Jerusalem was a tinderbox. Songs of freedom on
every street, Rome's shadow in every corner.
And into that combustible week walks Jesus, hungry
for figs, furious at a temple -turned marketplace,
and unflinching for leaders who had mistaken
stewardship for ownership. What do a cursed tree,
an overturned table, and a murdered son have
in common? They all tell the truth. God's hungry
for fruit, not leaves, and he's not fooled by
show. In this episode, we walk the dusty trail
from the fig tree to the vineyard. Through judgment,
stings, and mercy that saves. This is not a safe
story, but it is a necessary one. And if you
find yourself stirred, I'd be grateful if you'd
like, share, subscribe, so the gospel keeps reaching
the weary who thought God forgot their address.
I'll see you on the other side. We ready, Wayne?
Wayne says begin. So parables, tonight is the
parable of the tenants. And we find this story
beginning in Matthew, I'm sorry, Mark chapter
11, beginning with 12. Same story is also found
in Matthew, we'll reference it. But just let
me set in our minds where we're at. So it's that
final Passover week. This is the week that will
end with Jesus on the cross, okay? So in your
head, this is the setting of the movie. Jerusalem
is swelling like a balloon about to burst. It
is that final Passover week, and pilgrims stream
in from every corner of the empire. The Mount
of Olives is dotted with tents and campfires
flicker in the Kidron Valley. Every street hums
with songs of deliverance. Psalms 113 through
118, those are known as the Hallel. And Hallel,
you might know the word hallelujah, where it
comes from. Psalms 113 through 118, they're songs.
They're actually songs that you would sing. And
you might even know. One line from one of these
songs. Psalm 118, 24. This is the day that the
Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in
it. Over the city looms Herod's temple, a mountain
of white stone and gold. Roman soldiers patrol
its courts, watching for sparks in the scene.
To them, Passover is not religious. but revolutionary.
A memory of Israel's liberation sung right under
Caesar's nose. Every fig tree on the road in,
every lamb led to slaughter, every psalm sung
feels like dry tender just waiting for a match.
Into this combustible moment walks Jesus of Nazareth.
He's just entered the city to cries of hosanna,
palm branches waving. He looked around the temple
courts, then slipped back to Bethany at nightfall.
But now in the morning light, he sets out again,
hungry. And the air is ripe for confrontation.
And you can feel the tension in the stones. Zealots
whisper beneath archways. Pilgrims trade rumors
heard in the alley. A centurion's hand rests
a little too comfortably on the hilt of his blade.
Passover is a lit fuse. Liberation remembered
and empire watching. God's story ready to flare
into the present. The city smells like lamb fat
and incense, sweat and dust, hope and fear, like
a revival camp pitched under the shadow of a
fort. Beloved, hush your heart. Let the den of
the pilgrims fall quiet. Stand with the disciples
on the road from Bethany, fig trees heavy with
green leaves lining the path. Temple courts glinting
in the morning sun. Lift your ears, my dear friends,
for the word is walking among us. Thus says the
gospel according to Mark, beginning in chapter
11, verse 12. On the following day, when they
came from Bethany, he was hungry. Seeing in the
distance a fig tree in leaf, he went to see whether
perhaps he would find anything on it. When he
came to it, he found nothing but leaves. for
it was not the season for figs. He said to it,
May no one ever eat fruit from you again. And
his disciples heard it. In the morning as they
passed by, they saw the fig tree withered away
at its roots. Then Peter remembered and said
to him, Rabbi, look, the fig tree you've cursed
is withered. Jesus answered, Have faith in God,
truly I tell you. If you say to this mountain,
be taken up and thrown into the sea, and if you
do not doubt it in your heart, but believe what
you say will come to pass, it will be done for
you. So I tell you, whatever you ask for in prayer,
believe that you've received it and it will be
yours. Whenever you stand praying, forgive. If
you have anything against anyone so that your
Father in heaven... may also forgive you your
trespasses. Now we turn the page, chapter 12,
verse 1. This is our subject matter tonight.
Then he began to speak to them in parables. A
man planted a vineyard, put a fence around it,
dug a pit for the wine press, and built a watchtower.
Then he leased it to tenants and went to another
country. When the season came, He sent a slave
to the tenants to collect from them his share
of the produce from the vineyard. They seized
him, and they beat him, and they sent him away
empty -handed. And again he sent another slave
to them. This one they beat over the head and
insulted. Then he sent another, and that one
they killed. So it was with many others. Some
they beat, others they killed. He had still one.
a beloved son. Finally, he sent him to them,
saying, They will respect my son. But those tenants
said to one another, This is the heir. Come,
let us kill him, and his inheritance will be
ours. So they seized him, killed him, and threw
him out of the vineyard. What then? will the
owner of the vineyard do? He will come and destroy
the tenants and give the vineyard to others.
Have you not read the scripture, the stone that
the builders rejected had become the cornerstone?
This was the Lord's doing, and it is amazing
in our eyes. When they realized that he had told
this parable against them, they wanted to arrest
him, but they feared the crowd. So they left
him and went away. The tree, the temple, the
tenants. Leaves without figs, courts without
prayers, stewards without fruit. A hunger unmet,
a house overturned, a son cast out. The word,
friends, has spoken. Let it trouble us, let it
sift us. Let it bear fruit in us. It begins with
hunger, not symbolic hunger, not mystical hunger.
Real hunger. Jesus walks up from Bethany, stomach
growling and spots a fig tree that's flush with
leaves. He walks up to it, hoping for breakfast,
but all he finds is show without substance. Leaves
waving in the wind, but not a single fig in sight.
And so he speaks a curse. May no one ever eat
fruit from you again. And the disciples hear
it, and they don't yet understand, but the words
hang heavy in the morning air. And let's not
soft -pedal this, guys. Jesus killed a living
thing. Even if it was barren, the tree was alive
when he spoke death over it. And that shocks
us, or it should. But the prophets before him
performed harsh, unsettling actions as well.
Jeremiah smashing a pot, Ezekiel lying on his
side and rationing his bread, Hosea burying unfaithfulness.
These weren't cruel whims, they were prophetic
theater. Truth of God acted out in flesh and
soil where words alone would simply slide off
of hard hearts. So the fig tree becomes more
than a tree. It's a parable enacted in bark and
sap. Just like Israel's worship, the green leaves
of the temple, the bustling courts, priests in
their glorious robes. But when God comes hungry
for justice and mercy, for the sweet fruit of
righteousness, There's nothing there. There's
just leaves, noise. And friends, fruitless religion,
however alive it may look, cannot live long.
It withers. Picture the disciples standing there,
wide -eyed, glancing between Jesus and the tree.
The sun hasn't burned off the morning chill yet
and already something irreversible has happened.
You can almost hear one of them whisper, he spoke
and it died. If a word from his lips can do that
to a tree, what might his words do to a soul,
a temple, to a nation who refuses him? leaves
impress, fruit feeds. And that is a knife at
our own root. And Jesus walks straight from that
barren tree into the temple. Imagine it, the
largest marketplace in the world. Currency exchangers
calling out rates, merchants selling doves, animals
bleeding, coins clattering. What should be a
prayer for all nations is now a bazaar for profit.
And tables flip, coins scatter, doves flutter
free, merchants shout in anger. And Jesus' voice
cuts through the chaos. My house shall be called
a house of prayer for all nations. But you have
made it a den of robbers. And that last phrase.
It isn't about petty thieves in the sanctuary.
It's actually from Jeremiah 7 and 11. It's his
temple sermon. A den is the cave where robbers
hide out after the stealing. He's saying, you've
turned the temple of worship into cover for injustice.
He doesn't just speak justice. He enacts it,
just like the fig tree. Leaves without fruit.
Worship without justice. Religion without mercy.
The enacted sermon lands where polite preaching
won't. See the faces. Pilgrims who have saved
for years watch coins roll into the dust. Priests.
gasp as their carefully managed economy suddenly
unravels. And in the corner, poor widow, priced
out of approved doves, watches cages break and
the sky fill with wings. For her, this is a gospel.
For the powerful, it's a threat. The next morning,
the disciples pass by the same tree. Now it's
withered to its roots final. Peter blurts out,
Rabbi, look, the fig tree you cursed has now
withered. And Jesus doesn't gloat. He teaches.
Faith that moves mountains isn't some magic trick.
It's a life rooted in God's world. Prayer that
believes isn't swagger. It's trusting God enough
to forgive. And that's the fruit God is after.
Not leafy show, but living trust. Not religious
noise, but reconciling mercy. The tree shouts
a warning, fruitless piety dies. But Jesus pairs
it with invitation, right? He doesn't just kill
the tree, but then he starts talking about prayer
and forgiveness. He says, believe, pray, forgive.
Judgment and mercy are interbraided like thunder
and rain in the same storm. Back in the temple,
priests, scribes, and elders demand, by what
authority are you doing these things? Authority
is the coin of the realm in Jerusalem. Rabbinic
pedigree, priestly lineage, Caesar's seat, and
Jesus appeals to none of it. His authority is
unborrowed. It is unsettling and it is heaven
sourced. So he flips their question with one
of his own. John's baptism, John the Baptist,
heaven or human? And they won't answer because
the truth would cost them their power and a lie
would cost them the crowd and their dodge unmasks
them. They're like the tenants, playing like
they're the owners. Stewards of a vineyard, acting
like they're the sovereigns of the earth. Leafly
robes bearing no fruit. Everyone in that crowd
knows the song from Isaiah, chapter 5, 1 through
7. God planted Israel like a vineyard, hedged
it. Watched over it, expected justice, but found
bloodshed. Expecting righteousness, but heard
a cry. And Jesus retells this prophecy with teeth.
A landowner plants, fences, digs a press, builds
a tower, then leases to tenants. Harvest comes.
He sends servants to collect his fruit. That's
his ownership. And they beat them and they shamed
them and they killed them. Finally, he sends
his beloved son. They'll respect my son, but
the tenants whisper, this is the heir. Let's
kill him and the inheritance will be ours. So
they kill him and they throw him outside the
vineyard. Now, I want to pause here and go real
slow, because if you listen, you think, why would
anyone think that? They work on the land. Why
do they think if they kill the son that the vineyard
would become theirs? Okay. Why do they think
that murder might equate ownership? Because in
that world, in that time, absentee land ownership
was very, very common. If heirs to the inheritance
had died far away and no claimant returned, tenants
sometimes just stayed put, squatting until possession
felt like right. It wasn't lawful, but it happened.
And Jesus names their crooked logic. You're not
negligent stewards. You're violent usurpers.
You're scheming to seize that which never belonged
to you. What will the owner do, Jesus asks. His
answer is hard and just, judgment on the violent,
the vineyard entrusted to others. And here's
where Matthew's line needs to be brought in.
Matthew 21 and 43, same story, different. telling,
therefore I tell you, the kingdom of God will
be taken away from you and given to a people
producing its fruits. Not a transfer of ownership.
God never sells his land. A transfer of stewardship
to those who will finally yield fruit. And remember
too, the ones that will be the new tenants, The
parable says that they are to accept the son.
Now remember, when you read that, at the time,
that doesn't mean become a Christian. No such
category existed yet. When Jesus says this, he's
saying, recognize the heir to receive him as
the beloved of the owner and to hand over the
fruit that is due. To say with actions, the vineyard
is yours, and so is the harvest. Inside Jerusalem's
courts, it meant acknowledging that Jesus is
God's true representative, the one with the Father's
seal. To accept the Son is to surrender the illusion
of control. To bear fruit not for your own eating
or enjoyment, but to bear it for God. To yield
authority to the one who comes in the Father's
name. It's humility and soil and sweat. It's
the first figs handed over with joy. The leaders
could have done it. They would not. And that
refusal echoes through every age that prefers
status to surrender. Control over communion.
Leaves to fruit. And Jesus drives it home. Remember
the psalm I referenced earlier, Psalm 118, the
very soundtrack of the week of Passover? The
stone the builders rejected has become the cornerstone.
This was the Lord's doing, and it is marvelous
in our eyes. Imagine masons sorting blocks for
the temple. A stone looks wrong, crooked, cracked,
and they toss it aside. God takes that very stone
and sets it at just such an angle where two walls
become a house. That's Jesus' claim, rejected
by builders, chosen by God. cast out of the vineyard,
enthroned as the cornerstone of a new temple
not made with hands. And the irony is sharp.
The one they discard is the one who holds everything
together. And the people have been running around
town singing his vindication all week without
even realizing it. Mark makes us feel it. The
acted parable, thunder in the bones, tree, temple,
tenants. And Matthew gives us a verdict, taken
away and given to a people that will produce
fruit. One rolls like a storm over the lake.
The other reads like a decree in court. And together
they say, God will have fruit from his vineyard.
and he will entrust it to those who will bear
it. So who are the new tenants again? The vineyard
never changes hands. It's God's vineyard, always
has been, always will be. The tenants are stewards,
never owners. And the new tenants are not Gentiles
replacing the Jews, because that poisonous misreading
has fueled terrible sins over our history. The
new tenants are simply those who bear fruit,
Jew or Gentile, tax collector or Pharisee, whoever
receives the Son and tends the vineyard with
justice and mercy. In Jesus' day, that meant
that tax collectors and prostitutes were closer
to the kingdom than priests in their robes. In
ours, it might not be polished institutions,
but rather the quiet faithful, those feeding
the hungry, forgiving their enemies, welcoming
strangers, keeping the vines alive while others
shake leaves for their applause. Paul's olive
tree image hums beneath this. It's in Romans
11. Wild branches grafted in, all of them living
by the same root. It's not replacement. It's
renewal. Hold the three seeds together for a
moment. Feel the braid of judgment and mercy.
The tree withers. Judgment. So the disciples
learn to pray. Mercy. The temple is overturned.
Judgment. So the nations might find a house of
prayer. Mercy. The son is rejected, judgment,
so he becomes the cornerstone, mercy. This is
the gospel's rhythm, the axe and the shoot, the
cross and the resurrection. Judgment is not God's
last word, but it is a real word. Mercy does
not flinch from truth, but it cuts in a deeper
current. We don't get to choose one and discard
the other. In plain spoken terms, we don't serve
cheap grace that ignores the withered stump.
We don't ladle harshness that forgets that green
shoot. We must preach both and live both because
that is the narrow way where fruit actually grows.
And maybe one more Old Testament prophetic echo
here from Amos. Seven and eight, I am setting
a plumb line in the midst of my people. God isn't
eyeballing the wall, he's hanging a line. Not
to humiliate us, but to true us. To make the
house square so that the cornerstone can bear
weight without cracking the hole. So let's come
down off the hill and stand in our own dust for
a moment. Where are we leafy but not fruitful?
Where have we made worship a cover for our habits
that starve our neighbors? Where do we keep the
coin tables polished while the poor widow can't
afford a dove? This isn't about self -loathing,
but it is about opening the cages. Let prayer
be prayer again. Messy, global, generous. Let
forgiveness unclench our fists. Let faith say
to the mountain of cynicism, be thrown into the
sea and then shove a shovel in the ground to
plant something living. You don't have to manufacture
figs, but you do have to stay rooted in Christ,
in the soil of mercy and watered with real prayer.
Fruit happens when that sap begins to run. The
story is not about trees or tenants only. It's
about us. When Christ comes hungry, will he find
only leaves or the fruit of justice and mercy?
When the owner comes to the vineyard, will he
find faithful stewards or tenants hoarding the
harvest? Will we accept the son? Hand him over
those first figs. Let him call the shots. Or
will we keep pretending that vineyard is ours?
The rejected stone has become the cornerstone.
This is the Lord's doing, and it is marvelous
in our eyes. So may we bear fruit worthy of the
kingdom. May we welcome the Son even when he
unsettles us. And may we not wither, but instead
live. Amen? Amen. Thanks, guys. Well, we've walked
together through a fig tree that withered, a
temple overturned, a vineyard where tenants forgot
whose land it really was. Each scene cuts sharp,
but together they whisper the strange mercy of
God. Judgment clears the field, but mercy plants
again. The tree dies, but prayer is reborn. The
temple shakes, but the nations are welcomed in.
The sun is rejected, but the cornerstone holds.
Here's the good news, friends. You and I don't
have to live as leaf -only people. We don't have
to be hollow disciples or grasping tenants. By
grace, we can be grafted into the vineyard, rooted
deep, bearing fruit that feeds the hungry, heals
the broken, and forgives the unforgivable. That's
not our work alone. It's the Spirit's work in
us. And if Jesus can turn a rejected stone into
the cornerstone of a whole new house, then he
can take what's broken in you and build something
living, strong, beautiful. This word has been
a balm or a fire for your soul. I'd be honored
if you'd like, share, and subscribe. That's how
these stories find their way to others who need
a little mercy in the static, who need to know
that grace is still on the dial. So, until we
meet again, may you bear figs, may you tend the
vineyard, and may you know the cornerstone holds
fast. I'll see you next time.