Luke 13:1-9
At that very time there were some present who told him about the Galileans whose blood Pilate had mingled with their sacrifices. He asked them, “Do you think that because these Galileans suffered in this way they were worse sinners than all other Galileans?
No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will all perish as they did. Or those eighteen who were killed when the tower of Siloam fell on them—do you think that they were worse offenders than all the others living in Jerusalem? No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will all perish just as they did.”
Then he told this parable: “A man had a fig tree planted in his vineyard; and he came looking for fruit on it and found none. So he said to the gardener,
‘See here! For three years I have come looking for fruit on this fig tree, and still I find none. Cut it down! Why should it be wasting the soil?’
He replied, ‘Sir, let it alone for one more year, until I dig around it and put manure on it. If it bears fruit next year, well and good; but if not, you can cut it down.’”
Did they deserve it? That’s the question Jesus poses to the people reporting a recent tragedy under Pilate's rule. Pilate was known for cruelty and contempt toward the Jewish people. In this case, some Galilean Jews were offering sacrifices when Pilate’s soldiers slaughtered them, mixing their blood with that of the animals, desecrating the sacred rite. It was as if Pilate declared: these Jews are no more human than the animals they slaughter.
The people came to Jesus to confirm what they already believed: “Did you hear about that horrible death? What did they do to deserve it?” They wanted an explanation. Surely, there had to be a reason. The common explanation was sin: divine punishment.
That was the belief of the day: suffering was punishment for sin, your own or your parents’. But Jesus pushes back. It’s not their sins that caused this, which feels like good news—until Jesus warns them not to think themselves better. To drive the point home, he tells them about a tower that collapsed and killed 18 Jerusalemites. Did they deserve it? Were they worse sinners than others? No, Jesus says, but unless you repent, you will perish just as they did. Is that a threat? A promise? A prophecy?
Jesus doesn’t explain, just like he doesn’t explain suffering. Isn’t that hard for us too? We long for explanations for suffering—ours and others'. We’re often gentler on ourselves, but when it comes to others’ pain, we’re tempted to look for fault.
When tragedy strikes—a plane crash, a tornado, a terrible car accident—we don’t think those people had it coming. We think: tragedy, bad luck, not divine punishment.
But what about poverty? What about homelessness? We see a tent compound, trash scattered around. We might not say they deserve it—but we think: if only they made better decisions, if they avoided addiction, if they took care of their health, maybe they wouldn’t be in this situation.
This year, we’ve been learning and talking a lot about homelessness, especially here in Indianapolis. Our high school students and I have spent this semester diving deep into the issue as part of their Sunday School curriculum. The advocacy workshop we hosted focused on two Indiana bills addressing homelessness. So I was eager to attend the Spring Faith and Action conference at Christian Theological Seminary, which focused on that very topic.
The keynote speaker was an author and activist I hadn’t heard of before: David Ambroz.
He started by sharing a bit of his own story. Born into homelessness, he, his mother, and two siblings roamed the streets of New York City, living mainly in Grand Central station. He recounted one particularly cold night, Christmas Eve, when David was just five years old.
It’s frigid and they are wandering the streets for hours, ice forming on their faces, as his mom flees the people she believes are chasing them. It’s only after David has peed himself and pleaded profusely that she relents and they go to a men’s shelter, where they are given a single cot for all four of them.
Laying on that cot, David remembers his mom, the caring mom now, asking him “do you want this”, gesturing to the lost souls in the shelter. “No!” he cried. “I don’t want this. I don’t want to sit here in my own urine, surrounded by nameless, homeless shadows.” But in the dark, Mom sparks something: hope. I’m five, but I know this—I want a roof, a bed, blankets. I want to protect my siblings. I want to protect Mom from mom. “Good,” Mom says softly. For a moment, she’s the mom I dream of. We pile together on the cot, and I fall asleep, held by hope.
The story was as powerful as the rest of his keynote. David talked about his time in foster care, he offered solutions, but he ended by asking, “Do you think I deserved to be homeless, to be grinded up in the foster care system? Do you think the people who live on your streets deserve such suffering? No! But until we change our thinking, until we don’t believe these people and children in utter poverty deserve this, nothing will change. We have the capability to end childhood homelessness and poverty—we just don’t have the willpower, because in our heart of hearts, we still believe they deserve this.”
That's exactly what Jesus is getting at. People living in poverty, living on the streets, are not suffering because of divine judgment. Jesus may not explain why suffering happens, but he makes clear it is not a punishment from God for one’s sins. That’s not to say sin doesn’t have consequences; surely it does. But I would ask: What sin is worse—the ones that contributed to being homeless, or having the means and resources to help but choosing not to? And I don’t just mean individually, but as a community, as a society.
In greater Indianapolis, we have spent over a billion dollars on sports stadiums and parks in the last 15 years, most of it coming from tax increases. Not even 4% of that has gone toward housing and homelessness. If anything, people are suffering more from our sin: from the slow, unjust systems we have created, from having the means as a society and as individuals to help, but choosing not to. From the self-righteous thought that they must be worse sinners than us, that they deserve this suffering.
Yet, thankfully, the trying task of deciding which sins are worse, which deserve punishment and which don’t, is an unnecessary and unfruitful task—one Jesus is uninterested in.
What I hear Jesus saying is: the people you assume are worse sinners than you are not. And unless we repent, unless we change our thinking, unless we turn to help, we will suffer too. As Bonhoeffer said, “We are bound together by a chain of suffering which unites us with one another and with God.” Because God doesn’t explain suffering; God shares it. To redeem all the suffering of the world, God did not command suffering to stop but rather became flesh in Jesus and suffered with us. It is by his suffering that we are redeemed and given the opportunity to lessen the suffering of others.
We are the fig tree, given another year, another day, another moment to bear fruit, to lessen the suffering of others. In Jesus’ eyes, we are not a waste of soil, of resources, opportunities, or time—and neither are those who live in tents, stay in cars, or sleep on sidewalks.
What does bearing fruit look like in our time and place? It’s simple, but not easy: It means doing what we can and acknowledging the humanity of those suffering around us. If you’re wondering how to begin, here are some ways you can bear fruit in this community.
Next Sunday after second service, I am taking our high school students to Horizon House, an organization dedicated to helping our neighbors experiencing homelessness get permanent, safe housing. We’ll get a tour and make some sandwiches for their guests. You are welcome to come; just please let me know if you’re interested.
And if that doesn’t work for you, consider reaching out to Lutheran Child and Family Services. They run the only long-term housing program for kids aging out of the foster system, many of whom are at the highest risk for homelessness. I learned just this week that their on-site pantry is running low and could use food donations. If you can help, reach out to me, and I’ll connect you with the right person.
Lastly, I leave you with the same charge David Ambroz gave at the conference: we may not be able to help every person we see on the streets, and he can’t either. But he does acknowledge them. He looks them in the eye and says, “I’m sorry I can’t help today, but good luck.” If nothing else, we can do that—acknowledge their humanity with kindness and respect. When that happened to David as a child, it let him know, if even for a moment that he mattered, that there was hope. Our neighbors certainly deserve that.
And what about us, do we deserve all that God gives us? The second chances, the boundless love, the endless grace with no strings attached?
No. But thank God we don’t get what we deserve. Amen.
