Like everyone in Southern California, my parents hire gardeners who come to mow the lawn, etc.
Like almost everyone in Southern California, my parents have an orange tree growing in their yard.
Like a fair few people in Southern California, my parents have grandchildren: in their case, two fifteen year old boys, fraternal twins. My sister, her husband, and their boys live only about eight blocks away from my parents, so visits to and from the grandsons are not rare. Sometimes the visits have purpose and goal beyond familial loyalty and affection. This is a story of one such visit by one of the grandsons. (I’ll call him Sam.)
Recent rains in the region contributed to the prodigious growth of the orange tree. I don’t know the variety, but they are juice oranges. Noticing that the orange tree was getting too big for my parents’ small backyard, the gardeners told my parents, one recent week, that on their next visit they would prune and trim the tree.
Now, of late, the orange tree had been producing fruit at an ambitious rate. And my parents, not wishing to lose any of their potential harvest, decided to check the tree for ripe fruit before the gardeners came back. My father collected what he could from its lower branches. But, alas, the tree had grown so tall that the fruit on the upper branches was out of his reach. Now in his 80s, my father, wisely, does not decide to go and fetch a ladder when he encounters a situation like this. Instead, he decides to summon a grandson. I’ll call him Sam.
Sam, who at the tender age of fifteen can safely negotiate ladders (along with surfboards, skateboards, and snowboards; so, really, what is a ladder to him?) was recruited to come over to my parents’ house in order to collect the oranges from the upper reaches of the tree.
Dutifully, Sam arrived and set up the ladder. My parents trust him; they are not the overbearing types; they did not observe his every move from the kitchen window; they went about their business, as Sam went about his business. And before long Sam returned to them with just a few oranges in his hands, which he handed over to Grandma and Grandpa. “This is all there was,” he reported. “Any other remaining oranges have been picked at by birds, and they aren’t worth taking.” Very well. And, thank you, Sam. You are such a good and helpful grandson, and it is always a joy for you to be here. Give your grandmother a kiss before you go.
Days later, the gardeners arrived with their clippers, their trimmers, and their blades and saws of various kinds. A ladder was set up, as they prepared to trim and prune the orange tree. Miracle of miracles, what should the gardeners discover in the branches of the orange tree, but many, many, well-ripened oranges, entirely un-molested by birds, ready to be picked, so they could be squeezed for their sweet and luscious juice!
“Mira!” Called the gardeners to one another and to my parents; for indeed there were many oranges to be picked.
My mother brought bags in which to place the oranges from the tree, which, mind you, only days before had been declared by the boy we’ll call Sam to be nearly fruitless (except for a few sad, picked-over remnants).
This is the estimated count my mother reported to me: Each of the two gardeners was given a bag with a couple of dozen oranges in it. My parents kept a bag with two dozen oranges in it. They delivered to my sister (and her husband, and their two wonderful sons) a bag with two dozen oranges in it. A dozen went to the next door neighbor. A dozen went to friends across the street. A dozen went to a friend of my Dad’s. The final dozen went to friends around the corner.
That’s just shy of 150 oranges, from a tree that only days earlier had, to the teenage eye, appeared to be almost completely fruitless! Now, these numbers have not been independently verified, but my mother is a reliable source, and not prone to exaggeration. 150 oranges in the tree! What wonders doth the Lord perform! (I won’t ask you for an Alleluia, but you know it’s called for!)
One of my signal observations about the New Testament is that nowhere within its scrolls, fragments, or pages of text, in any of the biblical languages, nor in its English translations, is there ever employed a word that means “success.” Success is not a New Testament concept, and the writers of sacred writ, like its principal protagonist, do not ever promote a concept of success as important to their worldview or their spiritual priorities. (How’s that for Good News?)
No, the measure of accomplishment, the measure of gain, the measure of blessing that Jesus holds up, again and again, is the measure of fruitfulness. Ironically, this is not a call to be “fruitful” in the “biblical” sense... and to multiply.
“Those who abide in me, and I in them, bear much fruit,” we hear Jesus say. He is the vine, we are the branches, and our work, our ministry, has a clear purpose and goal: it is to bear much fruit. Indeed, every branch that bears fruit, God the Father prunes, in order to cause it to bear more fruit. This is actually how grape vines and other fruit-bearing plants work, of course.
And what might that fruitfulness look like in real terms?
Fruitfulness among us, the branches, might look like acts of mercy and kindness. It might look like prayers offered, anthems sung, meals served, or hugs given. It might look like miles walked, bread baked, or forgiveness offered or received. It might look like children taught, windows washed, letters written. It might look like a gift given to someone, or to the church, or a check written to a school I know. It might look like time spent as a mentor, pro bono work done for someone in need, or a decision about what to do with those clothes you should really give away. It might look like an hour of silence, attending a daily Mass, or reading the Scriptures at home. It might look like a phone call placed, or a visit long delayed on which you finally embark. It might look like a march of protest, or a night in jail for righteousness sake, or a bag lunch with a PB&J, or a cup of water. There are too many species and varieties of fruitfulness to count, but you’ll know them when you see them.
Jesus said, “Those who abide in me, and I in them, bear much fruit.” And so, the Parable of Sam and the Miraculous Orange Tree might, just might - what with its fruitfulness and all - resound with some themes of the Gospel of Jesus.
“Why,” I hear you asking, “why do you speak to us in parables?”
Here is why: You probably fit into this parable one way or another. There is an “orange tree” in your life somewhere - maybe an entire grove of them. These are “trees” that have grown too tall, gotten out of hand, become unwieldy, etc. And you have gotten everything from them that you can. Certainly you have harvested everything that’s within reach. And as far as you know, that’s all you’re going to get.
And maybe you are my parents in this parable. Maybe you have neither the wherewithal nor the inclination to deal with the tree anymore, even though you like it very much. But it now requires sufficient attention that either you will ignore it, or you will leave it to others to manage.
Maybe you are the gardeners in this parable. Maybe you have skill and ability that can be brought to bear on the tree’s circumstances. And maybe you do just that. But still, neither the tree nor the oranges are yours. And although you are absolutely essential to the story, you could easily find yourself left empty-handed. (But thankfully, in this parable the gardeners do not leave empty handed!)
It’s possible that you, yourself, are the tree in this parable, and that you have begun to suspect that you have no fruit left to be offered, or that what you have is ruined and worthless. You cannot see or imagine that you have any fruitfulness left in you.
More than likely, you are Sam in this parable, (believe it or not). So, try to get in touch with your inner teenage boy. Especially if the parable is not really about oranges, or work, or anything at which you strive for success; but especially if the parable is about faith, and what you have come to expect of your faith, and of your church, and maybe what you have come to expect of God.
You show up. You are dutiful, maybe even prayerful and loving. But you knew almost before you got here that there was not all that much in this project for you. And so, you found exactly what you expected: not much, except a few mangled oranges that had been picked at by birds.
Were there actually more oranges in the branches when you looked? Who knows!?! If there were, you would not have been able to see them, anyway. For, all you required of the encounter with the tree was to end the operation successfully; which you did. It did not need to be fruitful. You were never really looking for fruit anyway: you just wanted to get the job done - and it’s not the same thing.
And we have been trained for success (or failure), but not for fruitfulness.
But Jesus knows nothing of success (he is well familiar with failure though). The only metric that Jesus uses is fruitfulness. And although sometimes fruitfulness might look like success, more often, it will bear no resemblance to such a thing, about which Jesus knows and cares not a whit, anyway.
So, hear the parable of Sam and the Miraculous Orange Tree. Maybe it’s about your soul. Maybe it’s about your faith. Maybe it’s about the church and her work in the world or in your life. Maybe it’s about God in a world that seems ever more godless.
Is there really no more fruit to be found in the branches?
Look again. Ask for help. If your help came from a teenage boy, maybe try another helper.
For, there is fruit to be found in the branches - far more fruit than you could even guess at. And some of it is meant for you. And the juice is luscious and sweet.
Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen
2 May 2021
Saint Mark’s, Locust Street, Philadelphia
