Cursing the Tree

Cursing the Tree

Matthew 21:18-22

March 1, 2020 • Mount Pleasant UMC

Let’s imagine for a moment if someone stood up outside the White House in Washington and raised a megaphone to shout something like this: “I have come to bring fire on the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled!” (Luke 12:49). What do you suppose would happen? Especially if nearby they had a blowtorch, they would likely be tackled, the megaphone would be taken away, they would be arrested and dragged off to a psych unit somewhere. And that’s just for starters! Well, I don’t know if you realize it or not, but those are actually words from Jesus, recorded in Luke 12. It’s in the middle of a section where Jesus is talking about the end of the world while at the same time telling his disciples not to worry, he’s got this. He’s also talking about how his presence brings divisions, even to families, and in the midst of that is this strange statement about burning up the earth. It’s a rather strange and somewhat terrifying image, wouldn’t you say? “I have come to bring fire on the earth!” But it’s not the only time in the Gospels when Jesus says or does something that makes us go, “Huh?”

During this Lenten season, we’re going to be looking at several of those occasions, some of Jesus’ most outlandish acts and statements, in this series we’re calling, “Jesus Behaving Badly.” On Wednesday night, we began by talking about how everyone likes Jesus—as long as he does what they think he should do. We have this tendency to create Jesus in our own image, and we would honestly very much appreciate it if he would stay that way, if he would be the way we want him to be and say what we want him to say. But Jesus has a tendency to bust out of pretty much any box we try to put him in. He doesn’t conform to our parameters; he doesn’t abide by our rules. That’s what we’re going to look at between now and Easter: basically the ways in which Jesus is not who we expect (or even want) him to be. And this morning, we’re going to begin with two stories that both involve destruction of God’s good creation.

I’ll get to the story we read this morning in a few moments, but I want to start with a related story over in Matthew 8, a story about bacon. Well, not bacon, exactly, but pigs. And demons. Pigs and demons. What more could you ask for from a good bedtime story? Jesus is “across the lake.” He is not in Jewish territory; you can tell because there are pigs there, which are considered unclean animals for Jews. So, if you go with me next year to Israel, you will have to do without bacon for ten days. Pastor Rick survived it, and so can you. (Yes, that is another shameless plug.) But back to the other side of the lake: as Matthew tells it, Jesus encounters two demon-possessed men who are living in the tombs, and right away the demons inside the men know that Jesus has come to cast them out. They beg him to not destroy them, but to send them into the pigs which are feeding nearby. And so Jesus does. The demons inhabit the pigs, and the pigs (which Matthew says is a “large herd”) run down the hill, into the lake, and they drown. When the nearby town finds out about it, they come and they ask Jesus to leave. I used to think that it was because they were afraid of what Jesus had just done, but I don’t think that’s really it. I think it’s because Jesus is destroying their economy. The pigs were undoubtedly a source of income for a lot of people in the area, and these dead, drowned pigs are of no use to them. “Get out of here, Jesus,” the people might have said. “We can’t afford for you to stay around if you’re going to keep destroying the things we use to support our families!” And so Jesus leaves in a boat, no doubt having to dodge dead pigs on his way back to the other side of the lake.

The question is: why did Jesus allow the pigs to die? The commentaries all like to point out that Jesus didn’t actually kill the pigs, that the demons did that, but I have to wonder: didn’t Jesus know what would happen when he allowed the demons to go into the pigs? And maybe the even bigger question here: what happened to the demons when the pigs died? I don’t know a lot about demons, but I don’t think you can drown them. So where did they go? Well, that question I can’t answer, but I want you to keep this story in mind as we move to the text we actually read this morning, another strange story of Jesus interacting with his father’s world.

It’s the last week of Jesus’ life—as Matthew tells it, it’s Monday morning, to be exact. Yesterday was what we know as Palm Sunday, when Jesus entered the city of Jerusalem on a donkey and tore up the Temple, turning over the tables of the money changers. (We’ll actually look at that story by itself in a few weeks.) That night, he left the city and stayed overnight in Bethany, probably with his friends Mary, Martha and the newly-raised-from-the-dead Lazarus. Early on Monday morning, Jesus heads back to the city where he has a long day ahead of him teaching and interacting with people. Now, I don’t know if Martha slept in on this morning and didn’t cook breakfast, or if the sisters were out of Frosted Falafel Flakes, but Jesus is hungry as he heads back over the Mount of Olives and he spies a fig tree. Now, I’m not much of a fig or a date eater (though I do like fig newtons, and now I’m hungry for fig newtons, but I digress…), but I will tell you that in Israel, the fresh figs and fresh dates are fantastic. So I don’t blame Jesus for going to try to find fresh figs on the tree. However, Matthew says there was nothing on the tree but leaves. That’s when we learn that Jesus is not just hungry; he’s hangry. Hungry + angry = hangry. Jesus curses the tree: “May you never bear fruit again!” And, Matthew says, immediately the tree withered. Now, here’s the weird part: according to Mark, “it was not the season for figs” (Mark 11:13). That’s why there were only leaves; it’s spring, the beginning of the growing season. So Jesus cursed a tree for not having any figs and it wasn’t the tree’s fault. The tree was just doing what it was supposed to do at that time of year. So what is going on here? Most of Jesus’ miracles are life-giving; this is his only destructive miracle (cf. Card, Matthew: The Gospel of Identity, pg. 187). Is Jesus having a bad Monday? Is his blood sugar low? Is he throwing some kind of fit? Is this an example of divine power wasted because of a bad temper (cf. Strauss, Jesus Behaving Badly, pg. 63-64)?

We’ll come back to those questions in a moment, but I want to draw these two stories together because both of these have, from time to time, been seen as strange acts of destruction, unbecoming to one who was otherwise a wise and kind teacher. More than that, some interpreters throughout history (and even in modern times) have seen these as indicating a general disregard for the goodness of creation. In other words, some people will say that since Jesus obviously didn’t care what happened to creation, then neither should we. Since Jesus saw no value in plants or animals, neither should we (cf. Strauss 69). And the church has not always had a great reputation when it comes to caring for God’s creation. I have heard people say that since Genesis says we are to “subdue” the earth, that means we can do whatever we want with it (cf. Genesis 1:28). Sometimes the church has said things like, “It’s all going to burn anyway,” or “When Jesus comes back he’s going to destroy this world and start over with a new one, so why bother taking care of the earth?” (cf. Strauss 70). Passages like these, then, become support for disregarding the creation.

However, as I tell you often, we have to take the whole of Scripture into consideration when we’re trying to understand strange stories, especially these stories of Jesus behaving badly. We need to know the overall message of Scripture in order to really understand what Jesus is up to in specific incidents like this. One concept that plays into all of this thinking is stewardship. We are called to be stewards, from the very beginning of God’s story. In Genesis, when humankind is created, we’re told that human beings are supposed to “rule” over creation, but that word does not have the sense of “exploit” or even “use badly.” It’s royal language; we’re to “rule” over creation the way a good king or queen would do so. Throughout the Scriptures, the expectations of any ruler includes compassion, care, and being the champion of the disadvantaged. The overriding image for one who “rules” in this way is that of a servant; it’s why Jesus, just a few days after the fig tree incident, will kneel down and wash his disciples’ feet, telling them that this is how they are to treat each other (cf. John 13:1-17; Hamilton, The Book of Genesis, Chapters 1-17 [NICNT], pgs. 139-140). We’re called to “rule” over creation by caring for it, by being stewards and taking care of that which God has entrusted to us—his creation. It’s like when we go away for a trip and we ask someone to take care of our dog, Hershey. We expect that the caregiver will be kind to Hershey, feed her, walk her, care for her needs. We don’t expect that the caregiver will abuse her or hurt her. We expect that the caregiver, who is in charge, will take care of her the way we would because that person is not the owner but a steward. We do not “own” creation; we are stewards, called to care for creation the way God would.

Addressing the other idea (that it’s all going to burn anyway, so why not exploit it), we have to go to the other end of Scripture, to the book of Revelation. In this vision that John experienced on the island of Patmos, there are a lot of things happening, but the end, the climax, is a passage I often read at funerals because of its strong word of hope. John writes, “I saw ‘a new heaven and a new earth,’ for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away…” (21:1). That is, honestly, an unfortunate translation, but it’s the one we’re used to, and it’s easy to understand how we get from that to “let it all burn.” If this earth is going to be destroyed, who cares what happens to it in the meantime? But that is a misunderstanding of what John actually sees and says. As N. T. Wright, one of the world’s top Biblical scholars, helps us see, the word John uses for “new” does not mean what you think it means. It’s not like we threw out an old item and went to Wal-mart to buy a replacement for it. The closest translation might be “renewed,” although that’s not exactly right either. But John is not saying God is going to scrap what he originally created and start over. John is saying God is making all things new—the same thing the prophet Isaiah said centuries before (cf. Isaiah 43:18)! John sees God’s realm of existence and ours coming together, merging. It’s the image of a marriage; when two people come together, their old lives are not destroyed but they are put behind them. Something new has come. It’s not that this earth will be destroyed; it will be renewed, made the way God intended from the first. God loves this world and it matters. God will make all things new (cf. Wright, Surprised by Hope, pls. 104-106).

So from Genesis to Revelation, there is a clear message to us about the creation, about our world. First of all, it’s not ours; it belongs to God. He made it for us to live in, but he did not make it for us to use, abuse and throw away. We are his stewards, not the owners. And second, since God’s work is to make it all new, to renew the world, shouldn’t we join in on God’s work? Shouldn’t it be our calling as well to care for the creation and, when we can, do what we can to help renew it? There are simple things we can all do to co-operate with God: recycle, reduce the amount of energy we use, repair things we use rather than replace, combine trips so that we use less fuel—you can undoubtedly think of other ideas in your own daily life. But when we refuse to participate in God’s work of renewing the world, we might as well be cursing the tree.

Which, of course, brings us back to the story in our Scripture passage this morning. If this story is not about Jesus’ disregard for creation (because Jesus would not act in a way contrary to the message of Scripture), then what it is about? As I remind you often, we have to take this story in context, and as Matthew tells it, Jesus is between trips to the Temple. On Sunday, he threw out the money changers so that the Temple would become a house of prayer again. On Monday, he’s headed back there to teach where his authority will be questioned and he will be challenged over and over again by those who believe they are protecting the religious tradition. In between those instances, Jesus finds a fig tree that is meant to produce fruit but does not, or at least isn’t right now. It reminds him of the Temple, which is meant to produce fruit, faith in the people, but it is not. Instead it has become all about show—leaves—rather than helping people know God better. When religious leaders look at miracles and see only broken rules, something is wrong. This cursing of the fig tree is a lived-out parable, a story of judgment on the Temple. As one author put it, “It’s not about the tree, and it never was” (Card 187). It’s about the failure to be fruitful.

And that has been Jesus’ message all along. This life he came to bring is not about just saying a prayer and “getting in” to the kingdom. It’s about the way we live and the way we reproduce the faith we have been given. He calls us (as individuals and as a church) to be fruitful, to not just have “leaves” for show, not just have a good image or a religious appearance. It’s about whether or not Jesus can look at our lives and see fruit. Are we doing what we were created to do? Fifteen years ago, when we moved into the parsonage in Portage, I discovered the previous pastor had planted a grapevine in the back yard. Pastor Mary told me it was about three years old and that year she thought it should start producing grapes. I knew nothing about growing grapes (still don’t), but I was excited about the possibility of fresh grapes. I even had visions of making grape juice for communion at the church! Just call me Mr. Welch! So that first summer I checked the vines frequently and do you know how many grapes I got? None. Not a single grape grew that year, or the next, or the next. Those vines were excellent at growing leaves, but they did not grow a single grape, season after season after season. Finally, after several years of no freshly squeezed grape juice, I’d had enough. I tore out those vines and cut it all the way back to the ground. I was done being a grape-grower. Then I left for two weeks to go to Israel, and do you know what I found when I came back? More vines and more leaves. I think in those two weeks those vines came back bigger and stronger than ever before! And still no grapes! I’m not sure if the vines are still growing or not, but I do know this: they were useless because they didn’t do what they were created to do. Had I the power, I would have said, “May you never bear fruit again!” And not because I hate creation, but because the vines failed to be what God had created them to be. And that whole story is amusing, maybe, but to me it’s also scary because I know that, if I fail to be who God created me to be, if I am unfruitful, he might say the same thing to me.

God is in the renewal business, and he is making all things new. And one day, when his work is done, there will be a huge feast in the renewed kingdom of God, when heaven and earth become one. Revelation 19 pictures an event called “the wedding supper of the Lamb,” when Jesus and the church are finally together, when earth and heaven are one. I don’t know what that’s going to be like, or what they’re serving (Pastor Rick is sure there will be fried chicken there), but I do know that on the last night Jesus was on earth, he gave us a foretaste when he changed the rules of an ancient Jewish festival. The Passover had been celebrated as far back as Moses, and it was one of those things that used to draw people closer to God but had become something rote. So Jesus takes the meal and he changes the script, the meaning. The bread becomes his body. The wine becomes his blood. And all of it is meant to remind us not just of what he did on the cross but also of the hope we have that one day, all this will be made new and we will be with him. So as we come to the table this morning, remember this truth: he is making all things new!