Psalm 126

The harvest is an especially popular metaphor here in Iowa where I serve as a pastor. We’re the king when it comes to corn (I’ll fight you, Indiana readers). Between our concentration of farmers and the production of ethanol, corn is an essential part of Iowa’s economy. So for good reason, harvest has been a dominant theme of our church district campaigns in Iowa. All throughout Scripture, the harvest is so important for the people of God, our text at hand not excluded, so it is only appropriate that we have leaned into this for our yearly themes. 

They have included:

1. Join the Harvest

2. Reach the Harvest

3. Celebrate the Harvest

4. Reimagine the Harvest

5. Harvest Awakening

6. Harvest 2020

We had tractors and hay bales on the stage of our assembly. In front of the church where the assembly was held, a large combine sat near the church sign with a giant banner on it with any one of the slogans listed above.

All of these themes, of course, are grounded in Jesus’ words to the twelve: “Then he said to his disciples, ‘The harvest is plentiful but the workers are few. Ask the Lord of the harvest, therefore, to send out workers into his harvest field’” (Matthew 9:37-38).

I would contend there are tangible and intangible signs of harvest in ministry. The tangible signs are what we celebrate each year at assemblies. How sweet it is when a sinner confesses Jesus Christ as Lord for the first time. How sweet it is when a young person responds to the call of God for vocational ministry. How sweet it is to witness and walk with someone through the baptismal waters as a sign of the union to Christ’s body – the church. These are quantifiable things. They end up on our district reports, and we can look up the statistics for them. And they are worthy of celebration.

This advent season, we find ourselves looking for meaning in new and creative ways to restore hope, joy and peace, the things that seem intangible for our churches and parishes. Several have discerned it best to not even gather in person for ministry since March. Some have begun to regather, but with major stipulations. As of this writing, my congregation began to get back together only a few weeks ago, but we are already rethinking if it is best because the outbreak of covid-19 is so substantial in our county. Hospitals are full. Schools are shutting down. Pandemic wise, they are as bad where I live as they have been through the whole thing.

It has been extremely stressful for pastors to navigate a hyper-contentious and partisan election season, the way that partisanship has colored the way we understand the pandemic, and the way the pandemic has exacerbated racial tensions that have always been in our country. What do we mark as “faithful to the harvest” for such a time as this?

The Psalmist may give us a clue. By recounting God’s faithfulness, the people dream that those who have been exiled may return to the land with laughter and joy. Joy is the harvest. Joy is intangible. How do we quantify or mark this joy? We can only speak the story of how joy overwhelms us. In this season of Advent, restored joy is what we all long for so badly, especially when divisiveness, death and despair are rearing their ugly heads. Joy is restored and gifted to us by a good and gracious God.

Let me offer a story of intangible joy that has come to me, a reminder of the goodness of God even in the midst of crisis upon crisis.

I meet bimonthly with a spiritual director. I shared how I was trying to find the right pastoral thing to say in the middle of all of this. What can I offer my congregation and those around me that would speak a true word about hope in the midst of tragedy, the truth of how whiteness has destroyed black bodies and naming that evil? Having a prophetic or true word, along with preaching, means having something to say. I shared how I’d write up a page or so and think, “I don’t have anything to say” and hold down the delete key until the page was once again blank.

She told me that the hymn Be Thou My Vision came to her mind, and I asked if we could sing it together. We ended the session with her asking me to ask the question, “What is the LORD asking me to say?” I wrote that in my journal and stowed it away.

Shortly after this session, Iowa faced an incredible weather episode. You may have heard a hurricane type storm event came crashing through central Iowa in August. I came to learn quickly this has a specific name – a derecho. What was especially wild about this event was that nobody seemed to have seen it coming, making it especially unnerving.

I was at the Birdland swimming pool getting my older two boys ready to hop in for swim lessons when the westward skies were turning black. The sirens started. They were initially going to do instruction in the locker rooms, but as I looked at the radar on my phone, all I saw was a block of deep red beginning to shade purple. I got my boys out as fast as I could, and we raced home. When we were about two miles away, it got really hairy. The winds were whipping, powerlines were loosed and trees were falling on the road. In fact, the main way home was blocked by a giant oak that had fallen. I wound back and was able to get into the church parking lot where we meet, and my pastor friend let the boys and me hang in his parsonage until the storm passed.

After a few hours, we were eventually able to get home. Trees had fallen. Everyone lost power. But slowly, neighbors emerged from their houses to help clean up tree limbs and debris. New friendships were forged, and we experienced generous hospitality from folk around us. I was able to connect with people I hadn’t known before.

Between trying to make sense of life in the pandemic and reeling from going through the derecho, it made for uneasiness all around. There are about 40 kids on my street alone, and several (including us with our son Miles) would be sending them to school for the first time. I felt a strong impression that I needed to let all these people know that I was praying intentionally for them, especially with school starting. So, one Sunday evening before school would begin (either online or part time in a hybrid model), I started pounding the keyboard writing out my prayer. I had been thinking about it for several weeks and poured over it. I offered a prayer of blessing for our kids, our parents, our teachers, and our administrators. I prayed for safety, wisdom and that the perfect love of Christ would cast out all fear. I selected all, copied, and pasted it onto my street’s Facebook group. I wanted to signal to everyone who read it that when a crisis comes, they know of a pastor who will pray for them.

The next day I texted one of the neighbors about a tree removal service to see if he had heard anything. Reading his response gave me so much joy: “Thank you for the words and prayer in the group chat. I won’t lie, I’m not religious but reading through your post was comforting.” In that moment, I experienced incredible joy. And the joy was only amplified when I sat down the next morning to write in my journal to see the question I had forgotten I had been prompted with: “What is the Lord asking me to say?” The Lord had answered my prayer and I didn’t even realize it was happening. The Lord was stirring something within me, giving me something to say, and it came in a way I had not anticipated in the least.

This is my testimony of a resurrection sign; this is my testimony of how we went out weeping but returned with songs of thanksgiving. This is my testimony of a harvest of joy.

May you and those you serve in your congregations and parishes find your harvest of joy in days of sorrow. May it come about in surprising and beautiful ways – in the posture of obedience and faith. May you find the seed of your sorrow transformed into joy by the presence of the God who is with us. Amen.