Isaiah 24:1-13
Luke 13:1-9
The prophet Isaiah takes us into broken urban places:
The city of chaos is broken down,
every house is shut up so that no one can enter….
Desolation is left in the city,
the gates are battered into ruins.
And so that we don’t get the impression that the countryside is not also broken, Isaiah also gives this picture:
The earth dries up and withers,
the world languishes and withers;
the heavens languish together with the earth.
The earth lies polluted under its inhabitants;
City and countryside, heaven and earth—all languishing together.
All experiencing judgment in the broken places.
What a wonderful text for Lent! It is filled with the gloom and despair associated with this season in the popular imagination.
But if we walk together into the broken city—and if we listen to Jesus’ parable from the broken countryside—we will discover hope even in judgment.
As I pondered those words of Isaiah, I was struck by the difference between the prophet’s vision and the reality of our city.
Iowa City has been undergoing a transformation, a renaissance some would say, over the last five to ten years. We recovered from the flood of 2008 in a spectacular way—the architectural marvels of Hancher and Voxman are prime examples. Other new buildings and new businesses rise up around us Downtown and on the near North Side. And it is as though we took caution from Isaiah’s vision of a languishing, polluted earth as both the city and the university constantly seek ways to be more sustainable, more earth friendly.
With a place like Iowa City, is it any surprise that U.S. News recently named Iowa the best state in the nation?
Scholars aren’t sure which city Isaiah has in mind. It might be Babylon, the locus of evil in the prophet’s view. It might be Jerusalem, the very center of the reign of God. Or it could, perhaps be any city that knows chaos and brokenness.
Certainly many cities in our own nation, our own state fit that description. And, let’s face it, we know that even Iowa City is not the City of God. Hunger, homelessness, the desperation of poverty are constant companions to many. The weekdays at this church give new evidence—if any is needed—of the brokenness of this town.
The chaos of the earth that Isaiah describes is also readily apparent in the polluted waterways of this, the best state in America. The heavens and earth languish—or writhe—under the rapidly increasing climate change that we refuse to address.
What might all of this mean?
It means judgment.
And Isaiah is clear at the start: judgment is a great equalizer.
It will be the same
for priest as for people,
for master as for servant,
for mistress as for maid,
for seller as for buyer,
for borrower as for lender,
for debtor as for creditor.
It will be the same for all.
Jesus speaks out of this tradition when he responds to the report of tragedies that came to him.
There are no records of these events outside of Luke’s gospel. Lost in the distant past are two examples of evil in the world.
One is human—Galileans slain by Pilate. Why did this happen to them?
The other is a natural disaster—the residents of Jerusalem killed when a tower collapsed and fell on them. Why did this happen to them?
There is a comforting lie that tells us: “You are better than they are.” The lie tells us “These people were worse sinners than you.”
Bad things happen to bad people.
That seems right.
Jesus turns all this on its head.
Instead of a safe discussion of the sins of other people, of them, Jesus turns the focus on us.
“Do you think,” Jesus asks, “that they were worse sinners?”
As we get ready to answer he continues: “No, but unless you repent, you will all perish, just as they did.”
It will be the same.
Many in this congregation have been reading and discussing The New Jim Crow, Michelle Alexander’s disturbing book about mass incarceration and the ways in which our criminal justice system functions as a system of racial control. The ongoing “War on Drugs,” in particular, has targeted African American men and decimated communities of color.
Alexander says: “The notion that a vast gulf exists between ‘criminals’ and those of us who have never served time in prison is a fiction created by the racial ideology that birthed mass incarceration, namely that there is something fundamentally wrong and morally inferior with ‘them.’ The reality, though, is that all of us have done wrong. …Studies suggest that most Americans violate drug laws in their lifetime.....Yet only some of us will be arrested, charged, convicted of a crime, branded a criminal or felon, and ushered into a permanent undercaste. Who becomes a social pariah and excommunicated from civil society and who trots off to college bears scant relationship to the morality of crimes committed.”
Alexander’s words seem to echo those of Jesus when she concludes: “Screwing up—failing to live by one’s highest ideals and values—is part of what makes us human.”
“Do you think that they were worse sinners?”
The axe is poised at the trunk of the tree, even as we stand around pointing at others.
The truth is harsh. But it carries the grace of God.
What if Jesus told us what we’d like to hear, what we so often think? “Yes, those people were worse sinners than you?”
We would feel good for a while. We would breathe a sigh of relief. We would have a faith that recognized our nationality, our virtue, our intelligence, our income, our cleverness.
But before long, we would begin to wonder: How soon before I slip? How long until I, too, am crushed by some tower?
Michelle Alexander says that: “Urging the urban poor—or anyone—to live up to their highest ideals and values is a good thing, as it demonstrates confidence in the ability of all people to stretch, grow, and evolve.” And I think that as people of faith we must always hold to that possibility and that reality.
But, Alexander says we need to remember that all of us, those in predominantly white congregations and those locked in prisons and ghettos, all of us are “merely human.” What passes for justice, however, “rounds up people for crimes that go ignored on the others side of town and ushers them into a permanent second class status.”[i]
In broken places our judgment and our justice are also broken.
By saying we’re all in the same situation, by saying that we are all under the same judgment, Jesus also offers a way through.
God is the judge of our very being. And God offers all of us the chance to turn around. The religious word for this is repentance—a good Lenten word—but it is about the call to walk in a new path.
So we can hear the parable of the fig tree with new ears, with new hearts.
The problem with fig trees is that they absorb an especially large amount of nourishment from the soil. Why anyone would plant such a tree in a vineyard is beyond me. Over time a fig tree begins to rob the vines of sustenance.
This might not be a major problem if the tree bears fruit.
Now, this particular fig tree had been there for about six years, growing in the sun, drawing nourishment from the soil, putting out leaves—but producing no fruit. No one expected the tree to bear fruit for the first three years after it was planted. But three more years passed—and still no figs!
The natural response would be: “Cut it down!”
Harsh words—but they make good sense.
And yet we hear something more, something filled with grace.
The gardener responds to the demand to cut down the tree with a request: leave the tree alone for one more year. Let me dig around it, loosening the soil, providing more nourishment to the roots. Then we’ll see if next year it produces fruit.
Those words exhibit a sense of mercy that we desire in our lives and in our world. What student is not relieved when his request for more time to finish a paper is granted? Who of us does not rejoice when she learns that the report due on Friday won’t be needed until Monday?
We would like to receive mercy and show mercy. We would like to receive grace and give grace.
It will be the same…
Then just as we begin to breathe a sigh of relief, Jesus ends the parable with the gardener agreeing, “And if it still doesn’t produce fruit, you can cut it down.”
You can cut it down.
That is to say, the paper better be finished within a week; the report better be in the office on Monday morning.
Or else…
Cut it down.
The ending that Jesus gives this story is harsher than the ending we might create. But at the same time it offers more grace than we might expect.
By telling of a “deadline” Jesus doesn't string his followers along. We don’t hear: “Everything’s all right. Keep doing what you’re doing. It doesn't matter.”
You see, it does matter. And somewhere deep inside maybe that’s what you have been waiting to hear.
The tree is given one more year.
This story invites us to wonder:
What is important for you this year? Are there estrangements to repair, debts to repay or forgive, love to share?[ii] What fruit do you want to bear? What second chance do you need to take or offer?
What is important, essential this year? Working to end the racial caste system in our nation? Addressing climate change before it is too late?
It will be the same: What we do, how we act, does matter. Each day we are given the choice—to tear down or build up, to complain or to encourage, to welcome or to turn away. The choices we make, the actions we take will determine whether or not our lives bear fruit.
And yes, let us never forget that God is patient, forgiving, understanding. But God's mercy stands out more clearly when seen in relief against God's judgment. And so an announcement of judgment “Cut it down!” can also be an invitation to turn in a new direction, an offer to renew your life, to restore your soul and the soul of this nation.
[i] Michelle Alexander, The New Jim Crow, pg. 216-17
[ii] NIB, commentary on this passage.