Sunday, 23rd March, Lent 3: Isaiah 55:1-9, 1 Corinthians 10:1-13 and Luke 13:1-9
How do we respond to life’s biggest questions?
In the 1930s, the philosopher Will Durrant wrote to 100s of figures in the arts, politics, sciences and religion challenging them to respond to the fundamental question of how they found meaning, purpose and fulfilment in their own lives. He published the replies in a book called On the Meaning of Life.
In 2015, James Bailey finds himself sitting alone in a caravan, heartbroken and unemployed, wondering where he’d find happiness and purpose. He stumbles across Durrant’s book of collected letters and decides to repeat the exercise.
After rejections, responses begin to arrive: one-liners or extended reflections, which gave him inspiration.
The late Hilary Mantel talked about discovering meaning in the pursuit of it, the spiritual gold of virutes like tenacity, patience and hope. An environmentalist wrote about preserving the planet we depend on; a holocuast suviver described goodwill and generosity in the face of brutality; a prisoner talked about respecting and appreciating life as a gift.
Others mentioned friends, being fully present; responding to failure and tragedy. The palliative care consultant Kathryn Manix talks about what matters in the face of death - connection, relationship and love, not weath or success or more stuff. She sees this as the beginning of wisdom, of simplicity, of loving kindness.
All a work in progress right until our final breath - when we come know the fullness God's loving-mercy, even as we are fully known.
And often the question ‘why’ will remain on our lips, particularly when we want to make sense of the world as it is; especially in the face of personal or collective suffering or loss.
Jesus is confronted with a version of a ‘why’ question in today’s gospel. Some of the people around him approach to tell him of a violent and traumatic event. We don’t have to imagine very hard - every day, words and images rapidly convey the brutality of leaders slaughtering civilians; of lives lost when buildings collapse.
There is so much pain in the world, we ask ‘why’ there is pain, cruelty and suffering. Jesus somehow shifts things to ask deep and wise questions; questions that somehow hold open the possibility of meaning and purpose in life.
Yet our human instinct is sometimes to seek after the proverbial ‘theory of everything’ that makes sense of the senseless; of the bad that happens in a beautiful world. We try to square God’s goodness and power with the reality of suffering.
Those addressing Jesus are telling him the horrendous news with a rationale already formed in their mind: somehow, they want to suggest that those who have been killed by Herod have done something to deserve it. Jesus undoes their logic. Suffering is not evidence of or punishment for sin.
Our society has its own inner logic too: it might be judgements about lifestyle or background; it might be implying that others have it worst; of even that suffering shapes our character.
All of those ways of thinking about suffering set us apart from those enduring it. We miss our common humanity; the sheer risk and vulnerability of our lives. Jesus in a radical way is challenging the assumptions behind those logics and instead draws us into the reality of an other’s pain.
He invites us to own the brokenness and hurt of our own lives and to repent. He is inviting us to ask a different question - one which draws us back to God and each other. There’s depth and risk, vulnerability and closeness in turning around.
In setting aside the ‘why’ Jesus doesn’t offer a strategy or an answer. Instead, he tells a story. A story about a gardener, a landowner and a fig tree. A story full of frustration, perceived waste and lack, but also a story of patience, resources and possibility.
It’s an odd story - whether or not you know anything about growing fig trees. It doesn’t seem to be a direct answer to the ‘why’ questions about the reality of suffering. It might echo the ideas about finding meaning in life shared with Bailey and Durrent before him in their own perplexity and isolation.
Are we seeking after the "spiritual gold" of life’s meaning - preserving something for others, fostering goodwill in difficult circumstances or appreciating life as a gift; seeking after connection, relationship and love; finding a simplicity that makes loving kindness possible. All this, even in the face of death,
In the story, the landowner seems to be pretty absent: swooping in to check for fruit but not getting involved; seeing only emptiness and scarcity; offering instructions or making judgments which take no account of potential or patience. Cut it down he says - there’s no life. He quits. He walks away from generosity and preservation, because he sees only failure. He doesn’t reframe it with tenacity and hope. He writes off any potential, meaning or fruitfulness.
The tree is perhaps stressed by the conditions of soil or weather; under nourished and unable to offer fruit to others. In this seemingly barren state, it needs tender care; to flourish, things need to change. To thrive there needs to be time and attention given to what’s not working well. For us in this Lenten season, there are echoes of that space to look at and amend our lives, to do the heart and soul business we need to do before God.
The gardener though is intimately and practically involved with this tree. Where others see only uselessness and death, he sees possibility. He is prepared to work hard - labouring with the soil and manure. He puts in the effort even when the odds of a better outcome seem low. Maybe we too can not only hope for change but give our time and effort and love to the cause of possibility - in this crisis, or suffering or in justice.
The landlord, tree and gardener undo the 'why': they give us more life-giving options and also remind us that we need to be involved. The story doesn’t open up philosophies of living in the face of terrible pain or injustice. Instead, it gives us a spade and manure - weeping with the sorrowful; giving a bit of energy to the future we want to see; nurturing a beautiful thing. Being gardeners who can take on the graft of hopeful, patient tending.
This is a deeper story that flows from a different set of questions; dispensing with the logic of why allows us to imagine lives lived out of a more meaningful answer.
Repenting - turning - is an act of mind, heart, will and body. It signals our need for grace as we seek to do what is right. As we turn, God is already moving towards us in Jesus to forgive. He bears the weight of the suffering and pain in his body, even death itself. He undoes its power, turning hurt and failure to life and fruitfulness that we might be who we’re called to be.
Likewise, we too towards our hurt and brokenness Noticing the hurt and going towards it in the hope that there will be the fruit of new life. Patiently, the Spirit is doing a new thing with us; nurturing gift and virtue.
There is an echo in Jesus’ story of the promises of Isaiah: reminding us that communion with God will bring a full life, of meaning and purpose. In the passage we heard today, this satisfaction takes physical form - wine, milk, rich food to delight in when we are thirsty, hungry and empty handed.
Isaiah offers a vision of a restored world which is at odds with those things in our world that do not satisfy our deepest longing: the way conflict and economic systms can drive scarcity and exploitation. His words prompt us to look for a time when our poverty is exchanged for abundance and joy.
As we are nourished at an earthly table, with bread and wine, we anticipate the promise of that heavenly feast, a peaceable kingdom. We are also invited to witness to such mercy, pardon, life and joy here on earth; to bring comfort to the afflicted and sorrowful in acts of loving kindness.
This calling to engage with others in love runs through Paul’s letter to the Corinthians. He spends some time retelling the stoires of freedom from salvey and the struggles of the wilderness. In doing so, he offers a teaching exercise. Yes, in Christ, we are drawn into the covenant of God’s love; but we’re human and will face temptations to fulfil our self-ish desires and neglect God’s goodness to us.
Paul offers a model of radical hospitality as a way of reflecting God’s faithfulness. It does not mean a life free of temptation, struggle or sorrow, but it does give a way thorugh it. A way of love that we see in Jesus.
On the cross his love overcomes death; and opens up for us new life full of meaning; marked by what is just and merciful. Even in the face of difficulty, we hold each other in this radical love - reflected in patience, compassion, kindness; in simplicity and being fully present in the struggle until a new day dawns.
© Julie Gittoes 2025
