The Harvest

         “The harvest is plentiful but the laborers are few. So, pray to the Lord of the harvest that He would send out laborers into his harvest field.” Jesus said these words to his disciples as he looked down over the multitudes flowing out of the city to come hear the message. He saw into every heart, every life, every hurt. It was for these, that He had come to die. I cannot help but wonder if in his omniscience, as he pleaded for his disciples to pray that God would send out workers to meet these needs, if he was not also looking forward to the countless lives of saints who would be the answer to those prayers. I wonder if as his heart broke for those standing before him on the sandy hills out stretching before his eyes if his heart was not also churned for those standing before him across the planes of time. Was He comforted to see those faithful followers who through courses of history would give their everything to attend to the Father’s harvest, smiling thinking of them? Did His burden grow again looking forward to the great number of those who would claim his name but never interest themselves in His work, never setting their hands to the plow?
            The Lord has been teaching me much about His heart for the harvest over these past years. I am now aware I have spent the bulk of my years, though they be few, missing it. I think far too often Satan too easily blinds my eyes to the work the Lord desires to be doing in the world today. Sadly I find this too often to be the case. Oh that the Lord would open our eyes to the work that is on His heart.  That we would begin to redeem the time! That the church would not remain dormant any longer, but that we would go out as the Lord intended. God has been showing me that what the Church carries out is too often not all that He calls it to.

            The Lord has spent some large amount of time teaching me this rather simple truth. He has revealed it to me gradually as I have traveled these past few years. I remember vividly my trip to the Dominican Republic in 2010. It was my first time leaving the United States to a country that speaks a language different then my own. As the plane lowered into the capital city, I knew I was entering into a different world. I fell in love with the people there and wanted more than anything to share the hope I carried with them. I can still remember vividly the trips we took down dusty roads to the poor outlying sugarcane villages. The faces of these precious people I will forever carry with me in my mind. One one such face was a young woman carrying a little baby boy; she pleaded with us for just a little food for she and her family hadn’t eaten in days. We were given specific instruction what we could and could not do from the national missionaries to avoid conflicts amongst the villagers and to not make them too dependant on those there on short term missions. One of these instructions was not to share of the food that we had packed away in the bus for our lunches for fear that it would cause dissension amongst the people if it didn’t reach to all of them. So we offered what we could. We unloaded from the greyhound and with lots of enthusiasm and lots of hand motions played with the filthy yet beautiful children. Many had little clothing; missing some vital articles of clothing you would never imagine seeing a youngster without in the states. One little boy (completely naked) had gotten knocked over in the game and began to weep. I came to him and picked him up holding him out from me at arms length to see what the damage had been. I looked at his right ear and saw it was terribly infected a white puss flowed from it and had hardened more than once without being tended. I thought of the risks of catching the infection but no sooner had the thought crossed my mind that the Lord convicted me taking my mind to the times he touched the lepers in love. Would I be one that held the world at arm’s length or one that would draw them into Christ’s love? I held the small child tight to my chest his precious little head nestled in alongside my ear. God was changing me.

             We loaded back into the tour bus and as the small village vanished into the fields that surrounded it the Lord brought to me the understanding that it was not these peoples poverty that was tragic but rather their spiritual state. The need for a Pauline ministry was evident in my eyes. Someone needed to go village to village and establish churches and teach these people how to live out the Christian life not just share the gospel. The people had already been evangelized but they needed to be shepherded. I sheepishly told the Lord I was willing, but it seemed impossible that the Lord would ever send me to this ministry. We then went into the capital city and the normal parts of town were worse than much of the slums of the United States, but still in comparison to the villages we had visited the day before these people lived in great wealth. The churches we visited were relatively healthy and they were sustained in their current ministries. It became evident to me that these people were the answer to this prayer for church planters, but I did not speak with a single person that shared a vision for the harvest field sitting just miles from the city limits. The harvest was plentiful but the workers were few.
            My week in the Dominican lead me to a year in Argentina to learn the Spanish language so that I would be more equipped to be sent. My time there holds many distinguishing memories and defining moments. One such a moment came in one of my first trips to the capital, Buenos Aries. The expanse between what the Church is, and what it is called to be gaped in front of me again. Surrounding the Plaza de Mayo stand all the buildings that represent power and influence in Argentina: the pink house, the congress building and many other concrete giants.  Among them there is the spectacular Catholic cathedral. It is not merely a building or place of worship; it is art. But no matter how lovely it may be there was something troubling beneath the splendid architecture. Under its painted elaborate ceiling knelt a very few worshipers. Grand steps lead up to the cathedral and most that are coming and going are tourists coming to see art. I am sure to them the many homeless that have taken residence on the doorsteps of the church are a great inconvenience to them in their pursuit of beauty. However this is the less lovely reality of the situation. It seemed that neither those within or without were finding what they sought. Some sought peace with God, which can never be attained by adherence to a religion. Some sought compassion and a little food to fill their bellies, which was rarely seen in the bustle of the city. Was this not the harvest field? As I passed by, feelings of conviction overcame me once again. What could I say, my Spanish was too limited to explain the truth I carried? What could I do, my selfishness was too great to give more than 10 pesos and a track in Spanish I have crammed in my pocket?  I had with me about 200 pesos for the day for souvenirs and food for myself I considered giving it to them, but how could I trust that they wouldn’t misuse it? Was this even for me to ask? Where was the compassion Christ demonstrated to the masses? There were disconnects here, lots of them.
            It is easy to see and criticize these inconsistencies and faults that lie in others thousands of miles away.  Perhaps the most troubling inconsistency I see, I see in my own life. I can say I have vision for the world, wanting to change it for the better, but what good are ones claims if his vision does not even reach across the street he grew up on? It is easy to find “compassion” for the needy children seen on television commercials. Easy to think things along the lines of, “that is terrible” or “something needs to be done,” while remaining unchanged, but true compassion must lead to action. How often do the churches in the world today ignore the needy present on their very doorstep? How often are the opportunities just outside the city limits left unrealized?  How is it that believers are so often blinded to the field in which they stand? How long will it continue? Oh that the Lord would open eyes.

Nonsensical Edification

                 My hair was beyond disheveled from my hands consistently running through it as I tore cross campus in a race against time, and pitched in battle with myself. Still breathing hard as I reached my office, I crumpled to the ground allowing my body to become deadweight as I simply gave up.  The time stained rough carpet that has been in my office long before it become “mine” pressed firmly into my fore head. I looked pathetic, but I didn’t care in the slightest. I was beyond caring. A kind of guttural groan escaped from my throat as I knew I should have been starting a prayer. But to say what?! Part of me wanted to weep, and part of me could feel the foolishness of my desperation. Dying to oneself is a hard pill to swallow.

                I could paint the portrait of unfortunate events, wrong thought patterns, wrong attitudes, and deferred hopes that brought me to my knees that night, but they are not the point. They rarely are. What mattered was I had reached the nadir of my current valley. It was not a particularly deep valley or drastic situation, simply more than I could handle on my own, and I had been trying too long. The beautiful thing about valleys is that in their very nature as we pass through them, they are passed. After the lowest points things always rise. Out of my mouth escaped a simple prayer: “In my distress I cried unto the LORD, and he heard me.” (Psalm120:1) The Lord always hears and takes interest in me, but on occasions he has opened my eyes to see his unlikely angels of encouragement as what they are, his instruments in my life, blessings. This night was such a night.
                As I finished my prayer, I rose slowly to my feet. I felt the kind of emotional numbness that often follows such purging times. I was tired, but I now knew I could go forward to the tasks at hand, the Lord with me rather than opposing me. I sat down at my desk. My desk was mildly cluttered as the desk of a first year employee filling a role too large for the sum of his years should be. I have been told I am mature for my age not that I’ve matured; I feel my desk reflects that. I pulled my English text book out of my black backpack and placed it on my desk. English Comp 1 was at that moment what my hands found to do and so I did my best to do it hardily.
                About an hour and a half into the effort three of the students I am discipling popped their heads into my office to check on my emotional state, knowing I was trying to plow through my school work, catching up from starting behind. The largest of the three, a young man named Brice who will probably singlehandedly change the world in the course of his lifetime, walked over to where I was folded into the couch where I had migrated with my laptop. He, without a word, bent over and proceeded to pick me up trying to carry me out the door. Now, Brice is a good ol’ boy. He had plenty of physical strength from growing up on a farm. At the same time I myself am no small fellow and an awkward struggle ensued that I’m sure would have been quite humorous to passer-byers, that is, should my office have been the type of office that could have passer-byers. However within my small windowless office no one outside the unfortunately pink tinted walls could see as the three of them tried to persuade me to abandon my work for just a moment to run to the Duncan Donuts on 19 just a few minutes from campus. Brice is a salesman if I ever saw one, and when he believes in something he will back it with all his heart. He’d already rallied the allegiance of many churches and schools to support Care4Aids, a missions organization Brice believes quite strongly in. This night Brice believed quite strongly that I needed to take a break. It took all my powers of persuasion to finally convince them that I wouldn’t be able to leave and that it was for the best of everyone if I stayed. They filed out and I got back to focusing on what I had to be doing.
                I knew I needed to plow forward in my work. I knew I had to be disciplined. I knew I had to ignore my emotional state. I knew there was work to be done.

               Another 20 minutes passed as I trudged through the mountains of sentences to diagram and authors to analyze that lay ahead of me. Then without any warning, or precautionary knock of any type my door flew open once again. In walked the three amigos with four cups of Duncan Donuts coffee. A defeated smile crept across my face, and I welcomed them in. Alex plopped down on the old green couch that had been dragged in for times such as these, Jarren took my co-worker Eric’s swiveling desk chair, and Brice assumed command of my desk placing his size 12 work boot on the couch. I looked up from the ground where I had landed sprawled out with my laptop and book work. The conversation that followed was not particularly profound, and our topics were not world shaking. We unanimously decided that Brice had no childhood because he did not know of power rangers. Then Jarren wielding an expo marker and an imagination turned on Eric’s to do list. After the group decided that Eric planned to clone himself, buy two donuts, find a wife, and move to Yemen, the conversation turned to the center of the room as the topics bounced off the walls in such a way that surely can only be produced by young 20 somethings that have plenty of potential, big hopes, and probably still too much youthfulness in them for their own good.

                As I looked at the three of them God began to open up my eyes and I began to marvel. Jarren has the heart of a pastor and much of his father’s wisdom. Alex under his mess of un-kept hair and glasses has an incredible mind and a beaming spirit. Brice as I already mentioned will probably either save the world or conquer it by the age of 30. I smiled just simply enjoying the simplicity of fellowship. We are still far from perfectly lovely or worth dying for, but it was for us unimpressive, imperfect, inconsistent, immature persons that Christ died. We were completely and totally accepted in the beloved just as we were. At our weakest moments, He still rejoices over us with singing. When we are fickle and human, His thoughts toward us are still innumerable. That is reality. I can’t explain how, but God used that time to bring me into appreciation of this truth. To me it was nonsensical, because it was not penciled into my to-do list, but the Lord knew it was exactly what I needed. It was not in a sermon, not in exhortation that brought me to this truth. Yes, both certainly have their time and place, but perhaps also there is a time and place for nonsensical edification.