<< Previous episode

Before the harvest comes a lot of hard work.

“He will not shout or cry out,
or raise his voice in the streets.
A bruised reed he will not break,
and a smoldering wick he will not snuff out.
In faithfulness he will bring forth justice;
he will not falter or be discouraged
till he establishes justice on earth.
In his teaching the islands will put their hope.” – Isa. 42:2-4 NIV

One of my first assignments in Ofunato was to help an apple farmer (in the neighboring town of Rikuzentakata) who was overworked and had no hired hands to assist him. Our team from the Ofunato volunteer base was tasked with taking every apple on the trees and gently turning them to expose the unripened sides towards the sun.

Every apple. On every tree in his orchard.

Turning them.

One by one.

That’s a lot of apples.

This wasn’t the kind of manual labor one could do quickly, as twisting the apples too hard or too fast would have caused them to break off and fall to the ground. We had to gingerly turn them in the same direction (clockwise or counterclockwise, depending on which direction they were turned last time) and carefully peel away any leaves that might have been blocking the sun. We also had to avoid damaging the buds, which bear fruit for the following year’s crop.

Every apple that made it to harvest would net the farmer approximately one dollar. This meant that every apple that didn’t make it– the apples that didn’t ripen well, the apples that fell to the ground– would cost the farmer one dollar.

Though this might have been manual labor, it was by no means a menial task. The farmer’s livelihood was at stake, and in the aftermath of a major disaster, no less. We wanted to do the best job that we could, and if that meant taking more time, that’s what we would do.

The hours we spent in the orchard that morning gave me time to reflect on God, life, and the suffering of the people of Tohoku, who have been through a lot. Many lost their homes and livelihoods. Many lost loved ones. Some of them have even seen their daughters, husbands, or neighbors being swept away to their deaths.

The Christianese lingo I learned over the years not only seemed trite in such a context, but potentially harmful: how could you face one of these disaster survivors in the eye and say that “God loves you and has a wonderful plan for your life”? While I do believe that this statement is true, I found myself unable to present it in exactly those terms. Perhaps God had good reasons for placing me in a ministry context where I was disarmed of my language skills: the best I could do to show love to others was through presence and small actions, like turning a farmer’s apples, one by one, in the hopes that they’ll ripen and provide a good harvest for the farmer.

As I continued turning the half-green, half-red orbs towards the sunlight, I prayed silently and said, “God, it took us two years, nearly one hundred supporters, and a miracle with housing to get us this far. Is this really what you called me here for? To do manual labor and turn apples?”

That’s when the still, small voice of God spoke to me:

“There can be no harvest unless you first care for individuals, one at a time.”

Harvest. It’s one of those buzzwords, like revival, that we pastors and missionaries bandy about in the hopes that we’ll get to participate in one someday. But do we ever stop and think about what needs to happen before the harvest?

There can be no harvest unless someone first plants a seed.

There can be no harvest unless someone first waters that seed and nurtures the plant to bear fruit some day.

There can be no harvest unless someone first helps cultivate that fruit.

Just as we had to handle each apple at the orchard gently, turning them towards the sun and peeling away the leaves that cast harmful shadows on them, God was challenging me to gently nurture every person I’d minister to, turning them towards God’s light and removing that which covers them in darkness, but without harming them or causing them to fall and perish.

God took me from a church of nearly two-thousand people to a land that had been one of the most unchurched regions of Japan, where I’d share the gospel not from a stage in front of thousands, but face to face with individuals who needed to see God’s love in my presence and my actions before they’d listen to my words about it.

And so began my time of ministry in Ofunato.

(To be continued)