Back in 2007, when I was studying at SJPUC, life was little different. At SJPUC we were treated much like college students. There was no uniform, and we were free to come and go from the campus as we pleased. The junior college was situated near the Cotton schools, both boys and girls. In those days, St Joseph’s Boys High School had not yet begun its co-educational ISC classes for the higher standards, and students from Cottons and SJPUC often found themselves hanging out in the same spaces outside school hours.
It was common to see ISC Cottonians, in uniform, walking past Airlines Hotel towards a small cigarette shop nearby. Since it was illegal to sell cigarettes to high schoolers, especially those in uniform, the shopkeeper would refuse them. The Josephites, however, without uniform, became useful in such moments. They would purchase cigarettes on behalf of their friends. In a curious way, they were in demand.
I do not smoke, and I have never taken to it. Smoking destroys and defiles the body. Anyways, I would often go along with my friends to that same shop. Not for cigarettes, but for something else. A bread omelette. It was a simple yet unusual sort of sandwich. Usually, an omelette is placed between slices of bread, but here it was the other way round, a slice of bread placed between two omelettes. It cost twelve rupees, and for that price it was a bargain. Simple as it was, it was filling, and for many of us, it became a regular part of those days.
The image of a sandwich brings to mind the “sandwiches” in the Gospel of Gospel of Mark. Mark has a way of telling his story that is not always linear. At times he begins one account, introduces another, and then returns to the first. One narrative is placed within another, much like a sandwich. In literary analysis, this is often referred to as intercalation.
We are able to see this clearly in Mark 11. Mark 11 marks a new phase in the Gospel, as Jesus enters the vicinity of Jerusalem after speaking of his coming suffering. From this point onwards, the temple becomes central to the narrative, and a tension begins to develop between Jesus and the temple.
Jesus enters Jerusalem to a reception filled with praise, almost royal in tone. Many Christians who attended church meetings yesterday, on Palm Sunday, might have heard a sermon or a reflection on this passage, on how royal and jubilant his entry was.
After this reception, we see that Jesus goes straight into the temple, looks around at everything, and then, as evening approaches, leaves for Bethany with the twelve. There is no immediate action in the temple, only careful observation by Jesus.
During these days, Jesus had to travel between Bethany and Jerusalem. With the Passover approaching, Jerusalem would have been crowded with pilgrims, and in Bethany, on the outskirts, he would have found a place to lodge for the night. In the morning, he would then travel to Jerusalem.
On the next morning, as he travels from Bethany to Jerusalem, Jesus sees a fig tree in leaf. He goes to it, hoping to find fruit. Instead, he finds nothing but leaves, for it was not the season for figs. He then says that no one will ever eat fruit from it again. It is almost as though the tree had drawn him in, presenting itself as fruitful, yet offering nothing. It was all appearance, without substance.
Later that same day, Jesus enters the temple and drives out those who were buying and selling. Much like the fig tree, the temple was full of activity. Money changers were present to assist Jews who had come from distant places, exchanging their coins so that they might purchase what was required for sacrifice. Traders played their part in this system. On the surface, everything appeared as it should. Worship seemed to be taking place.
Yet when Jesus inspected the temple, he found that everything was happening except prayer. Quoting Isaiah and Jeremiah, he declares that what was meant to be a house of prayer had become a den of robbers.
The fig tree had leaves but no fruit. The temple had activity but lacked prayer.
On the following day, as they pass by again, the fig tree is seen withered from its roots. Peter notices it and recalls what Jesus had said. The judgement is now visible. What once appeared alive has withered completely. What happens to the fig tree points to what is to come upon the temple. In time, the temple itself would be destroyed in AD 70.
In the New Testament, Christians are spoken of as the temple. So the question turns towards us. Are we like the fig tree, full of leaves but with no fruit? Are we like the temple, full of activity but without prayer?
We may be busy with church or para-church work. We may appear to be living a godly life. Yet, quietly, something may be missing. The body, which is meant to be the temple of God, may be given over to other things. Outwardly, we may look fine and even draw attention to Jesus, but when Jesus comes and looks closely, will he be disappointed?
I Corinthians 3,16–17 says it plainly: Do you not know that you are God’s temple and that God’s Spirit dwells in you? If anyone destroys God’s temple, God will destroy him. For God’s temple is holy, and you are that temple.
When Jesus entered the temple and drove people out, it shows how seriously he takes this. The temple was meant to be a house of prayer. Yet when he looked, everything was happening except prayer. Later, when Peter noticed that the fig tree had withered, Jesus used that moment to teach about prayer. In both instances, the point remains the same. The temple of God must be a place of prayer.
So a Christian life without prayer may appear full on the outside, but it stands on the path to destruction.