It’s Monday. The dusty track between Bethany and Jerusalem is busy with the typical traffic: Farmers bring their produce into the city, the more successful driving braying donkeys. A young lawyer-in-training walks as quickly as dignity allows to get to his studies in time. A family arrives to celebrate the Passover with relatives, the children chattering with excitement as they near the holy city. A group of Roman auxiliaries travel to a new assignment.
Hurrying about their business, few take notice of the small group walking toward Jerusalem with a young rabbi at the center. Yesterday, he had ridden on a donkey to the resounding shouts of the multitude. His arrival had thrown the city into a tumult — Who is this man? Today is quieter.
“Ihunger.”Notfarahead,theleavesofitsbranchesshadingabitoftheroad,standsafigtree.Pausingintheshade,helooksupandfindsnothingbutleaves;itisnottheseasonforfigs.Heknowsnofruitcouldcomefromitsstrong,spreadingbranches.Yethespeaks:“Maynooneevereatfruitfromyouagain”(Mark11:14).Thediscipleslookateachother.Surelyheknowsfigsarenotyetinseason.Doesn’the?Theyresumetheirwalktowar
