Becoming

Each tree is recognized by its own fruit. People do not pick figs from thornbushes, or grapes from briers.
-Luke 6:44

This past Sunday I was teaching on a short, enigmatic parable that Jesus tells in the book of Luke. There's a vineyard with a fig tree in it that isn't bearing fruit. The landowner is ready to chop it down and move on, but the vineyard caretaker pleads with the owner to wait, and to let him attend to the tree for a full year. He'll actively care for it-- aerating the ground, adding fertilizer and everything else it needs to see if it bears fruit. You can tell that the hopeful caretaker has confidence that fresh figs will emerge. 

There's more cultural context to explore, of course. But the beauty of many of the parables is that they can speak to us in different ways over the years. This parable is never unpacked by Jesus, so there's some freedom for how we may understand the symbolism represented. We had a vibrant discussion together. 

One of the things that I keep coming back to is the simple idea that a fig tree is never supposed to be static. It exists to bear fruit and change with the seasons. If it's healthy, there's always some sort of growth happening, whether that looks like storing up nutrients in a season of rest, or bringing forth goodness for the world with a new crop of sweet, sticky figs. 
And today it has me thinking about discipleship as becoming. 

When I speak of discipleship as becoming, I mean that in our lives of faith, following Jesus is intended to make us different--new--in each season. I don't simply mean newly forgiven, though that is beautiful. I mean new understandings, new depth, and new actions of care. There is no arrival, only the "long, slow obedience in the same direction" (Peterson). Becoming looks like a constant humility to allow God to shape us and form us in the way of love with each new season. As we get older and more established (in life, in faith, in whatever), that sort of openness to growth can be very difficult. We either think we know so much that we don't sense the need for new growth (we're comfortable), or we've been through so much that we don't have the energy to bring forth a fresh crop of fruit (we're exhausted). We've borne enough fruit in the past, so we're good... and we'll sit this season out. 

But we don't know everything. We don't even fully know ourselves. And if we are on an ever-growing trajectory of trusting and following Jesus, we will be becoming something new every season of our lives. This is the problem with a faith that values certainty over love, exploration, and relationship. Once you're certain about everything, you'll be less open to the ongoing becoming of faith. 

And if exhaustion is why you are feeling fruitless, well, we're still in Lent, friends. A time of acknowledging barrenness. A time of stretching out hands of need. A time to re-align our own spirits with the spirit of Christ. It's a time to put to death our need for self-sufficiency and the need to keep up with systems of power, prestige, and domination that kill our roots. It's a chance to re-ground ourselves in the values of the upside-down kingdom where power is brought to life through weakness. As Jesus says, it's in the giving away of our own lives that we find a deeper life.

When my fig-tree faith feels dormant and dry for too long, it's an invitation to be open to new growth in new ways. My ground (and my heart) may be hardened, making it difficult for water and nutrients to get to the roots. Or I may have lost an imagination for all the wonderful things God wants to offer others through my life because I'm just so exhausted. In either case, today is a good day to be reminded that becoming is not an isolated process. 

Thankfully, we have a gardener committed to working the ground, pruning the branches, and watering our roots at their deepest depths. And we are drawn into community so that others can nurture, call out our gifts, restore our faith, and encourage us to become something new once again for the season ahead. 

What is God helping you become in this season? 

Jesus, break up hard soil and bring life to my roots so that fresh fruit emerges. Thanks for your patience. 

Peace,
Keith