Third Sunday in Lent

                  “… if you do not repent, you will all perish ….” Lk 13:3

High anxiety.

That’s what we’re introduced to in today’s Gospel.

The people Jesus is addressing are scared, even terrified. A horrific tragedy has taken place in Galilee where they live. The procurator Pontius Pilate has slaughtered some of their neighbors.

Amid fright, they begin peppering Jesus with panic-driven questions:

Is it because the people involved in this crisis were “worse sinners than all other Galileans?” Was this an act of divine judgment?

Jesus answers these questions with a firm “no.” 

But, even now, we still badger God with the same queries whenever we experience horrifying tragedies.

Why would God allow the slaughter of some 50 Muslims who were at a prayer service? Why would God allow children to be shot and killed while attending school? Why would God allow devastating earthquakes and horrible viruses and the sexual abuse of children?

Why?

Are these terrible experiences of suffering the result of sin?

Many in our day and age certainly believe so. Some religious leaders quickly respond to these and similar questions with a strong certainty that God is indeed punishing gay people or feminists or the expulsion of God and prayer from public schools.

But Jesus remains firm in the answer he gave in today’s Gospel reading: “no.”

Still, the questions remain:

If “no,” then why do bad things happen to good people? Why do innocent people suffer?

The entire Book of Job addresses this very problem only to end with Job never obtaining a satisfying answer to his many questions.

What Job does find, however, is solace in knowing with certainty that he can trust the ultimate goodness of God. And he becomes transformed by this conviction.

This is not to suggest that human sinfulness is not a factor in many tragedies. Children are killed while attending school because mental illness and long-repressed anger and the availability of weapons can combine to form a lethal rampage.

But, also, suffering is a part of life in a broken world. Winds form hurricanes and tornados, not because God wills them to, but because that is what winds do. The earth cracks, not to punish human sin, but because of pressures in tectonic plates. People die of cancer, not because they are evil, but because they are mortal, and the human body is vulnerable to diseases.  

What Jesus wants the people of Galilee centuries ago – and us today – to hear is that all of these tragedies – regrettable as they are, horrifying as they are – are reminders of the words spoken to us on Ash Wednesday:

“Remember … you are dust, and into dust you will return.”

What Jesus wants us to “remember” in the ashes that began our Lent is our inherent mortality. We are all going to die. The issue then becomes:

What will we do with our lives? How will we use our time on earth?

Jesus uses an unusual word to underscore the importance of what we do with our lives: “repent.”

The Greek word “metanoia” which is usually translated as “repent” means much more than just being sorry for our sins. It actually means to “change the way we think and act,” to review our whole value system, to turn our life around and begin the process of heading in an entirely new direction.

In a word, “repent” really means “transformation” – becoming radically changed.  

The fig tree in this same gospel story is a perfect example of what such a “transformation” would look like. Originally, the tree was found to be bearing no fruit. It was, for all purposes, dead. Consequently, the owner wanted to cut it down. It was worthless. But, the gardener, representing God the Father, insists instead “I shall cultivate the ground around it and fertilize it; so it may bear fruit in the future.”

The possibility of new life, of new beginnings, of a second chance. That’s what Jesus is urging us all to see when we behold terrible tragedies. Not dire punishment, but the chance for a new beginning – the chance to be re-born, re–vitalized.

And there’s another thing:

Often the idea of “transformation” scares us. It sounds like a radical, life-changing event that has to happen in a flash. Not so. Instead, transformation is seldom accomplished in an instant. Very few people experience being knocked off a horse like St. Paul and suddenly granted a vision of God.

Rather, transformation is a matter of many little acts of kindness, unnoticed charities, secret prayers, and quiet compassions. It’s a matter of beginning the process of cultivating the ground around the fig tree in today’s gospel, fertilizing it daily and allowing it the care it needs to begin “bearing fruit in the future.”

In other words, there’s always time to “change your mind,” to “turn around and go in another direction,” to “repent and begin anew.” There’s always time for transformation. But we better begin now because we know neither the day nor the hour of our death.

“Unless you repent ….” Unless you “change your way of thinking.” Unless you “turn around and go in another direction.” Unless you “begin anew.” Unless you embrace a process of “transformation,” “you will all perish ….”

So, given this reality, perhaps the poet Mary Oliver challenges us best when she asks this question:

“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”

That’s what today’s Gospel and the season of Lent is asking each one of us.

Ted Wolgamot, Psy.D.