A sermon by Associate Minister Elsa A. Peters, March 7, 2010
Luke 13:6-9
For three years, this man has been waiting for something to happen. He’s impatient – even though it’s rather obvious that he hasn’t paid much attention to this particular fig tree. He owns the vineyard so he didn’t have to do the dirty work himself. Someone else kneeled in the dirt to plant the seeds. Someone else carefully pat those seeds into their new home. Someone else dragged water out there so that this tree could have food. Someone else did all the work. But, three years later, when this vineyard owner finally shows up, he expects something to happen.
When Jesus tells this story to this frustrated and angry crowd of Galileans, he omits the details of how often the vineyard owner returned to check on that fig tree. It doesn’t matter. Instead, Jesus zeroes in on their frustration and gives them an ally. Here he is. The vineyard owner is just as frustrated and angry as the crowd. “See here,” he says in one translation. “Look,” he points out in another. Jesus has already spoken directly to their anger. He’s already told the crowd that they’re no better than anyone else. He’s already told them that it isn’t worth pointing fingers at who did what, but Jesus doesn’t stop in telling them that they are responsible for their own actions. No, he tells them this parable about a vineyard owner who has waited three long years for something as simple as a fig to finally appear on a tree that he had planted in his vineyard.
We might not understand why this fig tree matters, but those frustrated people in the crowd certainly did. They’re good Jews who know very well that if you plant a fig tree (or any other fruit tree), even if it doesn’t yield any fruit in three years, you still let it grow. Why? Because that’s what good Jews do. You’re supposed to let it live because of one critical line in the Book of Deuteronomy. The one that asks,
“Are trees in the field
human beings that they should
come under siege from you?”
This verse reminds us that trees give us food. The tree is connected to our survival. You can’t cut it down. It’s like cutting off your own life. And so the ancient wisdom of Judaism is simply: Let it be.
The vineyard owner doesn’t understand this wisdom. He thinks the soil could be put to better use. He wants to see some fruit actually appear but the gardener, who had planted the tree for this vineyard owner, insists upon this ancient wisdom. “Leave it alone,” he says. “Leave it,” he begs. “Let it alone,” he asks. The gardener tells the vineyard owner that he’ll take care of it. It just needs a little more time, a little more fertilizer, a little more space. Leave it alone, he assures the vineyard owner. Just let it be.
Jesus doesn’t say anything more. That’s where the parable ends. They wouldn’t walk away singing, like you and I might, but there will be an answer. Jesus teaches, just let it be. It might bear fruit or it might not. Either way, Jesus assures us, let it be.
It’s the hardest thing to do because we know how to fix things. When something doesn’t work, we fix it. The answer might not be obvious but we’ll find a way around it. We’ll improve it. We’ll find a way to make it better. You might do it differently than I would, but we’d both find a solution. We’d both figure it out. We wouldn’t just let it be. We have to do something – whether that’s more manure or just digging around it. We’ll figure it out. We’ll make it better. Somehow, it’ll grow. But, that’s not where Jesus ends this little story with a big truth. It doesn’t conclude with an abundance of figs. We know that the seeds have been planted. We know that it has roots, but we don’t know what will happen.
We trust that something will happen. We believe that something will happen as certain as we are that a butterfly will emerge from a cocoon and the sun will rise again – and we’ll do everything that we can to help it along. And yet, Jesus doesn’t tell us not to do anything. The gardener can give it a little more time, a little more fertilizer, a little more space – but this isn’t about the harvest. This isn’t about the sun rising. This isn’t about the butterfly’s transformation. We’re not there yet. “Leave it alone,” the gardener says. Leave it. Let it alone. Just let it be.
The Quaker writer, teacher and activist Parker Palmer knows this frustration. He knows what it’s like to be as frustrated and angry as the crowd. We want to be able to do something. We want someone to be responsible. We want someone to lead. In his own words, Palmer says, “We want to serve the world’s needs, but we burn ourselves out trying to do more than we are able.”
“Leave it alone,” the gardener says. Leave it. Let it alone. Just let it be. This isn’t about the sun or the butterfly or even the tree. This is about you and me because we already know that we can’t do it all. We can’t fix everything. We know that. We want to make the whole world better, but Parker Palmer points to a wisdom that we rarely recall. We heed Jesus’ call to feed the poor, to visit the sick, to reach out to the outcast and to serve the world in whatever way we are called – but we rarely pay much attention to the wisdom Jesus offers us here in the voice of a gardener pleading with a vineyard owner. “Leave it alone,” the gardener says. Leave it. Let it alone. Just let it be.
The gardener understands that this tree is connected to his life. He pleads for its life and then goes out about the ordinary business of taking care of it. He gives it a little more time, a little more fertilizer, a little more space. Isn’t that what we all need? A little more time? A little more space? When will we listen to the wisdom that Jesus offers us here? When will we take care of the greatest gift that Jesus has given us? When will we just let it be?
The season of Lent offers us time to claim this question. In these six weeks, we don’t need to worry about when the sun will rise, how abundant the harvest will be or even how the butterfly will emerge from the cocoon. It will happen. Somehow. It will happen. We believe it will. But, in this few weeks, we’re given the gift of slowing down enough that we can just let it be. So, leave it. Leave it alone. Just let be. If you can’t hear the words of this parable repeated again and again, or even in the invitation to communion, hear it from the poet Derek Wolcott in his poem Love After Love:
The time will come
when, with elation,
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror,
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger that was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself; to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, who you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.