First Tomatoes

Okay now, sit back and close your eyes. Imagine you are resting in a hammock under a couple of well proportioned maple trees. The robins are chirping and a cardinal is singing just a few trees away. The distinct calling of a covey of quail drifts past in the breeze, even as the pungent smell of sweet corn pollen falling from the tassels fills your senses. Clouds drift through the sky, creating alternating moments of shade and light, which are punctuated with the unrelenting feel of solar energy warming your skin. Then, add to the moment, the quixotic ambiance of children's laughter mingled with the sounds of splashing in the pool, and you have something which resembles an articulation of that first bite of the season's first ripe tomato: It is the nearness of heaven touching earth - and that you are blessed to be among the first in the area to have such an experience only heightens the wonder.

The lowly tomato is one of God's most sensual gifts for the palate. It has the capacity to both, give health with the various nutrients for which it is noted and sought, and to inspire well-being and goodwill in the hearts of those blessed to enjoy them. Perhaps I overstate the case, since such musing is inordinately associated with the excitement of 'first of the season' fruits of nearly every kind (the 'end of the season' fruits, though no less tasty, are none-the-less 'end of the season'), yet, in somewhat less than an impartial defense, 'Can the first bites of the first tomatoes of the season really be overstated?' I think not.

These first bites of first fruits are our animal connection with the creation story. Whether it be human or animal, how good . . . I mean, how 'really good' were those first bites of God's goodness in whatever fruits were being tasted? I am excited about the taste of the first tomatoes of the season, imagine the pure pleasure of tasting the first fruits of all creation for the first time?! Could it be that therein lies the answer to all of our wondering as to why Adam and Eve and the apple had such disastrous consequences? Could it be that both of them were just so taken with the 'god-likeness' of having the first bite of everything available to them, that in the very sheer joy of having everything taste so orgasmically good, that they were feeling so god-like with the world laid out before them like a banquet table, that the distinction between 'god-like' and 'God' became blurry and their common sense gave way to the pursuit of the 'best' of the first bites? We'll never know.

Yet, with the juices of the first tomatoes of the season dripping off my chin, with the meatiness of tomato flavor still lingering on the taste buds of my tongue, and with the smell of ripened tomato still pungent upon my fingers, it does occur to me that the fall of humanity isn't entirely the fault of humankind. God, who created the tomato and all of those other fruits of sheer delight for which many will sacrifice their souls, God also created the 'taste' for which each of those fruits are known. Though humanity may have absolutely no self-control when it comes to seeking after the things of the flesh, we cannot overlook the things of the flesh which includes the flesh of the first fruits of the season. Is there any way to overestimate their power to seduce even the strongest among us? Their lewd manner of behavior in luring us from strength to irreconcilable weakness must have been seen in the heart of the One who created them. Still, human beings have been given dominion, entrusted with the capacity to know right from wrong, good from evil, acceptable behavior from unacceptable . . . . and, seemingly, as it turns out, an integral part of the test determining if we are really ready to walk in His way is not . . . is not in how we behave towards each other, but how we keep in perspective our enjoyment of the tastes of the first fruits of the season . . . . . . and, my friends, I know I have failed miserably. Those tastes have rendered me helpless to save my soul.

Tonight I will pray, I will confess my weakness, I will pray for forgiveness and strength. Tonight I will promise to make tomorrow a more faithful day towards God and God's ways . . . . but, for the rest of today, I will give thanks to God for the unbelievable taste of the first tomatoes and savor their wonder for the times to come.

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

A Few More Peppers

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

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

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

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

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

Listen Up

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

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

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

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

Only God knows.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

Of Bruised Thumbs and Colorful Language

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

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

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

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

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don