Yesterday, we waved palms. Today, the tone shifts.
Holy Week has a rhythm to it, even if we don’t always notice it. After the celebration of Palm Sunday, the Gospels slow things down. They linger in the final days before the cross, drawing our attention to what Jesus does, and what he sees. In the Gospel of Mark, we’re told that Jesus enters the temple, looks around at everything… and then leaves. He doesn’t react. He doesn’t explode. He notices.
And then he comes back.
We often picture this moment as sudden anger, tables flying in a burst of divine rage. But that’s not quite what the Gospel shows us. This isn’t a knee-jerk reaction. It’s a considered one. Jesus sees what’s happening, takes it in, and returns to deal with it. The tables are still turned. The injustice is still confronted. But it isn’t uncontrolled.
No one gets hurt. It’s not rage. Its considered. It’s purpose. And if I’m honest, that unsettles me more.
Because I quite like the idea of a God who only ever feels safe and gentle. A God who comforts, not ones who disrupts. A God who understands… and leaves things as they are. But that’s not who we meet here. We meet a God who loves too much to ignore what is wrong.
This moment is framed by another strange one: the fig tree. A tree full of leaves, giving every impression of life, but bearing no fruit. And Jesus curses it. It feels jarring. Out of place. Almost unfair.
But placed either side of the temple cleansing, it starts to say something deeper. This is what it looks like to appear alive, but be empty underneath. This is what it looks like when something meant for life and flourishing has become hollow. And Jesus will not leave it that way.
I wonder how often my life looks like that fig tree. Busy. Full. Leafy, even. But if you looked closely, would there be fruit? Would there be genuine patience, kindness, gentleness… or just the appearance of them?
It’s easier than I’d like to admit to settle for looking the part. To build a life that appears faithful, while quietly allowing things to take root that don’t belong. And here’s the uncomfortable truth: God sees it.
Not with a flash of temper. Not with unpredictable anger. But with clear, unwavering vision. He notices. And then, in love, he acts.
We don’t often talk about this, but we are all being formed. Not just those in training, or ministry, or some intentional programme. Every day, in a thousand small ways, our hearts are shaped by what we give our attention to. We are always becoming something. Either we are being transformed, slowly, into people who look more like Jesus… Or we are being conformed, just as slowly, into something else. There isn’t really a neutral ground.
Which means the question isn’t whether God is at work in us. It’s whether we will let him be. Because the same Jesus who gently welcomes us is also the one who overturns tables. The one who refuses to let what is harmful stay hidden behind what looks good. Not to shame us. Not to punish us. But to make space for something better. For real fruit. For life that isn’t just surface-deep.
I’m not sure I always want that. If I’m honest, I’d rather keep a few tables where they are. Let things look tidy. Manageable. Acceptable.
But Holy Monday reminds me that God is not interested in appearances alone. He is interested in truth, in wholeness, in lives that actually bear fruit. And the strange, steady comfort in all of this is that he doesn’t act out of uncontrollable rage. He sees. He waits. He returns. And then, with purpose and love, he begins to clear what does not belong.
Maybe the prayer for today isn’t for comfort. Maybe it’s this: Lord, if there are tables in my life that need turning…
give me the courage to let you.
And if there is fruit that isn’t growing…
teach me how to live in a way that it might.
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