is Sabbath time: Time with God and time for my spirit to be renewed. Sixty and seventy hour weeks in ministry with few days or hours off over the course of the last four months now have given way to a few moments tending to the soil, to the equipment required to till the soil, and to my soul which is rooted in this Southern Illinois soil. I can tell, because I have grease on my hands.

Funny how things change the older one becomes. It used to be that I kept my hands in my pockets around the more 'edumacated' people because my hands were a dead give-away that I was a dairy farmer: There was grease and dirt in the lines of my hands that just wouldn't go away, regardless of the number of times I scrubbed them. Even though my hands were 'washed', along with the udder of every cow I prepped, still the grime of farming was a part of my identity and that grime could not be washed away. When I shook hands with folks who were the 'professionals' among those with whom we were acquainted, I was terribly self-conscious of my hands, they always told the story of what I did for a living.

Nearly thirty years later and having become one of those 'edumacated' people that so used to intimidate me, I feel myself blessed when there is grease on my hands, for it means that I have been engaged in the sacred rites of farming and/or manual labor. Some might say such a change in attitude comes with growing older, I say it comes with the twinge of maturity that reminds all of us that, too soon, we are anxious to give up those things which, often too late, we come to really value and cherish. Now I have a better understanding of and respect for those whose hands are rough and calloused, grime worn and chapped, for those are the ones whose labors are bound in the sweat of working with God, side by side . . . those are the ones upon whose labors our world depends, more than the world would ever know. More than the world could ever know.

On Sunday morning, as the elements of bread and wine are lifted up with grease marked hands and the prayers of consecration are spoken, I will be thinking of Jesus with his grime covered carpenter hands. I will be remembering them nailed to a cross of our cruelty upon the order of those whose hands seldom saw the grime of everyday labors. I will be remembering those calloused hands bleeding as his lips uttered, "Father, forgive them . . . ", as even in their prone position fastened upon the wooden altar of the cross they pronounce a final heavenly benediction. I will remember . . . and give thanks for the humble opportunity to join my hands with His in earthly labors that heavenly Good News might be shared with all.

And when the liturgy is complete, the last hymn sung and the Postlude is played, I will extend my grease marked hands to embrace the life and contributions of others hands as the faith family slowly leaves our worship home. Counting my blessings far differently today, I take my place as a servant of the One who hands were darkened from labor and strong in redemptive love, giving thanks to God for the Sabbath time which has so shaped my heart and soul . . . and allowed my hands to so resemble His.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

They Broke Ground in the Face of the Rain

My oldest brother, Larry, called me at the office this morning to tell me they had begun Spring work in the fields. Dad was discing and Larry was putting the duals on another tractor to begin field cultivating. Killing back the weed-grown fields, long standing before tillage due to the heavy rains, is of first priority, even with high fuel costs. Farmers are going to have an interesting and challenging year and, for the Wagner farm, it formally begins today.

Ironically, they are breaking ground in the face of a rapidly moving weather front that is bringing in what the forecasters are calling 'heavy rain'. Still, the work has to be started for the weeds are only going to grow bigger and thicker in the days ahead. Clutch out, throttle forward, hydraulics down, it is time to open the earth. If we wait for a perfect day, we may not ever begin.

There is a lesson there for all of us: If we allow ourselves to become paralyzed by waiting for the perfect moment to 'make that witness', to 'share that Christian care', or 'love as we are loved', we may never do anything other than to contemplate our own navel, grousing all the while that we never get a chance to do anything. Sometimes, you have to pull the tractor and disc out of the shed knowing that you might get wet doing what needs to be done. Sometimes, you have to enter the field at the East end, while looking towards the West end where the storm clouds are gathering. Isn't that what Jesus did as He entered Jerusalem on Palm Sunday? As He entered the Temple and tore down the tables of the money changers?

"In season and out of season . . ." we are called to live this life of faith, to walk with Christ, to enter the fields of God's own choosing, that God's will be done.

I just looked out the windows of my office and the ground is wet. I wonder how far they got in the fields today? They may not have gotten done, but they are farther than if they had waited for the perfect day to begin.

May you begin in the fields which lie before you in the Spirit God gives.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

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.

Two More Services to Go

I counted them up last night, the texts and services to be completed for Holy Week, and they total eight. Two services on Palm Sunday, one service on Maundy Thursday, two services on Good Friday, Easter Vigil Service on Holy Saturday, and two services on Easter Sunday. Of the eight, six are fully ready, liturgies completely written and all technology in place. The two Easter Sunday services await my time and attention. It will have to be tomorrow, tonight we are interviewing for an Office Manager.

Odd how that so often happens, the functional side of the church needing the most attention in the holiest of seasons, when the least amount of pastoral time is available. Projects, weddings, funerals, hospital visitations, home visitations, counseling, meetings, you name it . . . if at no other time of the year these things can be guaranteed to happen, it will be during Advent, Lent, Christmas, or Holy Week. Don't believe me? Ask your Pastor.

In the middle of writing liturgies that, I am sure, will transform the world and in walks that person whose first words are, "Do you have a minute? If you don't I'll leave and come back." and an hour later they walk out just as the next one walks in. After Church Council last night, one of our Council members very caringly inquired, "Pastor, I have been by the church several times late at night the last couple of weeks and see your light on in the office. Is everything all right? Is there are reason you have to be here at night?" How do you answer such questions without sounding like you are whining, or without making your vocation sound any more difficult than anyone else's?

In so many ways, it is just like farming. Things can seem to go by swimmingly for weeks, then, just as it is time to pull the tractors and equipment out of the shed to begin Spring work in earnest, just when the bags of seed corn are most ready to be loaded on the truck to head to the field, just when the sprayer tank reaches capacity and the chemicals are on the brink of being added . . . that is when the crop insurance guy drives in, the equipment rep stops by, the Pastor drops in to check on you, or the cattle take down a fence at the farthest corner of the farm. That is when the telephone rings and the chemical rep tells you that what you wanted for tomorrow won't be delivered until next Tuesday, as the tractor which is to pull the disc is discovered with a flat inside dual, while the field cultivator is being unfolded to be greased and the wing catches on the wide open shed door ripping the tin and bending the wing, and . . . well, you get the idea. "Do you have a minute?"

Yet, Jesus takes a minute with every one of us every day. When most we need it, He stops and listens. He for whom every day is truly a Holy Day, takes our journey as seriously as His own, for truly the two are one. When most we are certain that the tasks which are demanded will not be completed, He reminds us that what is required is our soul. When most we are convinced that we will be made a fool of by those who love to taunt and deride us for what we do, He brings to mind that if what we do is for His glory, all else will pass away.

Holy Days and Planting Season are much alike in so many ways, if only we . . . I . . . can remember that it is God that gives the moisture to the soil and growth to the seed. It is God that gives the sun and the rain in due season. It is God that gives us the time to prepare for worship and God who gives worship the words for expression. It is God that makes our seasons holy, not what it is we do. Eight services are only a few moments from completion, when all is said and done. God's work of redemptive love and sacrifice are forever, through Christ and the Holy Spirit.

Sometimes I need to be reminded of that . . . and I am glad that God chose today. At the turn on the headland of this Lenten journey, God has given me hope and confidence for what lies ahead. Truly, the next passes in the field will not be to get my work done, rather, it will to be to participate in what God is already doing. Thanks be to God, who give us the time to share the journey.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

Winter Snows & Subsoil Moisture

In November, after all the harvest was done on the farm and as much Fall tillage had been completed as was appropriate, my brother, Larry, his son, Kenny, and Dad spent a few days digging up and working on field drain tiles. I had the good fortune to be in the area on one of the days they were working on the deep lines, 7 or 8 feet deep. They had excavated the soil with a backhoe and were replacing T-joints, which is usually a job guaranteed to get a person muddy and wet, but not this year. Between early June and September 5, the area our farm is in received one inch of rain. It was dry. The crops did pretty fair, all things considered, and we are grateful for what we received, yet our concern was not so much for what had happened in 2007, but for what was going to happen in 2008. The hole they had dug to work on the T-joint was dry, dry at 7 to 8 feet of depth. Dry. Crops can root down deeply, but as we stood there looking at dry soil 8 feet deep, our worry for next year was, 'Where will the subsoil moisture come from to feed the next crop?' Farmers prayers are, often, a type of subsoil prayer: deep and far-reaching.

Today, the temperature is in the mid-40's and the snow and ice received in the last days is slowly melting, the water patiently seeping into the soil. In a way that rain cannot hope to achieve, snow and ice melt seeps into the soil and trickles down giving life in the depths of the earth, offering hope for the coming days with an intentionality that only a farmer or gardener can truly appreciate. The very weather which has frustrated the building industry in the last few weeks, the very weather which allowed the building industry to boom in our area last Summer, is also the weather which acts in deliberate fashion on behalf of those who feed the world. It is not always what is on the surface which will make the greatest difference, sometimes it is precisely what we cannot observe that will, in fact, save our very lives. Subsoil prayers are powerful, meaningful prayers on the lips of those who understand the totality of life's cycle. The farmer working the surface of the field prays for the entire earth, understanding that what lies beneath is what energizes the life at the surface.

There are 19 days till Easter. Before you start getting all giddy about what is to happen on the surface at Easter, take time to stand still at Gethsemane and pray a subsoil prayer with the farmers of the world. Who knows what God will do to meet the needs of God's people when they pray? Don't let your life dry out for lack of prayer for what happens beyond what you can perceive.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

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