So, we’re told about something really horrible, here, in passing.  We also get a glimpse of the political climate and of what Pilate is capable of.  We may have this image of Pilate as some spineless pushover, but at the public trial of Jesus surrounded by agitated mobs, we’re seeing Pilate in an almost impossible situation, the verdict already certain.  Pilate was more than capable of sending strong messages to the local populace.  The crucifixion of Jesus was probably, in Pilate’s mind, another such message, even if having the man executed wasn’t Pilate’s first choice.

The Bible doesn’t tell us very much about Galilee.  It isn’t Judea.  It’s a separate place to the north, with Gentile, pagan populations entrenched in and around it.  It’s what was left of the old Northern Kingdom, that had gone off the rails, badly, chronically, after the death of Solomon, nearly a thousand years before.  Centuries and conquests later, Galilee was a small Jewish enclave in a big Gentile world.  Even more than Judea.  Galilee didn’t have the benefit of a Jerusalem or a Temple.  But what the Galileans did have, by ancient reports, was zeal for the Lord, a deep conviction that the Day of the Lord—Judgment Day—was imminent, and a fervent belief that their zealous actions could hasten the day: let’s get to it!  The Jewish historian Josephus, writing just a bit later than Paul, speaks of the Galileans as fond of sedition (against Rome), rebels with a particularly zealous brand of faith.  We hear through Luke that there had been an uprising not long before the birth of Jesus.  That uprising came out of Galilee.  What the Galileans lacked in cultural clout, they strove to make up for with religious fervor and political tumult.

So, we listen as Jesus is reminded “about the Galileans whose blood Pilate had mixed with their sacrifices” (13:1).  The Romans had the highest respect for law and order, so Pilate is not executing these Galileans without cause, even if it is summary execution.  From what we can deduce, they were killed, probably on Pilate’s orders, as they were making their offerings in the Temple.  To have Roman soldiers enter the inner precincts of the Temple would have been a grievous desecration, from the view of the chief priests, elders, and the people.  Pilate would not have so riled the local population if the outcome wasn’t going to be worth the cost, in Pilate’s estimation.  We aren’t given details or circumstances; it’s all conjecture, but a likely scenario is that a group of especially zealous Galilean men went up to Jerusalem, to the Temple, stirring up crowds as they went, fomenting defiance as they worshiped in the Temple, probably because they believed they were safe in the Temple, that the Romans would never dare to touch them in the Temple itself, and that, if the Romans did, it would trigger the riot the Galileans were looking to cause: the riot that would lead to the insurrection that would lead to the expulsion of Rome from Judea, the kingdom would be re-established, and the age of blessed victory, and unstoppable power—their unstoppable power—would commence.  Well, maybe that’s a mostly accurate synopsis.  Pilate sent his soldiers in to send a strong message.  They did.

What to make of Pilate mingling the blood of the Galileans with that of their sacrifices?  Certainly, we can visualize some utterly blasphemous act, where Pilate himself, with a cruel smile, stands there at the top of the steps of the altar, has a soldier bring him a bowl filled with some poor Galilean’s blood, and dashes the blood on the altar even as the slain worshipper’s calf or ram is being burned, there.  Other than burning human bones on the altar, dashing that blood would have been the most vile desecration.  Very dramatic, shocking.  What a monster.  What a defier of God.  And such an act would definitely have provoked an immediate, violent response among the Jews.  The Romans were content to leave the Jews alone with their religion, so long as the Jews behaved themselves and didn’t make trouble.

A more likely scenario is that the soldiers go in, kill the Galileans trying to stoke holy war against Rome, spilling their blood where the rebels are slain, here and there in the Temple courts; then the soldiers withdraw, letting the Jews clean up the mess.  The mingled blood is a sensational way of saying that the blood of the worshippers was spilled there in the Temple—on Pilate’s authority—just as the blood of the sacrificial animals.  A strong message.

“Jesus answered, ‘Do you think that these Galileans were worse sinners than all the other Galileans because they suffered this way?’” (13:2).  Apparently, the understood answer is yes: yes, they must have been; those slain Jews—murdered by the Roman soldiers in the one very place on earth where God was rightly, truly worshiped and truly present—they must have been horrible sinners, especially so, for such a thing to happen to them.  Suffering, especially such sudden, sickening suffering, just had to be the sure and absolute sign that those suffering were horrible sinners.  Even if nobody else realized it, God did.  God had found them out and given summary judgment.

Suffering, as this line of thinking ran, was reserved for the wretched who deserve it, abundantly.  We see such thinking surfacing repeatedly in encounters Jesus has.  Suffering, as such thinking went, would not come to the righteous: the righteous were blessed, and to be blessed means no suffering—at least not acute, miserable suffering.  What a strange twist of the witness of Scripture.  A truly 180 twist.  How anyone could read the Bible or review what it shows us of history and come to such a conclusion is beyond me.  But the people asking Jesus are surrounded by facts that make them feel afraid and sad; they don’t want facts, painful facts.  They want affirmation of a fiction they have fashioned to provide some sort of comfort, some justification, to make some sense of a life that too often made precious little sense: why did it so often have to be so difficult?  They wanted a world in which those who did what God said didn’t suffer.  It’s not as if we don’t get it.  We do what God says, live the way God wants . . . and then God fulfills His end of the deal: that’s how it ought to be.  And we know what His end of the deal ought to be: we don’t have to suffer, just abundantly blessed without real woes.

Such a death as that of those Galileans in the Temple was regarded, by many, as the wrathful, righteous judgment of a holy God upon sinful men.  Otherwise, what sort of world would this be?  If their death were not God’s judgment, if it were just some random act of cruelty, or—worse!—something that befell God-honoring, God-loving people living their faith, how then could there be a just and loving God?  No—one thing was for sure, in the minds of these people: bad things did not happen to good people.

But what does anyone mean by this catch phrase “good people”?  We all have our opinions—very definite opinions—about who the terrible people are; I stay off of Facebook as much as possible, so I don’t have to be bombarded by it on all sides.  Some people may well be terrible, too.  But who are the truly terrible people, in God’s eyes?  And what does He do about it?  If we’re here, today, here of all places, we really ought to try to have answers to both questions.  God is more than willing to tell us, if we’re willing to listen attentively, patiently.

Jesus has more to say.  “I tell you, no! But unless you repent, you too will all perish (13:3).  Jesus is not so much interested in judging as in saving; but salvation comes by recognizing the truth of the matter and receiving the truth.  The time to walk with the Lord is always now.  Jesus is not saying that everyone is doomed, helplessly doomed.  He is saying now is the time to look, think, reflect upon yourself and your walk, be candid with yourself, and pray.  We wander off this way or that, getting distracted or dazzled by what cannot profit or bless us, not that we care in the moment.  It is the case, however, that we only have so much time.  In the early days of the Church, the conviction, hope, and eager expectation was that Jesus was coming back any day, very soon.  Well, personally, I’m not as convinced as that, but I do know that we only have so much time.  I just did Sue McRae’s funeral a couple weeks ago.  I was not expecting to do that, so soon.  Neither was she.  We all must depart this life, beloved, but there need be no terror in that thought.  We all must depart; we need not perish.  When Jesus says that, without repentance, there is perishing, he means life is only in repentance.  Repent, now, before it’s too late.

We don’t like too late; we’re not huge fans, and we’d rather not be associated with any such teaching.  We’re sort of all loosely uncommitted Universalists, that way: Oh, God will just end up saving everybody in the end after all.  Repentance isn’t just a moment where you feel as if you’ve woken up to behold the mess you’ve made.  Repentance is the beginning of a journey, a continuing walk with the Lord in the light of His Word.

Some concerned people there with Jesus have pointed to one terrible event.  Jesus points to another: oh there are all sorts of terrible events that happen all over the world every day.  And blessed, beautiful events, too.  But the news tends to share with us the terrible.  And we wonder why the commercials are all about indigestion relief medications, acid reflux, and anti-depressants.  Jesus reminds them of “those eighteen who died when the tower in Siloam fell on them—do you think they were more guilty than all the others living in Jerusalem?” (13:4).  People just going about their business, places to go, things to do, and they never arrive.  Senseless, sad.  Unless God wanted them dead, because they were such terrible people.  But the key sorrow isn’t that God metes out judgment in this life but that God doesn’t prevent harm from happening to people who were doing no harm.  No one should have to have more than the ordinary share of sorrow, in this life!  But what is an ordinary share, exactly?  Do you know the best way to live here so as to avoid undue sorrow and woe?  Do what those with the political, cultural power tell you, believe what they tell you, say what they tell you, without thinking.  Of course they’re right, and who are you to question them.  But on the other hand, let’s not congratulate ourselves too quickly on our wisdom, either.

If I asked you to tell me a time when it felt as if God suddenly swooped down and pulled you out of what was about to be a catastrophe, I bet you could tell me.  And how many disasters God has averted, and we had no idea, and still don’t.  But terrible things do happen, and God is all knowing and all good.  And God is not there to make sure nothing ever causes us distress, or harm.  I see, online, these images of kids from back when I was that age and many of you were, doing crazy stupid stuff, and the joke is, somehow we survived our childhood.  We also may be familiar with the term “helicopter parenting” and maybe we’ve seen a little or done a little ourselves: constantly hovering, lest anything sad or painful should happen to our child—a bump or a bruise or a scrape or a broken bone.  How many here managed to break a bone in childhood?  Do you blame your parents for that?  Do you blame God?  You weren’t there for me!

All that happens in life is an occasion to draw nearer to God.  I don’t say that lightly or blithely.  God is always beckoning to us: come to Me.  That is what God is always saying: come to Me.  I will bless you.  I will touch you.  I will heal you.  I will show you My salvation.  It won’t all be sunshine and roses.  It won’t all be ice cream and daydreams.  We already know this.  Beautiful as it can be, lovely as we strive to keep it, this is also a world of bumps, bruises, scrapes, and brokenness.  Knowing this is called maturity, accepting responsibility, practicing integrity.  And practicing faith.  When have you leaned hardest on faith—when life was humming along gorgeously, or when you woke up deep in the swamp?  Everyone puts faith in something or someone: some put their faith in the government, or more accurately, their preferred party—God help them!  Others put faith in their own intelligence, strength, or willpower, or their clearly superior, enlightened values—God help them.  Jesus is calling everyone to put faith in God, through repentance, turning to God, confessing entire need for God—I need Thee every hour, Amen!  Jesus keep me near the cross.  Your words to me are life and health.

And Jesus, gentle, kind, loving Jesus, says, quite plainly—“unless you repent, you too will all perish” (13:5).  It’s not a threat.  It’s a fact; it’s the truth.  Some can hear it, others cannot.  We don’t like it when Jesus talks this way, though.

So, Jesus puts the matter into a parable.  Parables always seem easier to take, because we don’t really need to think about them, just listen and smile: aww, what a nice story the nice man tells.  “[H]e told this parable: ‘A man had a fig tree growing in his vineyard, and he went to look for fruit on it but did not find any’” (13:6).  Well, yeah, that’s frustrating.  A fruit tree ought to bear fruit, after all, at least some.  The whole purpose of a fruit tree is to produce fruit.  We have these ornamental pear trees out on the grounds.  They provide great shade, but they’re kind of a nuisance, and in eight years here, I haven’t heard one person say: “my what nice trees those are.”  No one will cry if they were removed.  “So he said to the man who took care of the vineyard, ‘For three years now I’ve been coming to look for fruit on this fig tree and haven’t found any. Cut it down! Why should it use up the soil?’” (13:7).  Three years.  Searching for any encouraging sign for three years.  Jesus has something in mind, there.

But we know trees need time to get established.  Let’s stipulate that the owner of the land had already allowed for that.  The past three years ought to have been fruiting seasons.  Well, we know there can be drought and pests, or too much rain, or maybe the soil is poor and exhausted.  But at least one out of the three years ought to have yielded some sort of harvest, ought to have provided some reason to be glad for the trees and allow them to remain.  It’s like those poor Cleveland Browns fans, or Pittsburgh Pirates fans: there’s always next year!  Come on!

The landowner is tired of one disappointment after another.  Just tear them out, put something in that will actually do something worthwhile.  We’ve probably all planted something that didn’t work out, and maybe we’ve dug it up, too, either to transplant it or toss it on the burn pile.  “‘Sir,’ the man replied, ‘leave it alone for one more year, and I’ll dig around it and fertilize it.  If it bears fruit next year, fine! If not, then cut it down’” (13:8-9).  Jesus leaves it there.  I’m supposing, because I’m a hopeful, optimistic person, most of the time, that the landowner agreed to the suggestion.  Let’s give it one more try: I’ll really work on it, give it extra attention, special treatment, and let’s see. Devote my attention and labor to it.  One more chance.  Have you ever been in a one more chance situation?  You’ve got one more chance to get it right.  How did it work out?  With Jesus, this will work out, because he’s pledged himself to make it work out; he’s going to work with us and in us to make sure it does.  He’s the gardener, and so are we, in Christ.

How long until it gets worked out?  Beloved, we already know: a lifetime.  Without Jesus . . . well, we all know this life must come to an end.  And what happens, then?  And why would you ever want to find out what comes next, without Jesus?