Repentance.
It’s a central word in the Christian faith. The idea’s present from the very first verses
of the earliest-written gospel, with a camel hair-clad preacher “proclaiming a
baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins.”[1] Especially during this present season of Lent,
the call seems to pop up time and again: in our liturgies, in our prayers, and
in our hymnody, we’re over and over beckoned to repent.
And the scripture readings for the third Sunday in Lent are no exception. A common thread of the human being’s need for repentance is clearly traceable throughout—from the prophet’s admonition to the wicked to “forsake their way” and “return to the Lord,”[2] to St. Paul’s caution against desiring (craving, lusting after) evil.
Yet the call to repent is possibly nowhere clearer than in the gospel lesson. Jesus, speaking with some folks about persons who’d been tragically killed, puts the question to his listeners: Do you think their fates befell them because they were somehow deserving? He goes on to say that neither those murdered by Pilate nor those who died under the tower of Siloam were any worse sinners (or offenders) than anyone else. “But,” he says, “unless you repent, you will all perish [just] as they did.”[3]
That seems pretty harsh. And a tad confusing, especially since Jesus had just said that particular corruption or depravity wasn’t the reason for those persons’ demise. But there it is: an unmistakable call to repentance which, frankly, seems almost too neatly laid out in a cause and consequence paradigm.
And if we stopped there, it might be difficult to hear the good news. Thankfully Jesus builds on this call to repentance by sharing a parable which, I think, highlights what he means by the word. He speaks of a fig tree planted in a vineyard that, for whatever reason, isn’t producing figs. Not only that, it’s apparently been barren for three years. Nothing. Nada. Nil. The landowner, however, has a solution to the problem: “Cut it down!” He’s had enough of this fruitless tree, and is determined to be rid of it. And who could blame him? But, Jesus says, the gardener intercedes. He speaks to the owner of the vineyard, offering to go the extra mile in caring for the fig tree by digging around and fertilizing it. “Give it one more year. Just one more year.”
And it’s in the parable that the Gospel truly begins to take shape, in relation to this call to repentance. The first thing I notice is the fruit situation. The landowner’s qualm isn’t that the tree’s producing bad figs; it’s that the tree’s producing no figs. Fruitlessness is the issue here, one to which we should give pause. Because while we generally understand repentance as turning away from something—as leaving one way for another way—it’s often framed as simply leaving behind undesirable or harmful behavior or attitudes: things like we find in the so-called seven deadly sins. This, however, is just one side of repentance—and Jesus’ parable makes this evident. As I said, it isn’t bad fruit that’s the problem. It’s that there’s no fruit. The tree isn’t doing what it’s expected to do—what it ought to do—which is why it’s in danger.
The word translated “repent” is often a form of the Greek term metanoia, which literally means “to change one’s mind.” Therefore a call to repentance is, essentially, a call to rethink: to reevaluate. What’s important, what isn’t? What’s needful, what isn’t? And is Christ’s call upon our lives solely about avoiding the “bad,” or is it much more about turning toward and being those who help to produce what’s good? We just might be surprised to find that, as we move toward the latter, we naturally move away from the former.
But it’s the second bit I notice which seems to be the locus of this parable’s evangel. This tree, for three harvests yielding nothing and for three harvests depriving surrounding vines of nutrients they require, perhaps should get the ax. It doesn’t really make good sense to leave it there. But it isn’t hacked down; instead, it’s granted a reprieve: one more year. One more try at bearing some fruit. In this, the call to repent suddenly sounds less like judgment and more like mercy. It sounds less like impending punishment and more like encouraging expectation. It sounds less like a threat and more like an invitation.
For the change from fruitless to fruitful isn’t something of the tree’s own making. The vinedresser gives of himself to tend to the tree, nurturing and nourishing it such that it might live into the landowner’s expectations. So it is with us. We needn’t so desperately struggle and strive to change, thinking that we’re on our own and that we must somehow of ourselves do or create something that’ll give us worth in God’s eyes. We’d never succeed in the attempt anyway. But God, whose grace is wide, initiates the change in us. It’s God who brings newness to our lives, and God who ultimately produces good through our lives. Our role is simply opening up to the ways in which God desires to send that fruit, through us, into the world.
So yes, we’re called to repentance. Yes, we’re called to be transformed: to be made new. And yes, we’re called to bear fruit which demonstrates that change has taken (and is taking) place. It all sounds pretty daunting: maybe even improbable. But it’s God who works in us, both to will and to do; thanks be to God.
And the scripture readings for the third Sunday in Lent are no exception. A common thread of the human being’s need for repentance is clearly traceable throughout—from the prophet’s admonition to the wicked to “forsake their way” and “return to the Lord,”[2] to St. Paul’s caution against desiring (craving, lusting after) evil.
Yet the call to repent is possibly nowhere clearer than in the gospel lesson. Jesus, speaking with some folks about persons who’d been tragically killed, puts the question to his listeners: Do you think their fates befell them because they were somehow deserving? He goes on to say that neither those murdered by Pilate nor those who died under the tower of Siloam were any worse sinners (or offenders) than anyone else. “But,” he says, “unless you repent, you will all perish [just] as they did.”[3]
That seems pretty harsh. And a tad confusing, especially since Jesus had just said that particular corruption or depravity wasn’t the reason for those persons’ demise. But there it is: an unmistakable call to repentance which, frankly, seems almost too neatly laid out in a cause and consequence paradigm.
And if we stopped there, it might be difficult to hear the good news. Thankfully Jesus builds on this call to repentance by sharing a parable which, I think, highlights what he means by the word. He speaks of a fig tree planted in a vineyard that, for whatever reason, isn’t producing figs. Not only that, it’s apparently been barren for three years. Nothing. Nada. Nil. The landowner, however, has a solution to the problem: “Cut it down!” He’s had enough of this fruitless tree, and is determined to be rid of it. And who could blame him? But, Jesus says, the gardener intercedes. He speaks to the owner of the vineyard, offering to go the extra mile in caring for the fig tree by digging around and fertilizing it. “Give it one more year. Just one more year.”
And it’s in the parable that the Gospel truly begins to take shape, in relation to this call to repentance. The first thing I notice is the fruit situation. The landowner’s qualm isn’t that the tree’s producing bad figs; it’s that the tree’s producing no figs. Fruitlessness is the issue here, one to which we should give pause. Because while we generally understand repentance as turning away from something—as leaving one way for another way—it’s often framed as simply leaving behind undesirable or harmful behavior or attitudes: things like we find in the so-called seven deadly sins. This, however, is just one side of repentance—and Jesus’ parable makes this evident. As I said, it isn’t bad fruit that’s the problem. It’s that there’s no fruit. The tree isn’t doing what it’s expected to do—what it ought to do—which is why it’s in danger.
The word translated “repent” is often a form of the Greek term metanoia, which literally means “to change one’s mind.” Therefore a call to repentance is, essentially, a call to rethink: to reevaluate. What’s important, what isn’t? What’s needful, what isn’t? And is Christ’s call upon our lives solely about avoiding the “bad,” or is it much more about turning toward and being those who help to produce what’s good? We just might be surprised to find that, as we move toward the latter, we naturally move away from the former.
But it’s the second bit I notice which seems to be the locus of this parable’s evangel. This tree, for three harvests yielding nothing and for three harvests depriving surrounding vines of nutrients they require, perhaps should get the ax. It doesn’t really make good sense to leave it there. But it isn’t hacked down; instead, it’s granted a reprieve: one more year. One more try at bearing some fruit. In this, the call to repent suddenly sounds less like judgment and more like mercy. It sounds less like impending punishment and more like encouraging expectation. It sounds less like a threat and more like an invitation.
For the change from fruitless to fruitful isn’t something of the tree’s own making. The vinedresser gives of himself to tend to the tree, nurturing and nourishing it such that it might live into the landowner’s expectations. So it is with us. We needn’t so desperately struggle and strive to change, thinking that we’re on our own and that we must somehow of ourselves do or create something that’ll give us worth in God’s eyes. We’d never succeed in the attempt anyway. But God, whose grace is wide, initiates the change in us. It’s God who brings newness to our lives, and God who ultimately produces good through our lives. Our role is simply opening up to the ways in which God desires to send that fruit, through us, into the world.
So yes, we’re called to repentance. Yes, we’re called to be transformed: to be made new. And yes, we’re called to bear fruit which demonstrates that change has taken (and is taking) place. It all sounds pretty daunting: maybe even improbable. But it’s God who works in us, both to will and to do; thanks be to God.
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