But we are all as an unclean thing, and all our righteousnesses are as filthy rags; and we all do fade as a leaf; and our iniquities, like the wind, have taken us away. Is. 64:6
Today I winterized a fig tree. The plant had already gone mostly into dormancy, its trunk hardening and its fragrant, juicy leaves browned and tattered by the early frosts. I picked the last good figs—the refugees of a late, warm autumn and a layer of frost cover—stripped off some shriveled, frost-damaged specimins and the plant’s remaining leaves, and bundled the whole thing up in burlap and twine. Bend the tree over, weight it down with rocks, cover with a mound of leaves and tarp, and the tree is bedded down for the season.
Growing figs in cold climates requires a certain violence. Since below-freezing temperatures can kill back the tree’s fruiting wood, gardeners eager to get a good crop in zone 6 or north have to protect the plant over the winter. I do this by the method just described, but another popular approach is to bury the tree: chop its roots on one side, tip it over into a shallow trench, then resurrect the plant in the spring. Figs from the grave.
The Gospel reading for this week references the fig tree on the spring end of the season, with Christ enjoining his listeners to take a lesson from the plant as it leafs out:
Now learn a parable of the fig tree; When her branch is yet tender, and putteth forth leaves, ye know that summer is near. So ye in like manner, when ye shall see these things come to pass, know that it is nigh, even at the doors. Matt. 13: 28-29
Here the fig tree is the emblem of Advent’s great theme of watchfulness. As the fig tree marks the coming of spring, we should also be marked by our anticipation of the coming of Christ, ready for the judgment that may descend with the parousia at any moment. Christ is always about to arrive, “even at the doors,” and this is not the gentle baby of Christmas but the stern judge at the end of time.
If Christ had lived in a cooler climate, the fig at the end of season could have provided an even better illustration of his theme. If I don’t read the signs of the times and winterize my fig, the oncoming cold will swiftly end its bearing potential. I need to be ready to put that fig to death so that it can be resurrected in the spring. I need to strip off the leaves that fade, those unclean things.
As I laid my fig down today, a cold wind blew from the east. My fingers grew numb and fumbled with the twine. I am a reasonably good gardener; I am, I hope, a reasonably good man. But, like a fig in a cold climate, I have my limits. There is righteousness I feel myself incapable of, and sin that I do not put away. I do not feel especially prepared for winter.
Mercifully, I am not expected to winter-proof my own soul. Instead, I cry with Isaiah: “Be not so terribly angry, O Lord, and remember not iniquity forever. Behold, please look, we are all your people” (64:9, ESV). My own righteousness is a frostbit fig on the ground; only the warmth of Christ protects me from the withering wind. With Gerard Manley Hopkins, as winter bears down, “to Christ I look, on Christ I call.”
I am reliably informed this is how grandpa got the family through the winter in Vermont back in the day . Its significantly cheaper that way. Gotta watch out for mice though.