What's Deserved?

Luke 13:1-9

At that very time there were some present who told him about the Galileans whose blood Pilate had mingled with their sacrifices. He asked them, “Do you think that because these Galileans suffered in this way they were worse sinners than all other Galileans?

No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will all perish as they did. Or those eighteen who were killed when the tower of Siloam fell on them—do you think that they were worse offenders than all the others living in Jerusalem? No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will all perish just as they did.”

Then he told this parable: “A man had a fig tree planted in his vineyard; and he came looking for fruit on it and found none. So he said to the gardener,

‘See here! For three years I have come looking for fruit on this fig tree, and still I find none. Cut it down! Why should it be wasting the soil?’

He replied, ‘Sir, let it alone for one more year, until I dig around it and put manure on it. If it bears fruit next year, well and good; but if not, you can cut it down.’”

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Did they deserve it? That’s the question Jesus poses to the people reporting a recent tragedy under Pilate's rule. Pilate was known for cruelty and contempt toward the Jewish people. In this case, some Galilean Jews were offering sacrifices when Pilate’s soldiers slaughtered them, mixing their blood with that of the animals, desecrating the sacred rite. It was as if Pilate declared: these Jews are no more human than the animals they slaughter.

The people came to Jesus to confirm what they already believed: “Did you hear about that horrible death? What did they do to deserve it?” They wanted an explanation. Surely, there had to be a reason. The common explanation was sin: divine punishment.

That was the belief of the day: suffering was punishment for sin, your own or your parents’. But Jesus pushes back. It’s not their sins that caused this, which feels like good news—until Jesus warns them not to think themselves better. To drive the point home, he tells them about a tower that collapsed and killed 18 Jerusalemites. Did they deserve it? Were they worse sinners than others? No, Jesus says, but unless you repent, you will perish just as they did. Is that a threat? A promise? A prophecy?

Jesus doesn’t explain, just like he doesn’t explain suffering. Isn’t that hard for us too? We long for explanations for suffering—ours and others'. We’re often gentler on ourselves, but when it comes to others’ pain, we’re tempted to look for fault.

When tragedy strikes—a plane crash, a tornado, a terrible car accident—we don’t think those people had it coming. We think: tragedy, bad luck, not divine punishment.

But what about poverty? What about homelessness? We see a tent compound, trash scattered around. We might not say they deserve it—but we think: if only they made better decisions, if they avoided addiction, if they took care of their health, maybe they wouldn’t be in this situation.

This year, we’ve been learning and talking a lot about homelessness, especially here in Indianapolis. Our high school students and I have spent this semester diving deep into the issue as part of their Sunday School curriculum. The advocacy workshop we hosted focused on two Indiana bills addressing homelessness. So I was eager to attend the Spring Faith and Action conference at Christian Theological Seminary, which focused on that very topic.

The keynote speaker was an author and activist I hadn’t heard of before: David Ambroz.

He started by sharing a bit of his own story. Born into homelessness, he, his mother, and two siblings roamed the streets of New York City, living mainly in Grand Central station. He recounted one particularly cold night, Christmas Eve, when David was just five years old.

It’s frigid and they are wandering the streets for hours, ice forming on their faces, as his mom flees the people she believes are chasing them. It’s only after David has peed himself and pleaded profusely that she relents and they go to a men’s shelter, where they are given a single cot for all four of them.

Laying on that cot, David remembers his mom, the caring mom now, asking him “do you want this”, gesturing to the lost souls in the shelter. “No!” he cried. “I don’t want this. I don’t want to sit here in my own urine, surrounded by nameless, homeless shadows.” But in the dark, Mom sparks something: hope. I’m five, but I know this—I want a roof, a bed, blankets. I want to protect my siblings. I want to protect Mom from mom. “Good,” Mom says softly. For a moment, she’s the mom I dream of. We pile together on the cot, and I fall asleep, held by hope.