My hands stung from carrying water jars too long, but I didn’t mind. Jesus was ahead of us, walking the dusty road from Bethany toward Jerusalem, and nothing mattered more than keeping up with Him.
The sun had barely risen, and I heard someone’s stomach growl—probably Andrew again. We hadn’t eaten since the night before, so when we spotted a fig tree covered in leaves just up the path, hope flickered in my chest. “Maybe there's fruit on it!” I whispered to Thomas.
But when Jesus stepped closer and parted the branches, I caught His face change. Nothing. Not a single fig.
It wasn’t the season for figs yet—but still, He frowned. Then, softly but firmly, He said, “May no one ever eat fruit from you again.”
There was silence.
I stared at the fig tree. It didn’t wilt. It didn’t crumble. Nothing happened. Just Jesus’s words floating in the air, heavier than the heat.
All day, through Jerusalem’s crowded streets and the noisy temple courts, I tried to forget about it. Maybe He was just hungry. Maybe it meant nothing.
The next morning, I walked beside James. He was quiet, until he suddenly stopped mid-step.
“Is that... the same tree?”
I glanced where he pointed.
The trunk was cracked. The leaves were crumpled and brown, like they’d been scorched from the roots up. I stepped closer and poked the bark. Dry. Dead.
But... it was alive yesterday.
Peter called out, “Rabbi! Look—the fig tree You cursed is withered!”
Jesus turned to us. His eyes didn’t hold anger or confusion. Just calm. “Have faith in God.”
I blinked. The tree, the withering—it wasn’t about hunger. It was a lesson. But about what?
Jesus kept speaking. “If you truly believe—no doubt in your heart—you can say to this mountain, ‘Move,’ and it will.”
Us? Move a mountain?
But His voice had no hint of pretend. “Whatever you ask for in prayer, believe that you have received it, and it will be yours.”
I bit my lip. My prayers hadn’t always sounded like that. I asked—but did I believe?
Then He added one more thing. “And when you stand praying, if you hold anything against anyone, forgive them. So your Father in heaven may forgive you.”
That part stung more than the others. I thought of my uncle, who cheated Father out of our land. I hadn’t prayed for him—just wished he’d go away. I wanted God’s promises, but I’d been holding back my heart.
This tree—this dead, dried fig tree—had grown up looking strong, leafy, full of promise. But it had nothing real to offer. No fruit. Just the look of it.
I looked down at my hands—still dusty, still sore. And I whispered, “I want to grow the kind of faith that feeds people.”
From that day on, I prayed differently. Not just for what I wanted…but trusting God for what He wanted too.
What changed? I stopped pretending. I started believing like Jesus said—with forgiveness, with trust, with a heart ready to grow something real.
Jesus didn’t curse the tree to make it die. He showed us what a life without faith and forgiveness really looked like.
Now, every time I walk past a fig tree, I remember: real faith doesn’t just look alive. It gives something. And it grows.
My hands stung from carrying water jars too long, but I didn’t mind. Jesus was ahead of us, walking the dusty road from Bethany toward Jerusalem, and nothing mattered more than keeping up with Him.
The sun had barely risen, and I heard someone’s stomach growl—probably Andrew again. We hadn’t eaten since the night before, so when we spotted a fig tree covered in leaves just up the path, hope flickered in my chest. “Maybe there's fruit on it!” I whispered to Thomas.
But when Jesus stepped closer and parted the branches, I caught His face change. Nothing. Not a single fig.
It wasn’t the season for figs yet—but still, He frowned. Then, softly but firmly, He said, “May no one ever eat fruit from you again.”
There was silence.
I stared at the fig tree. It didn’t wilt. It didn’t crumble. Nothing happened. Just Jesus’s words floating in the air, heavier than the heat.
All day, through Jerusalem’s crowded streets and the noisy temple courts, I tried to forget about it. Maybe He was just hungry. Maybe it meant nothing.
The next morning, I walked beside James. He was quiet, until he suddenly stopped mid-step.
“Is that... the same tree?”
I glanced where he pointed.
The trunk was cracked. The leaves were crumpled and brown, like they’d been scorched from the roots up. I stepped closer and poked the bark. Dry. Dead.
But... it was alive yesterday.
Peter called out, “Rabbi! Look—the fig tree You cursed is withered!”
Jesus turned to us. His eyes didn’t hold anger or confusion. Just calm. “Have faith in God.”
I blinked. The tree, the withering—it wasn’t about hunger. It was a lesson. But about what?
Jesus kept speaking. “If you truly believe—no doubt in your heart—you can say to this mountain, ‘Move,’ and it will.”
Us? Move a mountain?
But His voice had no hint of pretend. “Whatever you ask for in prayer, believe that you have received it, and it will be yours.”
I bit my lip. My prayers hadn’t always sounded like that. I asked—but did I believe?
Then He added one more thing. “And when you stand praying, if you hold anything against anyone, forgive them. So your Father in heaven may forgive you.”
That part stung more than the others. I thought of my uncle, who cheated Father out of our land. I hadn’t prayed for him—just wished he’d go away. I wanted God’s promises, but I’d been holding back my heart.
This tree—this dead, dried fig tree—had grown up looking strong, leafy, full of promise. But it had nothing real to offer. No fruit. Just the look of it.
I looked down at my hands—still dusty, still sore. And I whispered, “I want to grow the kind of faith that feeds people.”
From that day on, I prayed differently. Not just for what I wanted…but trusting God for what He wanted too.
What changed? I stopped pretending. I started believing like Jesus said—with forgiveness, with trust, with a heart ready to grow something real.
Jesus didn’t curse the tree to make it die. He showed us what a life without faith and forgiveness really looked like.
Now, every time I walk past a fig tree, I remember: real faith doesn’t just look alive. It gives something. And it grows.
