Chewing on Figs

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Okay, I’ve been chewing long enough. Three posts have been written and deleted so this is my last ditch effort to make sense of this parable. Another good way to gain understanding when studying Bible passages is to look at the story from the different characters’ point of view. So, here goes.

The owner of the vineyard: God owns the vineyard and He can plant whatever He wants on His property. In fact, He appreciates a little variety and makes room in His field for a totally different plant. He provides all that’s necessary to promote growth and maturity. He checks in regularly to see how it’s going. He watches and waits for fruit, but is patient and willing to give it a reasonable amount of time. When no fruit appears, He allows the vinedresser to give the tree extra attention. But the warning is given: it there’s no fruit, cut it down.

The vinedresser: He is the keeper of the vineyard, not an orchard specialist. Even so, he bargains for time with the owner in hopes of bringing about a harvest. The vinedresser may be a pastor, teacher or spiritual leader. He is willing to put in overtime to tend to this beautiful but barren member. He pleads for the life of the plant before the Owner. His plan is to fertilize by offering another Bible study, planning another retreat, praying harder for another year. Although it is frustrating to let this tree absorb all the nutrients out of the soil, he continues working to get the desired result.

The grape vines: It’s a stretch to consider the vines as “characters”, but humor me. The vines are the producers, the ones actually accomplishing what they were meant to do; the ones you can count on year after year, the faithful bearers. They are probably not happy that a tree is leeching all the nutrients out of the ground, soaking up all their minerals. However, they refuse to produce sour grapes because they desire to please the Owner. Even though their vines are scraggly compared to the tree trunk and their leaves are not as profuse and lush as the tree, they are content to know the will of the Owner and fulfill His purpose for them.

The fig tree: From its earliest days as a sapling, the tree has been given the very best of everything. It has gown up in a safe environment with all the opportunities a fig tree could want. All its needs have been generously met and it has had a good life in the vineyard. From a distance, the tree looks to be healthy and strong.  However, when the Owner looks deeply into its showy leaves and sees there is no fruit, he is deeply disappointed. A stay of execution is given, but at some point, if the tree remains fruitless, it will become firewood.

The man with the baseball bat: (not in the Bible story, but in the diy.com video)  Sometimes the conditions are just too good for a tree’s own good. Hopefully, the man with the bat will come alongside this tree and give it six to eight good whacks to get it thinking. It usually works for me.

Fruit is the point. Fruit is the purpose. And that’s all I have to say about fig trees.

Camping Under a Fig Tree

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There are many ways to create interest and inject life into daily Bible reading. Here are two of my favorites: asking questions of the text, and googling.

Parable: “A man had a fig tree, planted in his vineyard, and he went to look for fruit on it, but did not find any. So he said to the man who took care of the vineyard, ‘For three years now I’ve been coming to look for fruit on this fig tree and haven’t found any. Cut it down! Why should it use up the soil?’ ‘Sir,’ the man replied, ‘leave it alone for one more year, and I’ll dig around it and fertilize it. If it bears fruit next year, fine! If not, then cut it down.'” Luke 13:6-9

First question: Why did the man plant a fig tree in his vineyard? A vineyard is a place for growing grapes, not figs. A tree takes up lots of room. I googled “How to Grow a Fig Tree”, and a gardening site said a fig tree needs 10 feet on all sides cleared. That’s a lot of grape vines. The man must have really wanted some figs.

Second question: Were the man’s expectations realistic? He’d been waiting three years to eat a fig. I googled “Fig Production”, and a fruit tree site said typically a fig tree produces fruit in two years, so it seems reasonable to be looking for something to sink his teeth into by this time.

Third question: Why wasn’t the tree producing any fruit? A vineyard is a carefully cultivated and fertile spot, enriched with all the nutrients it needs to bear a crop. Here’s where it gets good. I googled “How to Make a Tree Bear Fruit” and a diy.com video held the secret. According to the expert, trees that don’t produce fruit  just require some stimulation to get in reproductive mode. “What the tree needs is to feel threatened,” said the expert, (I’m not kidding) “and the tree will think, ‘Uh oh, I’m going to die, so I’d better produce some fruit.'” At this point in the video, the expert picks up a baseball bat and instructs us to “whack it upside the trunk a few times, six or eight times.” After the whacking is demonstrated he assures us that “now the tree knows it is under attack and that’s ok because that will stimulate the production of flowers and fruit next year.”

The man with the baseball bat set me to thinking…

What is the lesson here? Chew on it awhile. What do you think?

Crossword Puzzles

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My dad is 87 years old and beginning to forget things.  He can’t do crossword puzzles anymore and that makes me really sad.  From my earliest days, I remember dad getting out the crossword from the Wisconsin State Journal at night after supper.  He would take a pen out of his front shirt pocket and click it into action.  A pen!  No pencil for my dad, which proved his great intelligence to me.  A 4.0 in his younger days at the university didn’t impress me as much as brandishing a ball point pen and confidently filling in all the little boxes on the paper.   He could work through a puzzle in no time.  I liked sitting there watching him, probably because it got me out of clearing the table or doing the dishes.  But, the smell of the farm on his clothes and the twinkle in his eye and his mastery of words made a complete image of him in my memory.  Sometimes he’d ask me an easy one and sometimes I’d get one right, but I knew I was no match.

In his later years, his daily pleasure was sitting at the breakfast table doing the crossword with his morning coffee.  Sometimes when I called him, our phone conversations revolved around the puzzle and what the hard clues were.  It was something we could talk about together.  What once was a daily pleasure has now become a frustration.

When we visited him in the hospital awhile ago, I noticed he had tried to do the puzzle, in ink of course.  It was on the chair and caught my eye because I had just done that very one the night before.  It also got my attention because it was full of mistakes.  The words going across were appropriate, but inaccurate, which made the words going down senseless.  Honestly, the idea that he might be mixing up his medications, or the fact that he sometimes gets disoriented when out driving, doesn’t bother me as much as the reality that he can’t do crossword puzzles anymore.

I’m 50 years old, and I still can’t get up the nerve to do the daily crossword with a ball point pen.

Take Meat Out to the Ballgame

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Somebody left two raw hamburger patties in the trunk of our car for a week. ( I say” Somebody” because as a mother I must protect the identity and innocence of my youngest son.)  Anyway,  “Somebody” went to a Brewer baseball game and loaded up the cooler with all the makings for a great tailgate party: brats, burgers, onions, tomatoes, ketchup, mustard, sour kraut.   He packed matches, a spatula, paper towels, a small grill – the complete package.  Off he went, down I-94 to Milwaukee and a Friday night at the ballpark.

The car pulled into the driveway late Saturday night, after a fun weekend with friends.  Of course, church was the next morning and then he was off to work for the rest of the day.  The car was due to be at the garage bright and early Monday morning for some repairs.  Unfortunately, the part that needed to be ordered didn’t come in until Friday….and the guy at the garage didn’t get to it until the following Monday….

When we went to pick up the car Monday afternoon, I noticed all the windows were rolled down, which I thought was kind of strange. However, it was a nice warm day so I just dropped off my husband and went on my way, happy to finally be getting the car back after a week.  Evidently, when my hubby got in to drive the car home, he was lambasted with a stench that brought out the green undertones of his skin.  He fought the overwhelming urge to throw up and settled with coughing and gagging all the way home.

What happens when two raw hamburger patties sit in the trunk of a car for ten days, you ask?  Well, when you open the trunk, a swarm of flies engulf your head.  You reel back on your heels because the fumes are so toxic.  When you foolishly open the mini cooler, you are greeted by a mass of slimy slithering maggots.  Yes, maggots.  The leftover onions and tomatoes are swimming in a lethal juice covered with green mold.   The sour kraut is in a bag that has ballooned because of the deadly gas being produced within.  You put on a pair of gloves, take the cooler and all it’s contaminated contents and put it in a black garbage bag, drive to a dumpster behind a gas station on the other side of town after dark, throw it in, and then run for your life.  That night, you have bad dreams.

We aired out the car for a week, driving everywhere with the windows down and the trunk lid up.  Somebody bought four air fresheners – new car smell.  Ha!  They didn’t stand a chance.  I hope Somebody learned his lesson from all of this.  Like, “Unpack the car as soon as you get home or else you might end up with a trunk full of maggots”.  Or, “Don’t become an auto mechanic because you might have to fix a car that smells like rotting meat”.

Biker Babe

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My husband bought me a bicycle last Christmas.  He also bought himself one, with visions of us riding off into the countryside sunset together.  The beautiful new bikes have been sitting in the basement all winter.  The wheels were fastened into a plastic thingy (I don’t know bike lingo yet) so we could pedal away the snowy days while watching television.  I did that once…..or twice.   No, once.

Now that the days are finally longer and warmer, it’s time to bring the bikes upstairs, clip on the helmet and take off.  It’s true that you never forget how to ride a bike.  I hop on and maneuver around the driveway nicely, shifting gears and gripping the brakes.  There is only one problem.   We live on a hill.

No matter if we go north, south, or east, it’s a downhill ride.  (We don’t go west.)  I love flying past the houses in our neighborhood on my cool new bike.  I feel sporty and athletic, which is a new sensation for me.   As I race along I shout over to my husband, “Thanks so much for getting these bikes, honey!  This is so much fun!”  He is beaming.

We coast along for several blocks before leveling off.  Then we pedal along the river pathway, soaking in the sights, smells and sounds of nature.   It is glorious.  And totally flat.  We stop after a while to take our water bottles out of our cool new water bottle holders and take a few sips.  I love this new thing we can do together, I love my husband, I love my bike.

Perhaps being caught up in the exhilarating feel of the wind in my face outweighed common sense.  But realizing the only way home was to climb a mountain made me want to cry.  My honey wouldn’t consider going back by himself  and bringing the car down to pick me up.  I made it one-half of a block before my thighs began to burn.  From now on, I’ve gotta remember: what goes down, must come up.

Dandelions

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This time of year is full of God-breathed lessons of new birth and fresh starts. I think God is trying to teach me something through dandelions this year. Ah, those pesky, populous, perpetually persistent puffballs. Our lawn is full of them. No matter that we mow them down a couple times a week. They just keep popping back up. Even the act of chopping off those stems seems to spread their cottony seeds and create more havoc in our yard. You just can’t deal with dandelions at the surface level. You’ve got to go deep and get at the root.

Now I don’t plan to go out in the front yard and dig up all my dandelions. But I have heard there is such a thing as weed killer that actually seeps down below the surface and kills the taproot without harming the grass. Cool. Maybe we’ll try that. Next year.

I like to think of God’s Word as that powerful force that seeps down into the root of my being. Hebrews 4:12 says, “The Word of God is living and active (potent stuff), sharper than any double-edged sword (or garden trowel), it penetrates (goes deep) even to dividing joints and marrow (gets the bad stuff, leaves the good stuff).

It’s always a struggle to stay intentional about being in the Word. I’ve tried many, many devotionals, Bible reading plans and memory verse techniques. Finding that it doesn’t really matter what I do, as long as I do something, I change it up every so often. I’ve also found that if there is no plan, there’s not much motivation. So putting my open Bible out on the couch before I go to bed at night seems to make me feel that Someone is out there waiting for me in the morning, so I’d better get out of bed.  As my “roots go down deep into the soil of God’s marvelous love” (Eph. 4:17) the weeds will have a tougher time surviving.

How about you? How do you keep it fresh?

For Crying Out Loud

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Have you ever heard of a talking rock? I’ve heard of a pet rock, rock and roll, rock of ages; one of the kids at church even told me, “You rock!” But I’ve never heard an actual rock say anything. They are usually pretty quiet.

As Jesus rode into Jerusalem on a donkey, people became caught up in the moment. They cheered for Jesus, waved palm branches, laid a red carpet. As usual, the Pharisees were tsk-tsk-ing. The church leaders were repulsed by this jubilant show and told Jesus to rebuke his followers. Instead,  Jesus rebuked them! He said, “If the people kept quiet, the stones along the road would burst into cheers!”

Has it ever happened? Have the people God created ever been so silent in their praise for Him that the rocks just have to step in and give a cheer? It did happen, just five days after the Palm Sunday party. Skip ahead to Friday at about 3:00 p.m. The Lamb of God took away the sins of the world, and the Lion of Judah roared from Zion, “It is finished!” Please don’t ever think of those words as a wimpy, defeated, surrendered whisper. Matthew says Jesus shouted those words – a giant, victorious yell!

It was quiet. Aside from a few weeping women and some soldiers milling about, it was deathly quiet. There was no “Hosanna!” or “Halleluia!” from the disciples. In fact, there were no disciples. There was no “Blessed be the name of the Lord!” from the crowd. The crowd had gone home. So the stones cried out. Matthew put it this way: “The earth shook and the rocks split.” The Greek word for rocks is petra, which means BIG rocks or boulders; not pebbles or skipping stones. Rocks were the only part of creation that got it! They heard the victory shout from the cross and couldn’t bear the silence, so they cried out until they split.

May the people of God never be silent! For crying out loud, we can’t be shown up by a pile of rocks when it comes to praising our Risen Savior!

Psalm 59:0

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Before Psalm 59 actually begins, the composer jots down some notes:

For the director of music. To the tune of “Do Not Destroy”. Of David. A miktam. When Saul had sent men to watch David’s house in order to kill him.

This interesting side note is not assigned a verse number, but it sure sets the scene. David is peeking out between the curtains at night and sees King Saul’s gangsters are back again. They are like mad dogs, lurking in the shadows, waiting for a chance to attack. David knows he is on the top of Saul’s hit list and that the thugs are there to assassinate him. 1 Samuel 19:11 verifies the story: “Saul sent men to David’s house to watch it and to kill him in the morning.”

So what does David do? What any man would do in that situation. He picks up his pen and journal and writes lyrics to a song that’s been going through his head all day! Instead of sharpening his sword and forming an escape plan, David writes. He sets down before God everything that is on his mind. “Deliver me! Save me! Protect me!” and “Bring them down! Consume them in your wrath! Show no mercy!” His fear and his desire for revenge pour out in complete honesty. Once all that is off his chest and he has cleared his head, his heart is able to speak: “I sing praise to you; you, O God, are my fortress, my loving God.”

That’s what I love about David. He always comes back around to praise and worship. Even when his house is surrounded by hit men sent by the king, he finds a song to sing. Even when his life is in utter chaos, David is confident in his God.

I need to remember David’s example when all my worries howl at me in the night and nip at my heels. After I’ve cried and complained to God, I need to remember to come back around and wrap it all up with praise. And when I can’t come up with praise-filled words of my own, I’ll borrow some from David.

Bunny Blood

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Bunny Blood probably isn’t the best title, being so close to celebrating Easter and all. But that’s what this story is about.

When I was ten years old, I was sure that I wanted to grow up to be a veterinarian. Living on a farm, there were plenty of cats and dogs and bunnies to care for. One spring I had 2 rabbits that quickly turned into 32 bunnies, giving me a classic farm girl lesson on reproduction. That summer I found a sickly little abandoned baby raccoon and tried with all my might to nurse it back to health. Bandit, the raccoon, would drink formula from a doll’s bottle. His little clawed feet would wrap around my fingers as he sucked away. Unfortunately, the little critter didn’t recover and there was a funeral service in the pet cemetery.

When my 4-H club offered a Veterinary Science project, I signed right up. The meetings would be held in a real vet’s office in town and I was positive this was the start of my future career. The night of the first class arrived and my mom dropped me off. I noticed most of the other kids were a lot older but I was excited! A real vet’s office! With all kinds of cute dogs and cats and bunnies! In fact, the first animal the vet brought out was a white rabbit; it looked a lot like the one in my hutch at home. The doctor was pointing out all the body parts and I was right up in front, eagerly following along.

The frantic look in the eyes of that cute bunny should have tipped me off. Or maybe I should have read the description of this class more carefully the day I signed up. A realization slowly came over me. As the vet arranged various sharp utensils on his tray, I began to sweat. The impending doom of what was about to happen made me dizzy and I backed up behind a bigger kid. All of a sudden, the bunny murderer committed his crime. As the now lifeless rabbit lay on the table and the fluffy white fur began to soak up the red blood, the room started spinning. I stumbled out.

I went outside and sat on the steps of the vet’s office and cried. While all the other kids were inside learning about the heart and lungs and digestive system of small mammals, I was crying my eyes out. I never went back to that class and I never talked about being a veterinarian again.

There’s something about seeing the blood. It makes some of us cringe, others pass out. I’ve seen a few very graphic films on the crucifixion of Jesus. It’s still the blood that makes me cry. The blood of the lamb on the doorposts, the blood of the Lamb on the cross – such a high price to pay. His life for mine. It’s a good thing that the Easter story doesn’t end with the cross and a bloody Savior. A resurrected Lord with a new, cleaned-up body is what gives me hope for my sin-stained heart.

What can wash away my sin? Nothing but the blood of Jesus

What can make me whole again? Nothing but the blood of Jesus.

The Letter

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A few weeks ago, when I went out to the mailbox to get the mail, tucked between the credit card offers and the bills, there was a letter. It was an actual handwritten letter on real paper. I hadn’t received one of those in a very long time. I get lots of emails each week and text messages every day, but a handwritten letter is pretty rare and I felt honored to have one in my hands.

I started thinking about letters that I have saved over the years; love letters from my husband, special cards from friends, and summer camp postcards from the kids. I have a box of letters my dad wrote home to his parents during WWII. Those 965 yellowed pages tell an amazing story and are so precious to me. I don’t get too nostalgic deleting old emails or texts, but there’s just something about hand-written letters that seems worth preserving.

Paul wrote to the Corinthians, “You are a letter from Christ, written not with ink but with the Spirit of the Living God.” We are letters to those around us, meant to be personal and with a story to share. I expect some days I am more like junk mail, delivering my bad mood or selfishness to those around me. Other days I may be more like an annoying unpaid bill, pointing out what someone owes me or keeping track of others’ wrongs. Sometimes I’m short and hurried and come off as an impersonal text or email.

Jesus wants us to be the letters; the special, personal, keepsake-type. Like it or not, we are “known and read by everybody” (2 Corinthians 3:2). So, it really does matter what kind of message we are delivering.