They don’t respect The Man in the Field. Those who live in the city, those who live in DC. They don’t know or care where their food comes from. To them it comes from the Chinese delivery guy, or the deli, or the market. All they know about farming is that migrant farm workers do it, whatever it is, and don’t get paid enough to do it, whatever it is. They don’t respect The Man in the Field because they don’t know him.
The Man in the Field tills the earth, sows the seed, manages the land, and gathers the harvest. The Man in the Field does this by the sweat of his brow, the bend of his back, and the God-given power and dexterity of his calloused hands. To the men in the city he’s dirty. Not from the dirt he works in, that gets under his nails, in his hair, and which browns the lines of his face and hands. To them he’s dirty because he’s a worker. A laborer. They don’t respect The Man in the Field. To them, what he does is menial. He can’t be intelligent. He can’t ponder life’s deeper meaning. He can’t know a better way. Otherwise, why would he be in the field?
They do not see what those hands have wrought. They do not comprehend that only the pierced hands of the Savior have done more for the benefit of mankind than The Man in the Field.
They want to help him, but not out of love or kindness. Their hand is extended in condescension. They – so much wiser – so much more knowledgeable about the world and how it “really” works – they will tell him what to do and he’ll be so grateful for it that being in the field will be easier for him. They cannot see how such help is a sign of their disrespect.
They dial up the phone, order their egg rolls, tip the driver, and as they sit down to eat so does The Man in the Field.