Having Sown……What Are We Harvesting?

By: Travis W. Lewis

February, 2001

The following essay was originally written in early 2001 and published on Page 1 of the April-May issue of the newsletter Reveille. Several issues of the newsletter can be found as posts on this website, http://goldenbowlpublications.net, followed by clicking on the Newsletters dropdown, then scrolling down to Reveille Issue #9. Though the personal names and the story are fictitious, its intent is to present a metaphor which is explained in the later part of its content.

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It is before first light of day on a cool, mid-spring Monday morning in the Missouri bootheel. The fog that has been prominent for a few hours will soon lift as the sun rises above the horizon of this beautiful, black, Mississippi River bottomland. In a flannel shirt, faded jumper and overalls, sixty-seven-year-old Henry Burleson emerges from the back door of his home, located in a beautiful grove near the edge of his sprawling thirty- six-hundred-acre farm.

On seventy acres near the southeast corner of this estate, his grandfather settled almost a century ago. As adjacent land became available for purchase, and as more labor and equipment became affordable, both Henry and his son continually expanded the farming operation. For over sixty years now, planting season has excited Henry. From his own father, Henry learned that harvest begins with the will to prepare the soil. “Fall gatherin’ starts with spring plowin’”, Henry was reminded every spring. His son, Mack, will soon appear from just around the curve in U. S. Highway 412 and join his father as spring corn planting begins. Henry switches on the lights to the two-year-old equipment shed in which he invested several thousand dollars to house their most expensive pieces of equipment.

Following routine maintenance checks, he cranks his huge, eight wheeled New Holland tractor, then dismounts the cab to allow time for the monstrous workhorse engine to reach its operating temperature. As he gives the machine a visual ‘once over’, he muses that his grandfather wouldn’t have paid the price of that tractor for all of Pemiscot County, even if he had had the money. He also reminisces how worried he was two years ago when he decided to make the purchase. Even with his conservative projections, he had been anxious about whether it was a good investment. Now, with just an average harvest this year, he plans on paying it off. Amid the deafening roar of the warming engine, and with grease gun in hand, he double-checks each fitting, first on the tractor itself, then he moves on to the thirty-two-row planter in the next stall, giving each fitting another light shot of lubrication.

No more than a few minutes pass before Henry hears the slam of a truck door, and Mack appears from amid the foggy dawn. “ Ju’ lay out all night? Gittin’ kinda’ late”, Henry gigs in a subdued smile. Shivering from the humid, early morning breeze, Mack responds with only a grin, knowing that is typical of his father’s usual, warm greetings. “One of these days, I’ll miss that.”, he thinks to himself, as warm emotions remind him of the close attachment to his wise, aging father. Mack knows that beneath his father’s rough exterior lie two long-range goals. They are his prevailing passions, and they never change. One is an undaunted desire for the next harvest to be the best ever; the other is his innermost yearning to pass the required work ethic, ability and opportunity to farm this good land on to Mack — and for Mack to do the same for his two young sons. Only during the past few years has Mack begun to understand his father’s passions.

Their fourteen-hundred-acre cotton crop has already been planted, and in a few days, young cotton stalks will appear from beneath the carefully prepared, fertile soil. After a short discussion about their plans for the days ahead, Mack mounts the humming tractor and maneuvers its back toward the front of the large planter. After making the necessary towing and hydraulic connections between tractor and equipment, Henry cranks a two-ton truck in an adjacent stall and pulls it alongside the road in front of the shed. On Saturday, he visited his trusty seed supplier and loaded the truck with the best grade certified seed available. Whatever seeds he plants, Henry settles for nothing less than the most pure and prolific variety on the market. He spends lots of time making that choice, for he knows that only with the best seed can he reap the harvest he expects.

Followed by his father, Mack manipulates the huge equipment toward the two-hundred-forty-acre field almost a half-mile away, then dismounts to stock the hoppers and tanks with seed and fertilizer. One of the two hired helpers arrives shortly and informs Henry that his partner failed to show up at their meeting time. “I reckon we’ll git by without ‘im. I can still drive trucks and tote seed myself.”, Henry proclaims with a confidence that brings a silent grin from Mack. The loss of help has never changed his father’s goals before, and Mack knows that today will be no different.

They will simply work a little longer and harder — and maybe a little smarter. Another’s failure will not alter their goals, even as increasing light on the horizon reveals a bank of reddish clouds. A fertilizer tanker truck arrives and pulls alongside the equipment that Mack has trained in the direction of the planned rows. Soil tests have dictated both the content and potency of the fertilizer that soon fills the plastic tanks mounted on the tractor’s front.

With seed hoppers and tanks fully loaded, Mack mounts the roaring machine, closes the cab door, and gently pushes a lever on the its console. A huge column of black smoke belches from the exhaust as the giant planter is hydraulically lowered, and he pulls away. “Mr. Burleson, ya’ reckon we ‘ort to start plantn’ with ‘em clouds lookin’ lak ‘at? Ya’ know what ‘tay say, ‘red in ‘na mornin’, sailors take warnin’ ”, suggests the farm helper. Laying his arm across the shoulders of the young man, Henry replies, “Son, if ya’ wait on spring plantin’ ‘till all the clouds are gone, and the temperature is just right, and all ye’ help shows up, ya’ not gonna’ harvest nothin’ but Johnson grass in October. Now, you remember that.”

With hands tucked into the bib of his overalls, Henry strolls into the edge of the freshly planted strip of soil left by the equipment as its noise fades into the distance. As he gazes along the seemingly endless rows, his imagination carries him forward to late September. He envisions tall, luscious corn stalks growing only a few inches apart, many with more than one long, thick ear of corn turning golden brown and nearing time for harvest. Faith rendered from experience allows him total contentment. He has done his best, both in preparation and in sowing. He has prepared fertile soil, in which he is sowing good seed. In a few weeks, he will apply additional chemicals to ensure that the young plants receive all the available nourishment from the fertile soil, and to prevent insects from satisfying their appetites on the young plants in which he has invested such a price. He has employed his full wisdom and energy in preparing and sowing. He is content that, barring what is beyond his control, which is the weather, his harvest will be a grand reward for his efforts.

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With so much having been sowed in “the name of the Lord Jesus” for the harvest of souls, what sort of yield are we realizing? Exactly, what size harvest are we expecting? Are we content with a token yield, barely recognizable in size? Or do we continually envision a larger harvest than we have ever experienced? If so, do we have a realistic hope in that vision? Are our harvests such as please the Lord, or even ourselves? If not, then why not? We may find answers in the Burleson parable. Nearing the proverbial ‘threescore and ten” in age, Henry Burleson would much rather have remained in the comfort zone of his home’s warm den rather than make himself ready and face the chilling, damp, pre-dawn wind of the Mississippi River bottomland.

Do we not often say, “We sure need to do that, but…”, and find some reason to put it off until circumstances afford more comfort? Mr. Burleson was a veteran goal-oriented person. The goal of a grand harvest was embedded in his being. Neither cold winds, cloudy skies, nor discouraging words of his friends could change or diffuse that dream. Nor should they alter our vision of reaching the starving souls of needy and desperate people. Thoughts of temporary discomforts must not cool passions enflamed toward accomplishing the mission left to our trust. “The sluggard ploweth not for reason of the cold; therefore shall he lack in time of harvest.”, Solomon recorded. Rather than consuming all the resources from former crops to satisfy his own comfort, Mr. Burleson routinely denied his whims and plowed funds into future harvests. This same principle rings true in the Lord’s service.

Preparation for success consists of using rewards of past achievements and lessons from past failures as we shape our plans for the future. Can we discipline ourselves to dedicate our first fruits to future harvests? Our highest priority – our first fruits — will reflect where the treasure of our heart really lies, for “..where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.”

The wise Burlesons were particular in their selection of seed, as well as their choice in fertilizers. Are we attentive to the seed we plant in the minds of our acquaintances? Are we equally concerned with what we provide for maturity after their spiritual birth, or do we pay attention to either the rate or existence of any growth at all? As the Burlesons lent attention to the details of matching fertilizer and soil, are we attentive to performing the same tests in corresponding our lessons and sermons to the needs of the hearers?

Such analyses are not so easily made, for they require an understanding that we cannot make a wise choice alone. Left to our own intellect in preparation, the lesson may tickle the ear of the hearer, but will leave no nourishment for real growth. Wise choices must originate with the Lord, to whom the line of communication is so easily short-circuited by our pride or slothfulness. When originating with the Holy Spirit, however, we can be assured that the lodging will match the needs of receiving souls and will not “return void.”

As is the law of the farm harvest, so is the yield of lost souls. If the crop is not a multiple of what we think we have planted, then is something not missing? Though not always coinciding with the timing we expect, we are promised a harvest! Never in the history of the Christian dispensation have more resources been at our disposal to lend support to our yield. Every increment of our harvest is dependent upon either what the Holy Spirit does, or upon what we do.

His work, we cannot perform; and, our work, He will not perform. Whenever deficiencies exist, they must be laid at our feet and not at His. Or maybe we ourselves characterize a slothful neighbor of Mr. Burleson, hanging out with the guys and jockeying for social position with cronies during the planting season and all the while ridiculing the Burlesons – failing, or finding excuse not, to plant the Good News in hearts that are weary; or, are we in continuous pursuit of a good harvest in our own fields by meditating on and internalizing the ways of Jesus? Are we going about strengthening the weak and encouraging the discouraged, while planting hope in the breasts of those within whom hope has long since vanished? Must we plead guilty of talking the talk of Christ’s cause and boasting of fine works we are performing, while in reality, only foulness is flourishing? Then, as we watch bumper crops being garnered by those who have exerted wisdom in preparing and planting, do we grope for excuses and blame others — and come up empty handed?

So, have we prepared? Have we sowed? If so, how well, and how much? And what have we sowed? The harvest, graded and measured by Almighty God, is lone proof. He knows! Do we, or are we concerned? Ω