Holy Week Poem: Holy Tuesday

Fig Tree

It looks alive.

Leaves out,

green enough

to signal blessing.

God on our side,

favour resting,

certainty thick

in the air.

From a distance

it all looks

like it's working.

A people fluent

in Scripture,

a faith wrapped tight

around a nation,

prayers spoken

with the confidence

of power.

Chosen,

they say.

But chosen

for what?

There was once

a promise;

blessed

to be a blessing,

a light

for the nations,

a people

through whom

the world might taste

what God is like.

Not where blessing ends,

but where it passes through,

a small place

where the garden

starts to return,

until his glory

fills the earth

like water

filling everything. Fruit

for others.

But up close

it's different.

Nothing.

No figs.

And he is hungry.

Not for slogans.

Not for God

used to guard borders

or bless weapons,

or stand behind flags

as they move

toward war.

He's looking

for fruit.

Justice

that doesn't need

an enemy.

Mercy

that crosses

the lines

we defend.

Love

that refuses

to become violence,

even when

violence comes.

The gardener

reaches in,

parting leaves,

moving past

all the signs

of life-

certainty,

control,

chosenness

turned inward-and finds

nothing there.

So he says,

"May no one

ever eat fruit

from you again."

And it lands

where it should:

on people

who forgot

why they were chosen,

on nations

that turned calling

into entitlement,

on churches

that keep the light

for themselves.

A faith

that needs war

to survive

is already

empty.

Church-

you weren't called

to be impressive.

You were called

to be fruitful.

Not a fortress.

A table.

Not a banner.

A light.

Not a tribe

set above others,

but a people

through whom

blessing moves.

When you pray

for victory

more than peace,

when your theology

has room

for enemies

but not

for enemy-love,

when your God

starts to look

more like a general

than a crucified man-

something

has gone wrong.

Leaves

without fruit.

The prophets

saw this coming.

A vineyard

carefully kept

that still produced

something

no one could eat.

God looking

for justice

and finding blood.

Looking

for righteousness

and hearing cries.

From a distance

it looks

like revival.

Up close-

hunger.

He's still looking.

Still hungry

for something real.

Not dominance.

Not control.

Fruit.Something

the poor

can actually taste.

Something

the outsider

can walk into.

Something

that looks like

enemies

being embraced

without conditions.

Light

that helps you see

where you're going.

Because the kingdom

he brings

doesn't move

like that.

It doesn't march.

It doesn't secure itself

through force.

It doesn't need blood

to prove anything.

It feeds people.

It makes room.

It blesses.

And anything

that doesn't-

no matter

how sacred

it sounds,

or how loudly

it prays,

or how much

God-language

it wraps

around itself-

it won't last.

It withers.

By morning,

roots and all.And still

the gardener

keeps going.

Toward the cross.

Where the true Israel

stands-

the vine,

cut back

to the root,

still giving life.

Faithful,

fruitful-

giving himself

for the life

of the world.

Where blessing

starts moving

outward again.

Where light

can't be contained.

So the question

is still there.

Sharp

as hunger.

As old

as the promise.

Right at the centre

of everything

we've built:

when he reaches

into your life,

into your church,

into your nation-

what does he

actually find?

Fruit?

Or just something

that looks alive

from a distance?

Rev'd Jon Swales is a prophetic theologian and poet who ministers to marginalised and vulnerable adults at Lighthouse, Leeds

LINKS

Listen Holy Tuesday: www.cruciformjustice.com/podcast/episode/81ac9917/holy-tuesday-fig-tree

Cruciform Justice: www.cruciformjustice.com/