There Is A Look In A Farmer's Eyes . . .

There is a look in a farmer's eyes . . .


Over ninety-nine percent of our nation, and much of the world, depends on the vocational determination, raw strength, faith, love and vision of farmers, who are less than one percent of our population. Think about that. Cultural financial icons, whom the economic lords deem the privileged '1 percent' of our nation, don't have enough money in their scattered accounts and investments to equal the driving power of the less than one percent who feed the world. Think about it. When was the last time you ate a dollar bill and felt filled by it? A hundred dollar bill? Maybe a thousand dollar bill would fill you? There isn't a stock market broker or company on Wall Street more powerful, more reliable, or more capable of meeting your body's truest need than a farmer . . . yet, our world worships the ground financial advisers walk on, providing them with compensation packages that, at best, could be considered as bizarre, all in the name of 'market value'.

Well, what is the market value of the food you eat, the nutrition your body requires, the sustenance you depend upon? What is the essential price you would pay for the fuel you need to see you through the day? Time after time, we have seen the pictures of the 'poor, poor souls in other lands' whom nature has deprived of favorable weather and a lack of education has cheated out of the means to meet their needs - and time after time we have commented, 'How sad. How very, very sad and unfortunate.' Though many work tirelessly to meet the needs in such places, giving generously of themselves and their resources, seldom do we in these privileged United States spend much time relating to their stories as one which might become our own. Yet, such a time of relating may be closer than we dare imagine . . .

There is a look in a farmer's eyes . . .

I think it was in 1983, our family farm near Marissa, Illinois was part of an area which received very little rain throughout the growing season. In October of that year, as I was preparing a nearby field for wheat sowing, Dad drove the combine into an 18 acre field of corn adjacent to where I was working and began to shell corn. He shelled both headlands and made, as I recall, four rounds in the field before he had enough in the hopper to unload into the waiting truck. As he emptied the hopper, I pulled my rig alongside his and waiting for him. Idling the combine, Dad stepped out of the combine cab, tears running down his cheeks, and said in a halting voice, "This is bad. It's been a long time since I have seen something like this." Then, he could say no more. He didn't have to, his silence spoke volumes. I have never forgotten that moment and now, facing a drought in the Midwest of nearly unprecedented proportions, both geographically and economically, with another four days of 100+ temperatures and no chance of rain expected, I am bracing for what I fear many, many among us will see in a farmer's eyes.

There is no way to convey to ninety-nine percent of the nation, much less the world, what less than one percent of the population is anticipating but, suffice it to say, the look in many a farmer's eyes in this region should give one hundred percent of the people in the world reason to pause. There are changes coming in the food supply, if for no other reason than what once has been taken for granted as being abundantly available, in all likelihood will no longer be true. The drought and heat of 2012 may well be written into the annals of history as a watershed moment (pardon the pun) in both American and world development. Shrewd and diligent market analysts are already driving up the commodity markets in anticipation of what will not be produced this year . . . and if you think the rallies on Wall Street over the last couple of months regarding bank loans were huge, imagine the anger and resentment which will be kindled over rising food prices and shorter funds on which to live.

There is a look in a farmer's eyes . . .

The look in the farmer's eyes in this part of the world has much to do with disappointment, frustration, anger, faith, hope, pride, and a brooding sense of failure . . . all centered in their heartfelt vocational call to provide nourishment for the world in a changing environmental climate. It is a look with which many of us can relate and one which deserves our deepest respect and support.

Yet, among us are those whose eyes gleam at the notion of riches to be made in a market of shortage. Some would call them 'market savvy', some might call them profit-takers, some might even call them knowledgeable and calculating yet, regardless of what they are called, the lives of many will intimately depend upon the decisions of a few - and the less-than-one-percent who grow the food are going to be a part of the ninety nine percent who will have to stand, hat in hand, hopeful to afford to live as once they lived. For you see, in the farmer's eyes is reflected the ever present reality that they sell their commodities wholesale and buy everything they need retail. In years such as this, what you see in a farmer's eyes is the injustice of their vocation reflected against the hope of their deepest faith. In years such as this, the injustice shines more brightly than ever and despair threatens the thinnest threads of hope.

There is a look in a farmer's eyes . . . and we all would be well served to heed it. For in recognizing the challenges which those who produce our food face this day, we can be responsibly proactive in both, seeing to equitable distribution of resources for all and fairly supporting those upon whose labors our very lives depend . . . and I am not talking about the stock market.

There is a look in a farmer's eyes . . . I pray you see it, too.

Listening in Heat and Drought

What does one say to a farmer in 108 degree drought conditions as they watch corn stalks roast, soybeans wilt and alfalfa wither in the fields?

You say nothing. You 'stand with' always. You pray unceasingly.

My Dad is telling stories of 1954 when it got up to 112 degrees and the corn turned white, in one day. There's a lot of that going on right now . . . remembering. Remembering when, in a time gone past, crops didn't produce, livestock struggled, income shrunk, families went broke, farms were vacated, neighbors helped one another, friends shared resources, and the faith community became that one refuge of respite in the midst of the storm. Remembering when prayers were lifted up and rains did not come falling down. Remembering when the coolness of the servant soul was tested by the heat of the Summer sun. Remembering when the hopes of Spring planting hit the wall of weather's reality. Remembering . . . and wondering what these days will bring.

On days like this, I try to do a lot of listening for it's in the telling of stories that the balm is remembered in Gilead. I am not God, nor am I in a position of defending God when things aren't going well (Though, Lord only knows that everyone and their brother wants to take credit for 'having influence with God'when everything is going well and prosperity is the gospel upon which kingdoms are built!), yet as a servant of Jesus Christ I am called, in season and out of season, to witness to the Presence of God, the nearness of the Kingom, even when the world seems painful and despairing. I am called to 'stand with' those in deepest distress, not with words of explanation, but with the same heart of compassion Jesus shared with the lepers, the tax collectors, the sinners, and the oppressed.

Sometimes, when words finally fail, the Spirit can break in - making new the hope that was left back in the land so long ago.

It is going to be hot and dry today . . . again. The God who was with you in the days of adequate rainfall and moderate temperatures is with you also in the days of drought and heat. Listen.

It's Raining

It's raining. There are few words which will, in the driest of times, stir a farmers heart like those two little words: It's raining.

Driving back from a St. Louis hospital this morning(in the rain, hee-hee!) one of the local radio personalities was bemoaning the overcast, rainy weather we are having and I thought, "It's clear you don't earn your living from the land, nor do you know the difference this rain makes in the quality or cost of the food you buy." I know, I know, most people can only see their own self-interest and what affects it, yet, as dry as it has been one might think a word of joy might be appropriate . . . .

So, rather than bemoan the voice of uninformed ignorance, I take this moment to thank God for prayers answered. I thank God for hearing the cries of the truly 1% of the American population (American farmers) who live in this neck of the woods. I thank God for tending to the needs of the 100% of the people around the world who depend on their labors, their furrowed brows in such times, their clasped hands in humble connection with our Creator, and their unending faith even when prayers for rain are not answered. I thank God for the luxury of praying for the health of crops which grow in responsive joy to the Care they are given. And, I thank God for the grace given to such poor 'schlookers' like me who don't deserve such an abundant gift, yet from whom no good gift is withheld.

Thank you, God, for the rain today. Like the sound of an empty tomb when death is thought to hold sway, it is sweet music to my ears and the kindest of gifts You could offer for the people of the land with whom You work each day. We sing Your praises!

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.