Fruitless

“This people honors me with their lips, but their heart is far from me…” (Matthew 15:8)

I love you, Carl tells his wife, kissing her goodnight, and closing the door of their bedroom. He pads to the office in his worn slippers under the pretense of wrapping up some deskwork. Soon the computer’s glow lulls him into an escape that feels strangely exhilarating–airbrushed images racier than his tired middle-aged wife–and decisively more vivid than his faltering career. Life has become monotonous; ordinary to the Nth degree.

Sunday morning, like clockwork, Carl sits with his wife in the back pew, far right, a lovely location for viewing every skirt that passes his way as he feigns interest in his pastor who is currently rambling on about something called the fruit of the Spirit. Boring with a capital B. On the upside, due to his unblemished church attendance record, and nothing more, his name is now in the offing for the newest round of deacons to be nominated.

Yes, siree. This will certainly boost his favor with others in the community, giving him a swell of power, however small.

Carl’s Bible remains in the backseat of his car. It is convenient to know where it is, come Sunday morning.

Godless. Fruitless.

***

You know I love you, Jemma says absentmindedly to her four-year-old daughter, who is again asking for more juice and toys. Play puzzles, Mommy. Please…..the little girl stretches out the word as she tilts her head back in frustration, worn out from continual pleadings. Rather than obliging, the mother sighs and curls up, disappearing back into her phone, scrolling and liking, scrolling and liking, addicted to the pictures, the trinkets, the fast, the easy.

I love you, Mommy, the little girl tries again as she begins to cry, poking her mother’s leg while Jemma’s eyes remain glued to the screen. The most precious and authentic part of this woman’s life stands squarely before her, forty inches tall and pining for attention. Instead of receiving a hug or a smile, she is offered the repeated lie: In a few minutes, I’ll play.

This family frequents church every other Sunday or so, considering themselves faithful attenders, setting up camp in the middle pews, and keeping up appearances by smiling and singing and checking off the good people box, only half listening to the pastor as he preaches and teaches his way through Galatians.

As he reads the Bible now, he says something regarding spiritual fruit, and Jemma awakens.

Fruit!

She remembers with a start that she has signed up to bring grapes and apple slices for Cassidy’s preschool class on Monday. This means that she will:

1) have to stop at the market on the way home since her car is in the shop,

and

2) ask her husband to drop off Cassidy (plus a boatload of snacks) at preschool tomorrow morning on his way to work, something he despises, after staying up late Sunday nights to watch the game and sweat his Fantasy Football stats.

Even worse?

He will be ticked off about missing today’s kickoff, which thereby ruins Jemma’s carefully timed plan to ask him for more money to pay for Cassidy’s dance classes. Everyone else has been posting pictures of their little girls dressed as ballerinas. She feels anxious about the possibility of missing out. If only they did not have car repairs to pay for right now…

Jemma suddenly feels the world crashing in on her dreams as she inwardly rants, irritated at her husband, irritated that they are not wealthy, and irritated by the realization at how much time church eats up on a Sunday morning. She taps her phone to check the time and sees scores of social media alerts. Good grief! How long will the pastor keep droning?

Love, joy, peace, patience, yada, yada, yada.

Jemma’s Bible is on her phone. An app that she opened once, years ago.

Godless. Fruitless.

***

Love ya, Girl, says the seventy-something Agnes to Shirley before hanging up the phone. They have been calling one another for a gazillion years, sharing what they called prayer requests. Today’s “prayer request” centers around their new pastor, who preaches FOREVER (The service is now ninety minutes, rather than one hour! How dreadful!).

I miss Pastor Steven, moans Agnes to Shirley who heartily agrees. He had such good stories and jokes to lighten the mood. Plus zippy sermons. Remember those days? When we could get to lunch early? Now all we hear all about is holiness and sin and repentance. Something must be done.

This naturally leads to a discussion about the horrific failures of the new pastor’s wife to piece together monthly socials. I was born into this church, says Shirley, and it has been over ten years since any pastor’s wife has done what we want.

It goes on and on, minds firmly set on things below.

These two prefer to perch in the balcony, assessing the congregation from on high. Oh, they volunteer, but carefully, and only when it suits. Volunteering in ways that lead to their greater visibility and agendas. They sit above, settling in, passing a tin of mints back and forth, and wondering why on earth the pastor needs to be teaching about the Fruit of the Spirit. Love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control. Aren’t these lessons meant for the unsaved? For heaven’s sake, most of the congregation has been in church for at least a decade, and many even longer.

Here we go, Shirley rolls her eyes, whispering a touch too loudly behind her bulletin. Doesn’t he know that we already know this?

Agnes and Shirley carry their Bibles to and from church every Sunday and Wednesday. They sometimes read the Good Book, but it’s a lot more miss than hit, and their hearts remain cold. Obeying themselves, they enjoy books dubbed Christian literature, containing words that encourage them to smile and follow their heart, which they do quite well, spending copious amounts of time spying on Facebook. As they discover tidbits of juicy information they twist them into prayer requests–their codeword for gossip.

Godless. Fruitless.

***

I love these people, Lord, says the pastor as he prays for his congregation.

Holy Spirit, please move and convict and soften all of our hearts through the power of your Word.

As he preaches, he observes folded arms, and overt irritation on too many faces. One man, a potential deacon candidate, is pretending to pay attention while his eyes peruse women, none of whom are his wife. A young woman is scrolling and texting and frowning as her young husband nods off. Two older women in the balcony whisper and chat and fan themselves with the bulletin as he preaches.

The pastor can see nearly everything from the pulpit. He preaches and prays.

Yet he sadly wonders if his study, his preparation, his work, and his prayers even matter.

Come, Holy Spirit, Come.

***

A middle-aged man, Mitch, sits in the back, alone. His pew Bible is open as he follows along in Galatians. He has been in church sporadically his entire adult life, preferring sports and fishing and sleeping in, forever lured by the shimmery enticements of the world.

He is only here now because of his deceased wife.

She had been the one with a white-hot fire burning within; how deeply she loved God. Yes, Lisa had spoken about Jesus and the Bible until her dying breath, while fiercely guarding Sunday mornings, never missing church, which had made Mitch furious in seven different ways.

With a clarity that emerged only after she had been laid to rest, he now knew that he had been a dreadful husband, zoning out when watching his games, never genuinely listening to her when she attempted to share her thoughts and concerns.

I work hard all day and need some downtime, Lisa. I support our family and deserve time for myself. Can’t you respect that?

Her soft brown eyes had filled.

I guess you cannot since you are not employed.

And then: What do you do all day? This he had murmured under his breath as she fled the room, quietly closing their bedroom door. He heard her crying softly and had done absolutely nothing to make amends.

Why was he so mean-spirited?

The truth was that Lisa had done everything for their family, forfeiting a paycheck to serve. And now that she was gone he recognized it.

The week after her funeral, he found a note tucked under his carefully folded socks. It was Lisa’s love letter to Mitch, despite everything, asking him to go to church when she was gone.

He did no such thing, that is until this morning.

It was strange, given the fact that he was traveling out of town. He woke up, lonely and sad in the tiny hotel. After checking out, he decided a hot coffee would ease the ache, and as he cruised by a church on the way to Starbucks, he noticed many cars in the parking lot and felt an odd tug to attend. If nothing else he would extend one final kindness to Lisa.

So here he sat now, intently listening to the sermon from the back row.

As the pastor preached, the words leaped off the page, and his heart began thumping. This sermon was pointed directly at him. How was this possible? He knew nobody here, and they did not know him, either.

This fruit of the Spirit the pastor preached on described Lisa so well. She had not been perfect, but when she faltered she had been quick to apologize. She prayed and went to church and selflessly served, even when no one was watching. Sometimes she had overspent and nagged, but these things became less frequent over time, and what he wouldn’t give to have her back right now. Her apologies had been open and sincere, and she reminded Mitch that everyone sins, but it is the true Christian who repents, bearing the fruit of God.

Fruit.

There was that word again.

As the pastor spoke, he explained that spiritual fruit is impossible without the Holy Spirit. We cannot manufacture these characteristics without the Holy Spirit living inside of us. Fruit does not save you, said the pastor, emphatically. Only Jesus does. But love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control give evidence that someone is a true Christ-follower. And authentic Christians will always be growing and maturing as they abide in the vine: Jesus. In fact, Jesus said in John 15:8: “I am the vine; you are the branches. Whoever abides in me and I in him, he it is that bears much fruit, for apart from me you can do nothing.”

He paused, making eye contact with Mitch.

Unbelievers do not have God living inside of them, and cannot bear good fruit.

Mitch felt himself softening, like a puddle, as though an invisible fortress had crumbled. The Bible verses seemed a mirror to his withered soul.

The pastor explained that our rescue was possible only through faith in Christ Jesus. Mitch had known this since he was a child, but suddenly he could see everything so clearly. Tears trickled down his face, and he was grateful to be hidden in the back row. He told God how sorry he was, and mentally confessed every sin he could remember.

The list was long.

After the service, the pastor approached him, eyes kind, as he offered Mitch his hand.

Mitch wasn’t too sure what to say, so he spoke plainly: I just became a new person. Can you help me, Pastor?

The pastor was startled. He smiled, nodding and remembering his morning prayer.

Come, Holy Spirit. Come.

***

Bear fruit in keeping with repentance. (Matthew 3:8)

And because you are sons, God has sent the Spirit of his Son into our hearts, crying, “Abba! Father!” (Galatians 4:6)