The Fig Tree That Didn’t Care

July 7, 2025 - Luke 13:1–9

It began with blood on the temple floor.

A riot. A Roman order. A flash of steel in sacred space. Pilate’s soldiers cut through Galilean worshipers like wheat in harvest, their blood pooling beneath the altar, mixing with the lambs’ sacrifice until you couldn’t tell the difference.

Some rushed to Jesus with the news. It wasn’t sorrow that brought them, it was the itch to speculate.

“Did you hear what happened to them?”

They wanted was analysis. What they got was judgment.

“Unless you repent, you will all likewise perish.”

No condolences. Just the blunt edge of truth. Jesus wasn’t interested in eulogies. He came to break death’s grip.

What God Requires, and We Resist

We throw the word around like it’s quaint. Repent. It lives in old hymns and revival posters. But when Jesus says it, it’s not quaint. It’s catastrophic.

Repentance is not tears. Anyone can cry when life falls apart. It’s not confession. Judas confessed and then hanged himself. True repentance sees and moves.

Two eyes: one looks inward and is sickened; the other looks upward and is saved. Two feet: one steps away from sin; the other walks toward the mercy of Christ.

On the day of Pentecost, the crowd listened to Peter as if the sky were on fire. Their hearts split open. “What shall we do?” they asked. Peter had no formula. Just a command: Repent.

Repentance is not a performance. It’s a funeral and a birth all at once. The man who repents stands over the grave of his former self and walks into the arms of the risen Christ.

Yes, it is a gift…God grants it. But it is also a summons. A man drowning may be handed a rope, but he still must grab it. The hand of heaven stretches out, but it does not drag the unwilling into life.

A Tragedy and a Tower

Jesus then brings up another incident. A tower in Siloam. Eighteen crushed under falling stone. No warning. No mercy. Eighteen bodies in a pile of dust.

“Do you think they were worse sinners?”

His listeners are quiet. We know the answer too, but we don’t say it aloud. Because somewhere inside us, we do think it. When tragedy strikes someone else, we whisper, Maybe they deserved it. Maybe God was teaching them a lesson.

Jesus silences that instinct with four words: I tell you, no.

This isn’t about them. It’s about you. And me. And every soul still breathing.

We stare at death like it’s a documentary about someone else. Jesus grabs the remote and turns the camera on us. What if the tower falls on you?

The Tree That Took and Gave Nothing

And then, the story. A fig tree, planted in good soil, nestled inside a vineyard that didn’t even belong to it. Year after year, the owner walked to it, hope in his eyes. He parted its leaves, searching for even one fig. Year after year, nothing. Just shade. Just occupation. No sweetness. No nourishment. No fruit.

“Cut it down,” he said.

But before the axe was swung, another voice spoke. The gardener. The intercessor.

“Let me work it one more year. Let me break the ground. Let me pour fertilizer. Let me plead with its roots. And if it still bears nothing, then cut it down.”

Jesus stops the story there. No conclusion. No update. Just silence. Because the next line is ours to write.

The Weight of Unused Grace

That tree is not a metaphor for pagans in distant places. It is a mirror held to the people of God. Those who know His name. Those who sit under His word. Those who wear crosses and scroll verses and say grace before meals.

That fig tree is the Sunday churchgoer whose Bible is clean and conscience is not. The child of privilege who received prayers, Bibles, sermons, podcasts, and still has not changed.

God has every right to expect fruit. He planted you in a vineyard called grace. He watered you with truth. He shaded you with mercy. And if you bear no fruit, He doesn’t need to invent a reason to cut you down. He only needs to stop holding back the blade.

Mercy With Dirt Under Its Fingernails

But this is the wonder. The gardener doesn’t plead for endless time. He pleads for one more year. Not out of ignorance. Out of mercy.

He will dig. He will kneel in the dirt with blistered hands and work the soil around your stubborn heart. He will pour fertilizer that stinks of suffering and grace. He will wait and plead and water. But He will not wait forever.

The axe leans against the wall. It hasn’t swung yet. But it is sharp.

What If the Year Is Now?

If your heart has grown numb to sin, you are already dying. If you are more interested in how others fall than in whether you’ve ever truly stood, you are closer to judgment than you think.

So let me ask without poetry:

Have you repented?

Not: Did you pray a prayer once? Not: Did you feel sad in a service? Not: Do you agree with Christian doctrine?

I mean: Have you felt your sin rot inside you and cried out for the only One who can make you new? Have you turned? Are you turning?

Because trees that only take and never give eventually fall.

And when they fall, they do not rise.

The Gardener Is Still Working

You are not dead yet. That means mercy still breathes near your roots.

But do not presume. Mercy isn’t soft. Mercy is a man with scars on His hands, digging around your hardened heart.

Turn. Now. Not later. Not when the kids grow up. Not after the next raise. Not when the guilt feels stronger. Now.

The axe waits. The gardener pleads. The vineyard is quiet.

What will your tree do?

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