We are now solidly in the season of Lent. For many people, Lent is a time to do without, to show our allegiance to God by suffering. We look forward to Easter as the time when the restraints can be thrown off: we can watch TV again, or eat sweets, or stop praying so much. Lent in this scenario is like training for an event rather than starting a new life. God becomes the judge of the event.
But the deeper meaning of Lent is both more promising and more challenging than this. Lent is the end of winter, when our resources are at their lowest. The earth is quiet, at least on the surface. In the days before international food delivery, Lent was the time when stocks ran low and people ate simply, and ate less, from necessity. Lent was a time to remember that our lives are fragile and limited, and to give thanks for what we have.
Lent can still be that time. Lent is the season to repent and return, not in place of other times or as an occasional event, but as a way of starting over down the path of life.
Today’s readings remind us of this central Lenten theme. We hear of God’s love for us in the Exodus story, and the psalmist returns God’s love with eager devotion. But the Epistle and the Gospel call us forcefully to rethink our path and choose life.
Jesus has just been warning his followers about the need to act rightly and not delay. They respond by asking him about some Galileans who were killed by Pilate. Now, this may seem like a strange thing to bring up, but for Luke’s original audience it’s very pertinent. Those first Christians often endured persecution from the Romans, and they were trying to understand how a loving God could let that happen. Their answer was to accuse the victims of sin.
This is a temptation for all of us. My life would be so much simpler if I could be sure that bad things only happen to bad people. If I could believe that, I wouldn’t have to cry for those who suffer. I wouldn’t have to worry that I might be next. If I could be sure that bad things happen only to bad people, and if I could be sure that I’m not bad, I could feel safe.
Jesus takes that away from me. Jesus reminds his listeners that we all die, and not in circumstances of our choosing. Some of us will die suddenly, as victims of violence or accident. Some of us will die from medical causes just as suddenly. Some of us will have a long slow death. And none of this has anything to do with whether we sinned or not. Rich and poor, all races and creeds, all ages, are vulnerable.
Life is fragile, and unpredictable. That’s why we have to turn to God now, this instant. This is the only time we have.
“Oh God, you are my God, eagerly I seek you.”
But it’s not physical death that concerns Jesus. That is not the standard of the quality of our life. Jesus wants to know about our soul, our spirit. And so often we are unclear about the condition of our soul. As Paul says, “if you think you are standing, watch out that you do not fall.”
It’s easy to be confused about how we’re doing spiritually. We can get confused by our opinions of what is good and bad, what is comfortable and what is painful.
Here’s where the fig tree comes in. Now, it’s normal that a new tree does not bear fruit for its first three years. It needs to take root and develop internally before the fruit appears. An inexperienced owner might watch this tree with frustration. He wants fruit! He didn’t plant this tree to watch it grown, he wants fruit! So he’s tempted to get rid of it.
That’s what it’s like to engage in a spiritual practice during Lent and then give it up. So many habits take time to develop, to bear fruit. In the meantime, they are just hard disciplines. We don’t see the point. So we let go, just before the fruit blossoms.
The gardener understands this process. He knows how trees grow, and he knows what they need. He feeds the tree, hoping for fruit.
What does he feed the tree? Manure.
Now, if I were the tree, I might not understand. I imagine the poor tree shaken out of its quiet by this smelly mess that it now stands in. The tree might be saying, “This stinks! Why did this happen to me?” If it could, it would surely step out of the manure and wash itself off. And in so doing, it would deny itself the nourishment it needs.
It’s easy to believe that the comfortable things are the things I need. It’s easy to see painful times as punishment, or persecution, or just plain wrong. This is the flip side of the owner’s point of view. The owner wants the fruit right now. The tree wants to bask in the sun. Neither of them is good at the disciplines that will really bear fruit.
So often it’s the manure times that bring growth. It’s the times when things are hard, when everything hits the fan, when I’ve stepped in it; it’s those times when I grow. But I don’t grow by magic. I only grow if I face those hard times with the disciplines and practices I learn by seeking God.
In Jesus’ upside-down world, it’s easy to get confused. We might think that when times are good it’s because we’re good, because we’re gifted or hard-working or loyal. But it may be that God knows we need help to get through, that we aren’t as strong as some others. We might think that hard times are punishment or testing, but God may be showering smelly love on us. It’s confusing.
It’s not our job to understand. That’s the gardener’s job. It’s our job to grow and bear fruit.
What is that fruit? In the letter to the Galatians, Paul gives us a list:
The fruit of the Spirit is “love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.” (Gal. 5:22-23). He contrasts this with the “works” of the flesh. This is an important distinction. There is no fruit of the flesh, of the self-centered life. There are works: malice, envy, deceit, and the like. They don’t bear fruit, though they bring consequences: usually more of the same.
But the fruit of the Spirit is a gift. It’s a gift that we prepare to receive, even as we can’t force it. We can put down our roots and gather our strength, but the fruit emerges on its own. It often surprises us as much as anyone. When did I stop yelling at other drivers? When did I become gentle, or kind, or patient? It happened, if it happened, when I wasn’t looking at myself.
This is the season to turn, to rely on God, to seek God with all our heart. It begins with the reminder that we are dust, and as we go toward Easter we learn again how fragile life is. We remember Jesus walking into that human frailty without flinching, giving himself to become nourishment for all of us. And in the end, we learn again that every dead end is an avenue leading to God.
May you find yourself blessed this season, as you turn and repent. May you find God’s open arms awaiting you, and see God’s delight in your fruit. May you rejoice as you nourish others in turn.
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