Some days when ministry is hard and progress seems slow, I daydream about what non-congregational jobs I might enjoy. This light-hearted escapism is mostly just a coping mechanism, but here are some of the things on my list: open a shave ice stand on the south side of the island of Kauai and give paddleboard lessons on the side; reinvent traditional travel agency services to curate surprise travel experiences (you give me a budget, a radius, and some likes/dislikes, and I’ll do the rest); run a cute, well-branded ice cream truck with decent music that also offers booze-y milkshakes for grown-ups; and last-but-not-least (and probably the one I’ve spent the most time actually considering): become a small-scale flower farmer.
Because I’m a nerd who still loves to hold and turn and read from 
actual pages, I’ve bought several books about flower farming over the last five or six years. But in true millennial fashion, my primary source of learning about this endeavor has been Instagram. You see, I follow quite a few flower farmers on the photo and video-based social media platform (I stopped counting when I got to 65…), and I get to live vicariously through them as they go about their daily work.
What I’ve learned is that flower farmers are keen observers and hard workers; each day they’re watching and waiting; tending and nurturing; co-creating with dirt and with God. In many ways, that feels like the call of the Lenten season. And it feels like the call of today’s texts, as well.
In our reading from Luke, Jesus tells us a parable. And y’all know I love a good parable, because they resist easy interpretation and ask us to open our imaginations. Today’s parable of the fig tree is no different.
At face value, the parable seems straightforward: a vineyard owner strolls across his farm to his fig tree looking for fruit; when he discovers that the tree is bare for a third season, he calls his gardener and insists that the tree be cut down. “Why should it continue depleting the soil’s nutrients?” It’s taking up space and resources, and the vineyard owner isn’t reaping any benefits, so he’s ready to cut his losses and cut down the tree.
The gardener, though, has a different idea: “give it one more year, and I will dig around it and give it fertilizer. Maybe it will produce fruit next year; if not, then you can cut it down.”
Y’all, I have so many questions about this story. The vineyard owner definitely knew the tree hadn’t born any fruit yet; did the gardener? If the gardener had noticed the bare tree, had they tried any additional care-taking measures before now? Why or why not? How come the vineyard owner and the gardener aren’t on the same page about what to do? What did the vineyard owner say about giving the tree one more year and some additional attention and care? Did the fig tree produce fruit the next year? What was its fate??
The other question I often have about parables like this is who are we in the story? As individuals, as a community of faith, as part of the wider, ecumenical church…who are we? Where do we show up?
- Are we the vineyard owner, decisive about taking drastic action when faced with a pattern of fruitless seasons without growth?
- Are we the gardener, a patient tend-er and creative nurture-er, committing more time and energy and resources to the care and flourishing of the fruitless fig?
- Are we the barren fig, seemingly healthy and stable, but struggling to generate good, sweet fruit with the nutrients available to us?
I think these are powerful questions for our Lenten reflection.
The other vivid imagery we encounter today comes from the prophet Isaiah. This portion of the text “invites [the Jewish exiles of Israel who are] living outside of Judah in the sixth century B.C.E., at the dawn of Persian rule, to uproot themselves, move to a land their generation never knew, and reclaim their ancestral home…Here in chapter 55 the poet imagines repatriation as welcome to a bountiful feast of satisfying foods, hosted by none other than God” (PT).
All of you who are thirsty, come to the water!
Whoever has no money, come, buy food and eat!
Without money, at no cost, buy wine and milk!
Why spend money for what isn’t food,
and your earnings for what doesn’t satisfy?
Listen carefully to me and eat what is good;
enjoy the richest of feasts.
Listen and come to me;
listen, and you will live.
It is a deeply moving, glorious image, indeed. But the reality that the returning Israelite exiles were experiencing was much different. “The opening verses, with their appeal to those who do not have money to buy bread and the basic needs of life, would probably have been quite relevant to [them]. Despite the allowance of Cyrus and the Persian Empire for them to return, it was not a prosperous time. The city had not been rebuilt since its destruction by the Babylonians fifty years earlier, social and economic structures were weak, and there were struggles for the most desirable land between the returnees and those who had been in the land in the meantime” (CBH).
Given the modern struggles and sufferings of our neighbors near and far, I can’t help but feel caught in the tension between God’s call for abundant, feasting, communal life and the realities of isolated, bare, fruitless fig trees.
- Families worldwide displaced from their homes and livelihoods by violence (but especially in Gaza).
- Single parents working more than 40 hours a week who are still unable to support their families without a living wage.
- People of color existing in fear while they drive to work or walk through their neighborhood or gather for bible study.
- Students afraid for their safety at school amidst our nation’s epidemic of gun violence.
- Those in need of medical and mental healthcare who are turned away from life-saving treatment and care because they are uninsured or unhoused.
- The still-steady drumbeat of white Christian nationalism which continues to threaten to our democracy.
These are only a handful of the fruitless fig trees that need tending. But God’s call is to abundant life for all. So in the face of such realities, what is our response as people of faith? Do we abdicate responsibility, cut our losses, and walk away? Do we use up all our resources for ourselves without bearing fruit in the world? Or do we commit to intentional care and nurture?
My plans aren’t your plans,
nor are your ways my ways, says the Lord.
Just as the heavens are higher than the earth,
so are my ways higher than your ways,
and my plans than your plans.
As one preacher notes, “The bold exhortation embedded in [Isaiah’s] thrice-repeated imperative verb “come … come … come” is to choose well. Come to the water; come to the banquet; come buy without money. In other words, don’t take what has value and waste it on nothing. Don’t settle for what doesn’t feed; take only what is good. This theme of choice permeates the whole passage…A clear distinction is made between seeking God’s ways and failing to seek them. Because God’s ways are so radically different from human ways, because God’s thoughts are not human thoughts, they won’t be found by any other means than through this Godward journey.” (PT).
Friends, the choice is before us each day. Our ways or God’s ways. The Lenten season invites us to reflect deeply on ourselves and the world in which we live. It is a time of intention and hard work. Alongside today’s texts, Lent calls us to pay attention, to see clearly the divide between famine and feast, between fruitlessness and abundance, between death and new life. We are given a new vision for all people and all nations.
Today’s texts and the Lenten season also call us to respond to what we notice. To show up. To nurture. To care for. To fertilize. To build up. To tend. To make manifest God’s new reality.
Indeed, dear ones, we are called today to be gardeners, to be flower farmers and fig-growers, keen observers and hard workers who use our resources to cultivate the common good, responding the needs of our most vulnerable neighbors so that ALL might be nourished and indeed flourish. May we be watching and waiting; tending and nurturing; co-creating with others and with God. This day and each day. Amen.