EXPOSING OUR ROOTS

Luke 13:1-9

Lent 3, Year C

March 11, 2007

The Rev. Dr. Keith Dobyns

Sermon preparation seems to me to be different every time I approach it. Some weeks I find it a great joy to share the gospel message. It can feel like I am the waiter in a fine restaurant. I am not the cook, I am not responsible for the food, but I get to bring the food out of the kitchen and serve it to you in this gracious setting.

Other weeks are not like that. Some weeks the meaning and the message of the scripture passage seems elusive, or the passage seems to have changed since last I looked at it. I look at old sermons I have written, I look at commentaries, I look again at the text and I wonder how it has shifted so much. My expectation that I will be able to find the heart of the scripture and bring it forth seems to be overreaching and presumptuous.

We all feel like this at times, whatever our calling. We feel like we have nothing to give. We have no special insight, no special inspiration. We feel unable to feed ourselves, let alone those around us – we feel starved for meaning and we feel stuck inside ourselves. I wonder whether that happens more in Lent – this somber time when we are so aware of our limitations.

When I get stuck finding my way into a scripture lesson I often resort to an approach I learned in seminary. I try taking the identity of each person in the passage of scripture and try it on for fit. What does it feel like to be each of these characters? If it makes me feel awkward or uncomfortable to take on this character there is probably something important to be learned. If it makes me feel smug, or self satisfied, or virtuous there is a different sort of thing to be learned. My reaction to each of the characters can tell me something about the lesson, and perhaps even more about myself.

The parables of Jesus are especially fruitful using this approach. The parables all have twists and reversals that turn things upside down from what we expect. They call us to look at things differently. When we feel off balance in our reading of a parable we may be getting closer to the heart of the story – perhaps even closer than we want to be.

And so I approached the parable of the fig tree this week. I was feeling uninspired, unproductive – unfruitful. I wanted to feel reassured and comforted by the gospel lesson, and I wanted to find and share a message of reassurance.

Let’s listen again to the lesson.

"A man had a fig tree planted in his vineyard; and he came looking for fruit on it and found none.

So he said to the gardener, 'See here! For three years I have come looking for fruit on this fig tree, and still I find none. Cut it down! Why should it be wasting the soil?'

He replied, 'Sir, let it alone for one more year, until I dig around it and put manure on it.

If it bears fruit next year, well and good; but if not, you can cut it down.'"

Let’s try these characters on for size. Let’s imagine ourselves inside each of them, and explore what that feels like.

First is the Landowner. I find myself reactive to this character. Here is a man that takes his ownership for granted. He can look at a tree that had been growing for years, and is not yet fruiting, and simply cut it off at the stump. This is not an archetype of compassion and mercy. Here is a man applying a formulaic expectation to another living thing. This is a man who is perfectly willing to turn a tree into firewood when it does not meet his expectations.

But we know that it was common practice in ancient Israel to let a fig tree grow for three years before assessing its fruitfulness. If there were no figs by then it was considered a dud, a waste of valuable garden space. In an arid land a fruitful garden could not tolerate an unfruitful tree. The health and integrity of the garden requires an aggressive approach. Why should I feel uncomfortable with this?

Second is the Gardener, or vinedresser. Here is a really sympathetic figure. This man has clearly bonded with the fig tree under his charge. “Give it another year” he tells the land owner, “and I will lavish it with special care. I will aerate the soil, and spread manure. Give it another year to become fruitful.”

We all like to identify with the champion of the underdog, of course – it is probably part of our American identity. And we commonly read this parable as the obvious metaphor for Christ’s saving grace and intervention in our lives. We like to identify with Christ, and we like to read this parable as a template for our Christian lives. We will rescue the threatened and unfruitful lives around us; we will fertilize them in the name of Christ. We will give them one more chance.

I agree with this Christian mandate, of course. The people whom I most respect in this life are the ones who have set about selflessly giving of themselves, aerating and fertilizing the lives of those who are needy and barren.

I would like to be this gardener. At times I manage to share that kind of Christian love, and I know many of you whose lives are full of that kind of grace.

But there is a third character here, and it is this character that I must admit my identification with. It is, of course, the tree. There are so many times I feel barren and unfruitful. I have been planted in good soil, and I have been nurtured, but I am stuck inside my own bark. I can not seem to move out of self-absorbed into that fruitful stage of life. And I find myself chastised and filled with self reproach. Here is the character I need to explore. What is it like to be this fig tree?

I can imagine this conversation taking place in my very own shade, between the other two characters in this drama. Does this kind of conversation take place in your head also?

“We’re not getting anything from him.”

“He might still come to something.”

“He is a waste of good soil. He is a waste of air.”

“Look, maybe it’s a long shot, but let’s give him one more year. Let me DIG AROUND HIS ROOTS AND SPREAD SOME MANURE.”

And there I have it, at least for this week, this third Sunday in Lent. If I am to be fruitful I need to let my roots get exposed. I need to trust my gardener to break up the hard baked soil encasing those tender, hidden parts of m, and let the air in. I need to stand accused, to let my foundations be shaken, to feel that I am less firmly planted. All of the energy that I have put into holding onto my place has paralyzed me. My roots can either hold me tightly in place, or they can relax and begin to absorb the rich nurture that is offered.

There is a hard edge to this parable, of course. I believe that in this parable Jesus is loving us with a very hard truth. The gracious offer of the gardener’s care comes only with our acceptance of vulnerability. We have to let Christ into our hearts. We have to let Christ heal our barrenness.

Confession, repentance, and absolution are not easy topics, and they are not necessarily politically correct, but they are the work of the season of Lent. We deal with this parable at this time of year for a reason.

I believe that we hear in this parable an unmistakable call to acknowledge those things that stifle us and make us rigid and unyielding, paralyzed and barren. We confess: not just our sins, but also the many ways that we have been wounded or shamed. We confess the ways that we have been distanced from God and from the fruitful lives that God desires for us.

I believe that we are called in this parable to repent. I believe we are called to let our history be healed by God’s love and nurture. We are called to find ways of making amends for our own sins, and we are called to hold our brothers and sisters accountable. We are called to share the fruit of God’s love through acts of reconciliation.

And I believe that we are offered the experience of absolution. We are offered the absolute assurance that God’s love can overcome our paralysis and remove from us every fear of condemnation. We are offered the promise that God will never condemn us for those human failings that we have turned over to God’s healing love.

During this season of Lent we prepare ourselves by walking with Christ through the experience of wounds and shame. We acknowledge our brokenness and stinginess. We contemplate the love that Christ shares with us by his constant nurture of our souls, and we grow in the faith that we can share the fruit of that love with all the world.

During this season of Lent we prepare ourselves again to be fruitful and joyful plantings of the LORD.

Amen.