“Those Who Dream Again”

Loved ones,

what does it take to hope again

—not just to remember the good old days, but to dream forward—for your church, your family, your future?

When I first learned the story of Fannin Terrace, what struck me wasn’t just the longevity—it was the legacy. You were born out of vision. In 1960, First Baptist Midland planted a mission in what was then the growing edge of town. What began in a schoolhouse grew into a fellowship hall, a worship center, a student building, and an entire legacy of mission. From Oregon to Eastern Europe to North Africa, from building campaigns to spiritual milestones, this church has lived a story of God’s faithfulness.

But as Psalm 126 reminds us, even people who have seen God do great things go through seasons where they ask, “Lord, would You do it again?”

The people of Israel knew that tension. They could point to moments of stunning restoration—“We were like those who dream!”—but they also knew what it meant to walk through a season of sowing with tears. Between the miracle of the past and the joy of the future… was a middle space that required faith.

Fannin Terrace is in a season like that. And that’s not a criticism—it’s a gift. Because it’s in seasons like this that God does his most transformative work.

But how do you live in that space? How do you keep sowing—loving, praying, serving—when you’re not yet sure what the harvest will be? What do you do in the in-between?

The answer, loved ones, is not just in what we do—it’s in who we trust. The God who restores joy after tears has shown us his heart most clearly in Jesus, who sowed in sorrow so that we could reap in joy. We’ll get there by the end—but let’s begin where the psalmist does: with memory.

It’s one thing to remember the past with gratitude—it’s another thing to face the present with perseverance.

Psalm 126 is a psalm of contrast. It begins with joy remembered and ends with joy anticipated, but the middle verses are a little messier: “Those who sow in tears…” “Restore our fortunes, O Lord…” It’s the language of people who haven’t lost faith—but are still waiting for the rain.

That kind of season is familiar to many churches. Especially churches that have seen God move in undeniable ways—who have experienced growth, sent out missionaries, and watched buildings rise debt-free—not because of clever planning, but because of God’s faithfulness. When you’ve seen that before, it’s even harder when you’re in a quieter season. When you’re still planting, still praying… but not yet seeing the same kind of fruit.

And in those moments, it’s tempting to assume the best days are behind us. To settle into maintenance mode. To shift from expectation to preservation.

But preservation isn’t what this psalm calls us to. It calls us to plant anyway. To keep sowing—yes, even through tears—because we believe that God is still at work. That the One who has done great things is not finished with his people.

Fannin Terrace is not a church in decline. It is a church in transition. And that difference matters. Decline says the story is ending. Transition says the next chapter is being written. But here’s the question this psalm puts in front of us:

How do you walk forward into that next chapter with faith? You start the same way the psalmist does. You remember what God has already done—because memory fuels hope. In focusing our attention to Psalm 126:1-3, let’s see the first truth in our text:

We remember what God has already done

Memory is a powerful thing. It’s not just mental—it’s spiritual. In Scripture, remembering is often the first act of renewal. Before God’s people march forward, they almost always begin by looking back—not to live in the past, but to see the pattern of God’s faithfulness.

That’s exactly what the psalmist does in Psalm 126:1–3: “When the Lord restored the fortunes of Zion, we were like those who dream. Then our mouth was filled with laughter, and our tongue with shouts of joy…”

This isn’t nostalgia. This is testimony. This is the psalmist grabbing hold of a moment when God did something unmistakable—when the people of God saw him act with such mercy and power that it left them wide-eyed and wonderstruck. It was so good, it felt like a dream.

And here’s the remarkable thing: they’re remembering that while still needing it to happen again.

The people who sang this song were in the middle of a season that hadn’t fully turned yet. They were still waiting. Still crying out. Still sowing seeds with tears. But they chose to stop and remember. Because what God has done in the past fuels our faith for what he can do in the future.

This is why stories matter. This is why church history matters. It’s why your story, Fannin Terrace, matters. Because you are a people with real moments of “we were like those who dream.”

Your Story is a Psalm 126 Story

You began as a mission—launched by another church with a vision for the growing edge of Midland. Your first gatherings were in a schoolhouse—not a sanctuary. That’s humble. That’s beautiful. And that’s biblical.

You’ve grown through decades of ministry. You’ve expanded your campus more than once. You’ve sent mission teams across the country and across the world. You’ve paid off buildings in record time—twice. You’ve raised up leaders. You’ve planted seeds of the gospel in Midland and beyond.

And that’s not me flattering you. That’s you echoing Psalm 126:3: “The Lord has done great things for us; we are glad.”

Notice what that verse doesn’t say. It doesn’t say, “We have done great things for the Lord.” No—this is about God’s work. This is a people who knew: We didn’t build this by our strength. The Lord did it. The Lord brought the growth. The Lord provided. The Lord led.

And because the Lord has done great things, you don’t have to panic in seasons of uncertainty. You don’t have to force a future. You don’t have to grasp for the glory days. You just need to remember what’s true:

God has been faithful. And he still is.

Memory is Fuel for Faith

Some of you need to hear this personally, not just as a church. You’re in a moment right now—maybe in your family, your health, your calling—where you feel stuck in the middle. You’re praying, but the answers aren’t coming as fast as you hoped. You’re sowing seeds, but the ground feels dry. And your heart wants to hope… but it’s tired.

Psalm 126 gives you permission to be honest about that weariness. But it also reminds you what to do with it: go back to the last time God moved.

Remember when he brought you through.

Remember when you thought the story was over… but it wasn’t.

Remember the prayers he answered. The peace he gave. The mercy you didn’t deserve. The strength that showed up when yours ran out.

When you remember, you don’t just honor the past—you ready your heart for what’s coming next.

Fannin Terrace, Your Story Isn’t Over

As I’ve gotten to know your story, I haven’t seen a church in decline—I’ve seen a church in preparation. You’ve endured an interim season. You’ve navigated a long tenure. You’ve done some sowing in tears. And yet here you are—showing up, praying, leaning in, opening your hearts again.

That’s a church with roots. That’s a people with promise. That’s a testimony already in progress.

So how do we live in that tension? If the past reminds us of God’s power, what do we do in the present when the ground feels dry? Psalm 126 doesn’t just call us to remember. It calls us to plant. And as we move to our second truth in Psalm 126:4-5, we are called to plant even with tears in our eyes.

We sow in faith even when the ground feels dry

If Psalm 126:1–3 are filled with joyful memory, Psalm 126:4–5 shift tone. Suddenly, the psalmist is pleading: “Restore our fortunes, O Lord, like streams in the Negeb!”

The Negeb is a dry, arid desert in the southern part of Israel. Most of the time it’s barren, cracked, silent. But every once in a while—after a sudden downpour—the dry riverbeds flash with life. What was brown turns green. What was silent begins to sing.

That’s the kind of restoration the psalmist is asking for. Not just a slow, cautious drip of hope—but a downpour. A flood of grace. A sudden shift in the soil. And yet… the very next verse doesn’t describe a sudden miracle. It describes something much slower: “Those who sow in tears shall reap with shouts of joy.”

It’s farming language. Agricultural imagery. A reminder that while God sometimes acts like a flood, he often works like a farmer. Slowly. Quietly. Beneath the surface.

Tears Are Not a Sign of Defeat

Let’s be honest: sowing is hard work. It’s patient work. It takes showing up when the field looks empty, and still putting seeds in the ground. It takes trusting the process when there’s no visible fruit. And it takes faith—especially when you’re sowing with tears.

But notice what this verse says: “Those who sow in tears…” It doesn’t say those who sow and then cry. It doesn’t say those who quit sowing because they’re tired. No—the sowing and the tears are happening together.

That means the psalm is giving us a picture of people who don’t let their grief stop their obedience. People who keep showing up. Who keep praying. Who keep serving. Who keep believing—even when the ground looks barren.

Maybe that’s you. Maybe you’re in a place right now where you’re praying for your child and don’t see change. Or showing up for a ministry that feels stuck. Or investing in a community that doesn’t seem to respond. Maybe your energy is low, and your faith feels like a whisper.

Can I encourage you? You are not failing. You are sowing.

This Is a Word for Fannin Terrace

You’re building trust. You’re discerning new leadership. You’re figuring out how to reach a city that’s always changing, shaped by the rhythms of oil and economy.

You know what it’s like to live in boom-and-bust cycles—when oil rigs rise, neighborhoods fill, and then things shift again. But in a place that moves like Midland, a faithful church becomes an anchor. A gospel presence that doesn’t come and go with the market, but stays steady with Christ.

You’re trying to engage new families while honoring deep roots. And let’s be honest—it’s not always easy.

But it is holy.

Because this kind of sowing is where the next harvest begins. It’s where discipleship is formed. Where community is deepened. Where trust is built. Where leaders are raised up. Where the Spirit does his most formative work—not when things are flashy, but when things are faithful.

Some of you are here today not because it’s easy—but because you still believe. You’re still planting. Still investing. Still praying for God to send rain.

God Is Not Absent in the Waiting

The psalmist knew what every faithful farmer knows: just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean it’s not growing. The work is happening underground. The roots are forming before the stalk breaks the soil. God is not idle in your waiting. He is working.

The tears you shed in prayer, the hours you invest in service, the faith you hold onto in private—none of it is wasted. In God’s economy, every seed counts.

And here’s the promise: “Those who sow in tears shall reap with shouts of joy.” Not might. Not maybe. Shall. The God who brought water to the desert can bring fruit from your faithfulness.

It’s Not Just About the Field—It’s About the Future

When a farmer sows seed, he’s not thinking only about today. He’s picturing a future. A harvest. A table full of provision. That’s how churches move forward—not by looking for instant results, but by trusting the Lord of the harvest.

This is the kind of leadership I long to join in. Not to rush you forward or reimagine everything, but to walk with you in this season of sowing. To get our hands in the soil together. To believe that God isn’t finished with Fannin Terrace. He’s just getting started.

So we’ve remembered what God has done. We’ve committed to sowing faithfully in the present. But Psalm 126 doesn’t end in the dirt. It ends in joy. So let’s ask: what kind of joy does God promise to those who sow in faith? Well, as we see from Psalm 126:6:

We reap in joy because God is faithful to His promise

This final verse in Psalm 126 is a picture of movement—a journey.

The psalmist says, “He who goes out weeping…” That’s a person who doesn’t wait until the weather is perfect. He doesn’t hold the seed back until the burden lifts. No—he goes out. He steps forward. He sows anyway.

And he does so with tears.

This isn’t the image of a stoic spiritual warrior. It’s the image of a real person. Someone who loves deeply. Someone who’s been through something. Someone who’s still carrying some bruises but refuses to stop believing.

And here’s the promise: “…shall come home with shouts of joy, bringing his sheaves with him.”

The Joy Is Real

This is not a vague, feel-good verse. It’s a deeply rooted promise about God’s character. The psalmist isn’t just saying things will “get better eventually.” He’s saying something stronger:

The God who saw you sow in tears is the same God who will bring you home in joy.

Joy is not just possible—it’s promised.

This verse doesn’t say when the joy will come. It doesn’t say how long the waiting will last. But it does say this: you will return. And when you do, you won’t come back empty-handed. You’ll come carrying sheaves—a biblical symbol of abundance, of harvest, of answered prayers and long-awaited fruit.

And here’s the beautiful part: when the harvest comes, you won’t even remember how tired you were in the field. The joy will outweigh the weariness.

This is a promise Fannin Terrace can stand on

Loved ones, this is a verse you can build hope on.

You have sown faithfully through a long season of transition. You’ve endured with faith. You’ve made space for new leaders to rise. You’ve opened your hearts to what’s next.

And I believe God is honoring that. Even now, in ways you might not fully see yet, God is preparing a harvest.

It might not look like the past, and it might not come all at once—but it will come. Because God is faithful to his people. And he delights in doing more than we ask or imagine when we walk by faith.

What kind of joy might be waiting for Fannin Terrace in the next season?

The joy of new believers finding Christ because of your witness.

The joy of young families planting roots and raising children in faith.

The joy of sending another mission team, starting another ministry, reaching new neighbors.

The joy of a church that sings—not just out of tradition, but from renewed vision and Spirit-filled expectation.

The Joy Isn’t Just in the Reaping—it’s in the Returning

Notice again the movement in the verse: “He shall come home with shouts of joy…” This is not just about results—it’s about return.

There’s something sacred about the moment when the season shifts. When the one who walked out wondering, “Will this even matter?” comes home and says, “Look what the Lord has done.”

This is what keeps us sowing. Not because ministry is easy. Not because results are instant. But because we believe that joy is coming. And when it does, it will be all the more beautiful because of the tears it grew through.

The Joy Is Shared

Did you notice that joy in this psalm is never solitary?

Back in Psalm 126:2, it says, “Then they said among the nations, ‘The Lord has done great things for them.’” And here, in Psalm 126:6, the joy is not internal—it’s shouted. It’s brought home. It’s offered up for others to see and celebrate.

That’s the kind of joy I long to share in. A joy that doesn’t belong to a pastor or a plan, but to a people who have walked faithfully together.

A joy that draws others in—not because we’re flashy, but because we are faithful.

It means we don’t lead with fear.

We don’t shrink back from sowing.

We don’t live as though the best is behind us.

We remember.

We sow.

We trust.

Because the God who brought us this far will not abandon his field. The One who began a good work is faithful to complete it. And the tears you sow today are not wasted—they are watering the soil of tomorrow’s joy.

So what does it mean to move forward from Psalm 126—not just as hearers, but as sowers?

We remember what God has done.

We sow in faith even when the ground feels dry.

And we trust that joy is coming—not because we deserve it, but because God is faithful.

Here’s the bottom line of this message and, I believe, of this moment in the life of Fannin Terrace:

Because God has done great things before, we can sow in faith today and dream again for tomorrow.

And this isn’t just true in theory—it’s true right now. In this church. In this season. For you.

But what does it mean to dream again? It means we stop thinking in terms of survival and start believing for impact. To dream that the baptism waters would stir again. That young families would not just visit, but plant their roots here. That weary saints would find fresh joy in serving. That the Word of God would go out with power in Midland—and that people who have long given up on church might meet Jesus here.

So how do we live like that—as people who remember, who sow, and who dream again? Let me offer three steps forward

1. Remember actively, not passively

Don’t just let the past be a scrapbook. Let it be fuel. Talk about what God has done here. Tell the stories. Remind each other of how God showed up. Let your history stir your hunger. Because what he’s done before, he’s able to do again.

2. Sow faithfully, not fearfully

Keep investing. Keep praying. Keep showing up. Open your home. Mentor that student. Invite that neighbor. Serve in that ministry. Don’t wait for the harvest to get excited—rejoice in the sowing. Even if it comes with tears.

The temptation in a transition season is to wait and see. But sowers don’t wait for perfect conditions—they trust the Lord of the harvest and they go out weeping with seed still in their hands.

3. Dream together, not alone

If God’s preparing a new season at Fannin Terrace, it won’t come through one person’s vision. It will come through a church family dreaming again together. This is not about a new pastor stepping in with a master plan—it’s about a people leaning in together, asking: “What does faithfulness look like now? What does fruitfulness look like next?”

I’ve never believed restoring life in a church comes from the top down—it comes from the ground up, when the Word is sown in the soil of real relationships. That’s the kind of ministry I long to cultivate with you—deeply rooted, biblically faithful, and led by the Spirit among the people.

Loved ones, I believe God is not finished with this church. I believe he’s already sowing something fresh in your hearts. And I would be honored to help shepherd that—to plant seeds with you, to trust God with you, to reap the joy he promises in his time.

If God calls us together, I won’t just shepherd gently—I’ll labor earnestly. I’ll get my hands in the soil with you and seek the harvest with all my heart.

Because the One who led you out of Egypt, who sustained you through the wilderness, who brought you to the promised land and planted you in Midland—He is still here.

He still rains on dry ground.

And he still brings joy out of tears.

Now, Midland doesn’t just need more activity. It needs the presence of Christ in neighborhoods, schools, and the oil field. This church is uniquely placed to be a well of gospel grace in the Permian Basin.

So the question becomes—do we believe that? Do we still believe in a God who brings restoration, revival, and reaping? Because if we do… we’re already on the way home with sheaves in hand.

Loved ones, I don’t know what kind of tears you’ve sown.

Maybe it was disappointment in ministry. Or a prodigal child. Or just faithful obedience in the shadows—doing the right thing when no one saw, and wondering if it mattered.

Maybe it was carrying a burden for your church through transition. Maybe it was showing up on Sundays with questions no one saw. Maybe it was loving someone who never loved you back.

But here’s what I know: not one tear is wasted in the hands of God.

Because the same God who brings joy after tears is the God who brings life after death—he is not done restoring. And the greatest restoration he offers is not to a building, but to a heart. That’s what the cross is about.

Jesus Christ, the Son of God, entered our dry land.

He sowed his life in tears, in blood, in obedience.

And on the third day, reaped joy. Not just for himself, but for all who trust in him.

If you’ve never trusted in that Savior, I invite you this morning to come home.

You don’t have to clean yourself up. You don’t have to make it rain.

You just have to say, “Lord, I need You.”

Because the same God who brings joy after tears is the God who brings life after death. And he’s still writing resurrection stories—here, now, in you.

So what is your next step?

This isn’t just poetry—it’s promise. It’s God’s invitation to you.

And maybe today is your moment to step into that promise.

Maybe you’ve been sowing with quiet hope, faithfully serving even when the fruit is slow to show. Don’t stop. Your tears are not wasted. God sees. And joy is coming.

Maybe today is your moment to return to Jesus. To say, “Lord, I need You.” The One who sowed his life in tears is still raising people from dry ground—and he’s not done with you.

And church family, maybe today is our moment to believe again. To remember. To sow. To trust. And to dream again—not just about what was, but about what God still wants to do through us.

The joy is coming.

We don’t just believe in reaping—we believe in returning. In seeing the fruit of faithfulness and shouting for joy when God brings it home.

So maybe today your step is simple: pray for fresh rain. Share your story. Write down a dream. Or ask God to stir one up again. Because he is not finished.

Let’s go out sowing… and come home shouting.

Because God has done great things before, we can sow in faith today… and dream again for tomorrow.