Plastic Faith
An artificial plant looks impressive. But it produces nothing.
You could easily buy one at a store with thought that it will "bring life to any room." And—sure—it brings the appearance of life. The leaves stay green. They never drop. It never needs water. In fact, if I tried to water it, the only thing that would grow is mold. From across the room, you'd swear it's thriving. Up close, it's plastic. No oxygen, no growth, no fruit. All appearance, zero substance.
Here's the thing about artificial plants: They're perfect for people who want the look without the life. Who want to appear to have a green thumb without actually growing anything. They're safe. Predictable. Dead.
And Jesus is about to expose an entire religious system that had become exactly that—artificial faith. Temple worship that looked impressive from a distance but produced nothing God wanted. Leaders who maintained the appearance of devotion while their hearts were plastic. A fig tree covered in leaves advertising fruit it didn't have.
Today's text is one story in four scenes. Mark deliberately structures it like a sandwich—the fig tree frames the temple incident, and the temple incident interprets the fig tree. Four angles on the same diagnosis: religion that looks alive but produces nothing.
The question Mark forces us to ask: Are we growing something real, or are we just maintaining impressive plastic?
The Tree with Leaves (vv. 12–14)
Mark 11, starting at verse 12:
“On the following day, when they came from Bethany, he was hungry. And seeing in the distance a fig tree in leaf, he went to see if he could find anything on it. When he came to it, he found nothing but leaves, for it was not the season for figs. And he said to it, “May no one ever eat fruit from you again.” And his disciples heard it.”
This passage has confused people for centuries. Let's walk through what's actually happening here.
It's Monday of Passion Week—we're five days from the crucifixion. Jesus and the disciples are making the two-mile walk from Bethany, where they spent the night, into Jerusalem. And Jesus is hungry. Not spiritually hungry, not metaphorically hungry—the Son of God wants breakfast.
He spots a fig tree in the distance, and Mark specifically tells us it was "in leaf." That detail matters more than you might think. See, fig trees are weird. Most fruit trees flower first, then produce fruit. Apple trees get those beautiful white blossoms, then apples come later. But fig trees? They do it backwards. The fruit often appears before or with the leaves.
So in that culture, when you see a fig tree covered in leaves, it's making a promise. It's advertising. It's essentially hanging a sign that says, "Food available here." Even though it wasn't the main fig harvest—that would come in late summer—these trees would produce early edible buds. The locals called them paggim. Not the sweet, full figs you buy at Whole Foods, but they were edible. Think of them as pre-figs, nature's appetizers. And a tree this leafy? It should have been loaded with them.
Jesus walks over. Maybe He's planning to teach while eating, share some fruit with the disciples. He reaches into the branches, searches through the leaves. Nothing. Not one bud. Not even a withered one from last season. Just leaves pretending to be productive.
Mark adds, ‘for it was not the season for figs.’ The word is καιρός (kairos)—here meaning the fig season. So Jesus isn’t expecting fruit at the wrong time. The point is the sign: the leaves promised fruit, but there was none.
And then Jesus does something shocking. He speaks to the tree: "May no one ever eat fruit from you again."
This is God rendering a verdict.
The disciples hear it. Mark makes sure we know that—they witnessed Jesus curse this tree. Think about that. This is the only time Jesus curses something by miracle in all four Gospels. Jesus:
heals blind eyes,
cleanses lepers,
raises the dead,
multiplies loaves and fish
But only once does He curse something. Why?
Because this isn't really about the tree. Jesus is creating a living parable that His disciples will never forget. And remember, this isn't Jesus' first fig tree story. In Luke 13, He told them a parable: A man planted a fig tree in his vineyard and came looking for fruit three years in a row. Nothing. He orders it cut down. But the gardener pleads, "Sir, leave it alone for one more year, and I'll dig around it and fertilize it. If it bears fruit next year, fine! If not, then cut it down." That parable was about patience, about grace, about God giving Israel more time.
But now? What was a parable is becoming reality.
See, throughout the Old Testament, fig trees symbolize Israel's spiritual condition. The prophet Jeremiah stood in the temple courts and declared God's judgment:
“When I would gather them, declares the LORD, there are no grapes on the vine, nor figs on the fig tree; even the leaves are withered.”
The imagery would have hit the disciples like a thunderbolt.
Micah used the same metaphor to describe spiritual famine:
“Woe is me! For I have become
as when the summer fruit has been gathered,
as when the grapes have been gleaned:
there is no cluster to eat,
no first-ripe fig that my soul desires.”
He was describing a nation that looked for righteousness and found nothing. Looking for faithfulness and finding only religious performance. There's even a subtle connection to Nathanael. Remember when Jesus first called him? He said,
“‘How do you know me?’ Nathanael asked.
Jesus answered, ‘I saw you while you were still under the fig tree before Philip called you.’”
In the first century, the shade of a fig tree was a popular location for a Rabbi and his disciples to gather to discuss the Torah—seen as symbolic places of spiritual contemplation and learning. So a fruitless fig tree? It's a picture of spiritual study that produces no spiritual fruit. All the knowledge, none of the transformation.
This tree—all impressive leaves, zero fruit—that's Israel's religious system in botanical form. The temple looked busy. The sacrifices never stopped. The Pharisees could quote Scripture backwards. But where was the fruit God actually wanted? Leaves but no figs equals religion with the lights on and nobody home.
So let me ask: Where are you projecting spiritual health without actual fruit?
Maybe you've mastered the art of the public prayer. When someone asks you to pray in small group, you can drop theological terms that would impress seminary professors. But your private prayer life? It's thinner than gas station coffee. When it's just you and God, you've got nothing to say. The public prayers are leaves; the private silence reveals no fruit.
Maybe your social media is a masterclass in Christian posting. Bible verses with sunset backgrounds. Worship lyrics as your status. Anyone scrolling would nominate you for sainthood. But at home? Your family gets the harsh words, the cold shoulder, the real you that doesn't match the online you. Your Instagram is all leaves; your living room reveals the fruit isn't there.
Or maybe you've got a Bible app with a 147-day streak. You're ahead of schedule on your reading plan. But that verse you highlighted yesterday about forgiveness? You scrolled past it and kept your grudge. That passage about generosity? You closed the app and kept your wallet closed too. That command to love your enemy? You read it, clicked the heart emoji, and kept right on hating. The app streak is leaves; obedience would be fruit.
Thomas Brooks, the old Puritan, said it perfectly: "Hypocrites are like pictures; they are fairest at farthest." From across the room, that artificial plant looks incredible. Get close enough to actually examine it, to expect something real from it—and you realize it doesn't even need soil. It's not connected to anything that gives life.
See, Jesus isn’t here to prune our plastic leaves. He wants to replace them with the life of the Spirit. But before He grows fruit, He clears space.
The Temple Cleansed (vv. 15–19)
Let's read what happens next. Mark 11, verse 15:
“And they came to Jerusalem. And he entered the temple and began to drive out those who sold and those who bought in the temple, and he overturned the tables of the money-changers and the seats of those who sold pigeons. And he would not allow anyone to carry anything through the temple. And he was teaching them and saying to them, ‘Is it not written, “My house shall be called a house of prayer for all the nations”? But you have made it a den of robbers.’ And the chief priests and the scribes heard it and were seeking a way to destroy him, for they feared him, because all the crowd was astonished at his teaching. And when evening came they went out of the city.”
Jesus walks into the temple complex and heads straight to the Court of the Gentiles. This is crucial—this was the one space in the entire temple designed so that non-Jews, the nations, could come and pray to the God of Israel. This was supposed to be their sacred space, their access point to Yahweh.
But what does Jesus find? It sounds like a livestock auction and smells like one too.
Picture this: You're a God-fearer from Rome. You've traveled for weeks, spent your life savings to make this pilgrimage. You've heard about the God of Israel who created heaven and earth. You enter the temple courts, expecting holy ground, expecting to finally encounter the divine. Instead, you're assaulted by merchants shouting, "Best rates on doves! Temple-approved!" Money-changers are arguing about exchange rates—your Roman denarii are no good here, you need Tyrian shekels. Sheep are bleating. Cattle are doing what cattle do. And people are using your prayer space as a shortcut to get from one side of Jerusalem to the other, carrying their merchandise right through the middle of what should be sacred space.
The Jewish historian Josephus tells us the scale of this operation. He states that on one Passover, 255,000 lambs were sacrificed. Think about the infrastructure needed to support that. This wasn't a few tables—this was an entire economy that had taken over the worship space.
And then Jesus shows us what righteous anger looks like. He starts flipping tables. Coins are rolling everywhere. He's driving out the sellers and the buyers. He blocks anyone trying to use the temple as a shortcut. The Greek word Mark uses here—ekballō—is the same word used when Jesus casts out demons. He's not politely asking them to leave. He's ejecting them.
This isn't because Jesus woke up on the wrong side of the…mat. This is because He is the Lord of the temple and this is His Father's house. Then Jesus teaches, and His words interpret His actions. He quotes two prophets to explain what's happening:
First, Isaiah 56:7:
“And as he taught them, he said, ‘It’s it not written: ‘My house will be called a house of prayer for all nations’? But you have made it ‘a den of robbers.’”
Look at God's original vision in Isaiah 56. God says,
“these I will bring to my holy mountain
and give them joy in my house of prayer.
Their burnt offerings and sacrifices
will be accepted on my altar;
for my house will be called
a house of prayer for all nations.”
God's heart was always for the nations. When Solomon dedicated the first temple, he specifically prayed in 1 Kings 8 that when foreigners come and pray toward this temple,
“hear in heaven your dwelling place and do according to all for which the foreigner calls to you, in order that all the peoples of the earth may know your name and fear you, as do your people Israel, and that they may know that this house that I have built is called by your name.”
But what had they done with this vision? Jesus quotes Jeremiah 7:11:
“And as he taught them, he said, ‘It’s it not written: ‘My house will be called a house of prayer for all nations’? But you have made it ‘a den of robbers.’’”
Now, a den of robbers isn't where the robbery happens. That's not where bandits do their stealing. It's the cave where they hide afterward. It's the safe house where they count their loot and feel secure from justice.
In Jeremiah's day, this was exactly the problem. People would steal, murder, commit adultery, swear falsely, burn incense to Baal—then come to the temple and say, "We are delivered!" They thought temple attendance was their get-out-of-judgment-free card. Jeremiah stood at the temple gates and called them out: "Will you steal and murder and commit adultery and swear falsely... and then come and stand before me in this house, which is called by my name, and say, 'We are delivered!'—only to go on doing all these abominations?"
The temple had become their spiritual hideout. Sin all week, show up at temple, feel safe. Repeat.
The problem wasn't simply that money was being handled—pilgrims needed to exchange currency and buy sacrificial animals. The problem was that mission and prayer were pushed aside. The one court designed to welcome outsiders had turned into a mall. What started as serving pilgrims had become controlling access to God. Good intentions had morphed into a business model. And here's what really burned Jesus up: there was literally no space left to seek God. A Gentile wanting to pray had nowhere to go. The background noise would drown out any attempt at meditation. The smell would distract from any sense of the sacred. The commerce had completely conquered the communion. The religious leaders had forgotten Zechariah 14:21, which prophesied that in the day of the Lord, "there shall no longer be a trader in the house of the LORD of hosts." They were echoing Zechariah’s vision—and marking themselves for judgment.
Mark tells us the chief priests and scribes heard about this and started plotting to kill Him. Why? "For they feared him, because all the crowd was astonished at his teaching." The Greek word for "astonished" is ekplēssō—literally "struck out of their senses." The crowds were blown away by Jesus' authority. But the leaders? They saw their profit margins and power structures threatened.
Let me make this personal. What clutters your court—the place where you're supposed to meet God?
Maybe it's your phone. Those notifications aren't just interruptions; they're merchants in your temple. Every ping is someone selling something—selling news, selling outrage, selling comparison, selling distraction. You sit down to pray and your phone buzzes. You open your Bible app and see seventeen other notifications. The Court of the Gentiles has become the Court of the Smartphones.
Maybe it's your schedule with zero margin. You've turned your life into a Jerusalem temple at Passover—so much activity there's no space for actual encounter with God. You're so busy doing things for God that you have no time to be with God. The commerce of Christian activity has crowded out communion.
Maybe it's the worry rehearsals running in the background of your mind. You know what I mean. Those mental conversations where you're defending yourself, or planning your comeback, or catastrophizing about tomorrow. Your internal Court of the Gentiles is so noisy with anxiety merchants that you can't hear God's voice.
Or maybe it's just "I'll pray later" becoming a lifestyle. Later when the kids are in bed. Later when work slows down. Later when life gets easier. But later never comes, and the temple of your heart stays cluttered with everything except actual prayer.
Here's a simple reset for this week. Call it the Prayer Margin Plan—just 10 minutes a day:
Put a 10-minute block on your calendar. Not "when I get to it." Not "if I have time." Pick an actual time. 8:15 AM. 12:30 PM during lunch. 9:45 PM before bed. Schedule it like you would a doctor's appointment.
Phone on airplane mode. Yes, it still works without WiFi. It's a miracle. The world will survive 10 minutes without you. If someone needs you that urgently, they should probably call 911 instead.
Three simple moves:
Adore (2-3 minutes on who God is—His character, His faithfulness, His beauty)
Ask (5-6 minutes for His will—not just your grocery list of needs, but "Your kingdom come, Your will be done")
Attend (1-2 minutes of silence—the hardest part—just listen)
End by praying for one person far from God by name. Not "all the lost people." One name. One face. One soul who needs what that Gentile in the temple court was looking for.
Jesus doesn't just point out the problem. He acts. He clears the temple to make space for prayer and people. He literally creates room for encounter with God.
And here's the thing—He'd like to do the same in us. He wants to flip some tables in our hearts, clear out the clutter, and make space for what matters: genuine prayer and genuine welcome for those who don't yet know Him.
The Withered Tree and Real Faith (vv. 20–25)
Let's read verses 20-25:
“As they passed by in the morning, they saw the fig tree withered away to its roots. And Peter remembered and said to him, “Rabbi, look! The fig tree that you cursed has withered.” And Jesus answered them, “Have faith in God. Truly, I say to you, whoever says to this mountain, ‘Be taken up and thrown into the sea,’ and does not doubt in his heart, but believes that what he says will come to pass, it will be done for him. Therefore I tell you, whatever you ask in prayer, believe that you have received it, and it will be yours. And whenever you stand praying, forgive, if you have anything against anyone, so that your Father also who is in heaven may forgive you your trespasses.””
So it's Tuesday morning. They're walking the same path from Bethany, probably hungry again, and Peter spots the tree from yesterday. It's not just dead—Mark says it's withered "from the roots." This isn't a tree that's struggling. It's comprehensively, thoroughly, completely dead. Brown leaves, brittle branches, the whole thing looks like it's been dead for months, not 24 hours.
Peter, master of the obvious, has to point it out. "Rabbi, look! The fig tree that you cursed has withered." You know, I’m convinced that every group needs someone like Peter. He's the guy who says what everyone sees but nobody wants to mention. He’s the guy who announces, “We’re out of coffee,” while holding the empty pot. Thanks, Peter. We hadn't all noticed the completely dead tree.
Now, you'd expect Jesus to say, "That's right, Peter. See? That's what happens to fruitless religion. Israel's temple system is about to wither just like that tree." That would be the obvious teaching moment. Instead, Jesus pivots: "Have faith in God."
Wait, what? How did we get from a dead tree to faith in God? Because Jesus isn't interested in just condemning dead religion. He wants to show what should replace it. The temple system ran on ritual, control, and our own human effort. Jesus offers something different: radical trust in God's power. Then comes one of Jesus' most famous and most misunderstood statements:
“And Jesus answered them, “Have faith in God. Truly, I say to you, whoever says to this mountain, ‘Be taken up and thrown into the sea,’ and does not doubt in his heart, but believes that what he says will come to pass, it will be done for him. Therefore I tell you, whatever you ask in prayer, believe that you have received it, and it will be yours.”
Huh? What? Which mountain? Well, look at where they're standing. From the Mount of Olives road, you can see the Temple Mount. It dominates the horizon. And what had that mountain become? Not a bridge to God but a barrier. Not an aid to worship but an obstacle. The religious system, immovable as a mountain, stood between people and genuine faith. In Jewish speech, "moving mountains" was a common metaphor for doing the impossible. They'd call brilliant rabbis "mountain movers" when they solved theological problems. So Jesus isn’t saying you can redecorate the Rockies if you believe hard enough. He's talking about the mountains that keep people from God's purposes.
The grammar here is important. When Jesus says "whoever says to this mountain," He uses the same authoritative speaking He used with the fig tree. This is prophetic declaration, not wishful thinking. It's speaking God's verdict over obstacles to His kingdom. Then He amplifies it:
“And Jesus answered them, “Have faith in God. Truly, I say to you, whoever says to this mountain, ‘Be taken up and thrown into the sea,’ and does not doubt in his heart, but believes that what he says will come to pass, it will be done for him.Therefore I tell you, whatever you ask in prayer, believe that you have received it, and it will be yours.”
Now, hear me out here. Before you bolt out of here and start praying for a Lamborghini and quoting this verse back to God, saying - “You said it! Lamborghini please. Thank you.” Let’s let Scripture interpret Scripture. This isn't a blank check for our wish list. 1 John 5:14 clarifies the principle:
“This is the confidence that we have toward him, that if we ask anything according to his will he hears us.”
James adds another dimension:
“You ask and do not receive, because you ask wrongly, to spend it on your passions.”
Prayer is not a lever to move God to our plan; it's the line that connects us to His plan. When we pray in faith, we're not convincing a reluctant God to act. We're aligning ourselves with what an eager God wants to do. I’ll put it like this:
"Prayer doesn't change God's mind; it changes us into people who can receive what God wants to give."
And then comes what seems like a complete curveball:
“And whenever you stand praying, forgive, if you have anything against anyone, so that your Father also who is in heaven may forgive you your trespasses.”
Hang on - hang on. How did we get from mountain-moving faith to forgiveness? Why does Jesus pair these two things?
Because unforgiveness is the most common mountain that is a barricade to our faith and our prayers.
It's like a concrete block in a pipe. Bitterness chokes prayer. Resentment strangles faith. You cannot harbor hatred and expect heaven to hear you clearly.
The Greek word for "forgive" here is ἀφίημι (aphiēmi)—it literally means "to send away, to release, to let go." It's a financial term, actually. It means to cancel a debt, to write it off the books. When someone wrongs you, they owe you. They owe you an apology, an explanation, restitution, something. Forgiveness you stop trying to collect.
Does forgiving mean I pretend it didn't happen? No. Forgiveness starts with honesty about the wrong. You can't forgive what you won't acknowledge. Forgiveness says, "This happened, it was wrong, it hurt, and I'm choosing to release it."
Do I need to trust them again? Not automatically. Forgiveness is given; trust is rebuilt. You can forgive someone instantly and still take years to trust them again—or never trust them if they haven't changed. Forgiveness doesn't make you a doormat.
What if they don't apologize? Forgiveness starts between you and God. It doesn't require their participation. While reconciliation takes two; forgiveness can begin with one. You're not waiting for them to earn it. You're choosing to release it.
What if the wound is deep? Then you might need to forgive today, and tomorrow, and the next day. Every time the debt shows up in your mental inbox, you hand it back to God. Jesus knows this cycle. That's why when Peter asked, "How many times should I forgive? Seven?" Jesus said, "Seventy times seven." Not 490 strikes and you're out—rather, forgiveness becomes a lifestyle.
Here's what I want you to notice: The religious leaders Jesus just confronted in the temple were characterized by the exact opposite of what He's teaching here. Was their faith in God? Well - I’m not the reader of hearts, but I can tell you that they were for sure putting faith in their system. I can tell you that they didn't really pray—they performed prayers. And forgiveness? Mark tells us in verse 18 they were plotting to kill Jesus. They held grudges, nursed grievances, and planned revenge.
The withered tree represents their kind of religion. What Jesus offers is completely different: faith that actually trusts God, prayer that connects with heaven, and hearts soft enough to forgive because they know they've been forgiven.
Don't be a withered fig tree. Don't be a temple that's lost its purpose. Be a person of faith who prays bold prayers and forgives fast, because you know the God who moved the ultimate mountain, the barrier between humanity and Himself, through the cross of Christ.
Which brings us to the heart of the matter: authority. Who gets to decide what real faith looks like?
A Question of Authority (vv. 27–33)
Let me read the final scene. Mark 11, starting at verse 27:
“And they came again to Jerusalem. And as he was walking in the temple, the chief priests and the scribes and the elders came to him, and they said to him, “By what authority are you doing these things, or who gave you this authority to do them?” Jesus said to them, “I will ask you one question; answer me, and I will tell you by what authority I do these things. Was the baptism of John from heaven or from man? Answer me.” And they discussed it with one another, saying, “If we say, ‘From heaven,’ he will say, ‘Why then did you not believe him?’ But shall we say, ‘From man’?”—they were afraid of the people, for they all held that John really was a prophet. So they answered Jesus, “We do not know.” And Jesus said to them, “Neither will I tell you by what authority I do these things.””
Jesus returns to the temple. Yesterday He flipped tables. Today the Sanhedrin wants answers: "By what authority are you doing these things?"
Translation: "Who authorized you to rearrange our furniture? What seminary did you attend? Where's your ordination certificate?"
Jesus could have said, "I am the Son of God. This is my Father's house." Instead, He asks them about John's baptism: "From heaven or from man?"
This is brilliant. John the Baptist had publicly identified Jesus as the Messiah. So if they admit John was from God, they're admitting Jesus is from God. But if they say John was just some guy, the crowd might stone them—everyone knew John was a prophet.
Mark lets us eavesdrop on their private huddle. They come back with this pathetic response: "We do not know."
Really? These are the theological experts. They debate the finest points of law. Their whole job is discerning what's from heaven and what's from man. And suddenly they claim ignorance about the most significant prophet in four hundred years?
This isn’t lack of knowledge, by the way, it's lack of surrender. "We don't know" is just a safer way to say, "We won't bow."
Jesus responds: "Neither will I tell you by what authority I do these things."
He's not being petty. He's making a point: revelation is wasted on the unwilling. If you won't accept the truth you already have, why should God give you more?
The issue isn't information. It's allegiance.
Martin Luther said, "Whatever your heart clings to and confides in, that is really your God." These leaders clung to power, position, and control. That grip kept them from grabbing Jesus' hand.
Where are you negotiating with Jesus instead of obeying Him?
Dating: You know what purity looks like, but you're writing exceptions. "Technically we're not..." You're not confused; you're negotiating.
Money: You know what generosity looks like, but you're calculating loopholes. "After I pay off debt..." "Ten percent of gross or net?" When you're looking for the minimum, you're not obeying.
Speech: You know what kindness sounds like, but sarcasm keeps winning at home. Those "honest" comments that are really just cruel. Are you choosing to be clever over kind?
Time: You know what Sabbath means, you’ve kept your calendar so full that even God needs an appointment.
So let me ask: When Scripture and your preference collide, who wins? If your preference wins every time, you don't have a Bible; you have a build-a-God workshop.
The religious leaders created a God who looked like them—concerned with rules, reputation, and revenue. When the real God showed up in Jesus, they didn't recognize Him because He didn't match their edited version.
I mean come on: they stood in God's house and told God's Son they didn't know if God's prophet was from God. That's what happens when you negotiate instead of surrender—you become so confused you can't recognize truth when it's flipping your tables.
In three days, these same leaders would mock Jesus on the cross: "Come down and we'll believe." But they had all the evidence they needed. What they lacked wasn't proof; it was willingness to let go of themselves.
Don't make their mistake. When Jesus asks for authority in your life, don't look for loopholes. Don't say "I don't know" when you mean "I won't submit."
These leaders kept their positions but lost their souls. Within forty years, Rome destroyed it all—temple leveled, priesthood ended, their authority evaporated.
But those who recognized Jesus' authority? They received what Rome couldn't destroy—eternal life, unshakeable kingdom, unfading inheritance.
So to answer the Pharisees' question: By what authority does Jesus do these things? All authority in heaven and earth is His.
The real question for us is: Will you recognize it, or will you stand in the temple of your own making and say, "We don't know"?
Today we’ve seen the same diagnosis from four different angles: appearance without obedience, worship without prayer, faith without forgiveness, leaders without surrender. The fig tree advertised fruit it didn’t have. The temple advertised access to God it didn’t provide. The leaders advertised authority they didn’t truly carry.
Jesus doesn’t just point out the problem. He acts, teaches, and invites:
Jesus is the true temple. When He spoke of destroying the temple and raising it in three days, He was speaking of His body. He is where heaven and earth meet.
At the cross, He became the cursed tree for us. Scripture says, “Cursed is everyone who is hanged on a tree.” The judgment our fruitlessness deserved fell on Him. When He died, the temple veil tore from top to bottom. God opened the way. No more “Court of the Gentiles” at the edge. In Christ, we come all the way in.
And He doesn’t just clear courts; He makes people into temples. “You are God’s temple, and God’s Spirit dwells in you.” The Spirit is the difference between plastic leaves and living fruit. That’s why change is possible. That’s why prayer has power. That’s why forgiveness doesn’t crush us—because we’ve been forgiven much.
You can keep the fake plant. It’s low maintenance. It looks fine from a distance. It will never drop leaves on your rug. It will also never change the air in the room.
But You don’t have to live an “artificial plant Christianity.” You can let Jesus plant something living—rooted in grace, watered by the Spirit, growing fruit that feeds others. That tree may drop some leaves. It will need pruning. It’ll require water and light. But in Christ, you can be the tree in Psalm 1—planted by streams, fruit in season. Alive.
Choose the living tree. Clear the court. Ask big. Forgive fast. Submit to Jesus. And watch what God grows.
