You are free. That’s the truth of it. Free from whatever it is that would hold you back from the full and abundant life God first designed for you and each and every person to enjoy. In Christ God has claimed you, called you, made you his own. Because of Jesus there is nothing you must prove, no ladder to climb, no test to pass. And yet—this freedom doesn’t leave you untethered. It binds you, not in chains, but in the love of Jesus. You are free, yes—but for the sake of others. Called to love, to serve, to bear fruit. Not because you must, but because you can. Because God calls.
And that call isn’t a burden. It’s not a leash yanking you back in line. It’s an invitation. A summons to live fully into who God has made you to be. The world says freedom is doing whatever you want, whenever you want, answering to no one. But in Christ, freedom looks different. It looks like belonging. Like purpose. Like knowing that your life isn’t random or wasted, that you have something to do, something to give. God’s call isn’t about locking you into a role you never wanted. It’s about drawing you into the work of love, into a life that matters—not because you’re making a name for yourself, but because you’re part of something bigger than yourself. You are free. And because of that, you are free to serve. Free to love. Free to follow where God leads, knowing that wherever he calls you, he is already there.
Let us pray. May the words of my mouth and the meditations of our hearts be acceptable in your sight, O Lord, our rock and our redeemer. Amen.
I wanted grapes. Not the kind you buy in a store, but real grapes. Grapes from my own vines, growing in my own dirt, so I could make my own grape juice. I was already a tinkerer as a kid, always trying to build or fix something, and I got it in my head that I wanted an arbor in the backyard. So—I bought grapevines. I planted them in the backyard. My dad, a man who does nothing halfway, built an arbor that could survive the end of days—four beams, sunk into cement, strong enough to hold up the very sky. And I waited.
First year? A few straggly vines, some tired-looking leaves, maybe a grape or two just to mock me. Second year? More vines, negligible few grapes. I started to wonder. Had I done something wrong? Was the soil bad? The weather too hot? Too cool? Too dry? Too wet? Maybe it was the wrong fertilizer, too much sun, some insect conspiracy? I thought about tearing the whole thing down. It wasn’t doing what I wanted. It wasn’t giving me what I’d planned for.
And that, right there—that question—is it for naught?—is a real and ancient one. It’s the question Moses might’ve asked while tending sheep in the wilderness. It’s the question the owner of the fig tree asked in Jesus’ parable. It’s the question we all ask when the work we’re doing doesn’t seem to be doing anything at all.
Moses wasn’t looking for a calling. He wasn’t standing in the desert, hoping for God to give him a grand mission. He’d had his chance at being somebody, and it hadn’t gone well. So now? He was a shepherd, out in the quiet, getting older, keeping his head down. And then—fire. A bush, burning. But not burning up. Not breaking, not crumbling, not turning to dust.
Moses goes to look, and that’s when God speaks. Moses, Moses. The voice calls him by name. And suddenly, it’s not just a bush on fire. It’s his whole life, his whole past, his whole future, lit up right in front of him. And what does God want? Go to Pharaoh. Lead my people out of Egypt.
Now, if Moses were not altogether there, maybe he would’ve nodded along, squared his shoulders, and said, “Well, that makes total sense.” But nobody, nobody in their right mind, would hear this and think it makes sense. A bush on fire that doesn’t burn? A runaway shepherd going back to face the most powerful man in the world? It’s absurd. And Moses knows it. So instead of nodding, he asks, “Who am I to do this?” Then, “What if they don’t believe me?” And finally, “What’s your name, anyway?” Because he knows this isn’t just hard—it’s impossible.
And God? God doesn’t hand him a resume or list out his qualifications. He just says, “I will be with you.”
The work isn’t about Moses proving himself. The work is about what God is doing through him. Moses thought he was just tending sheep in the wilderness. Turns out, he was waiting for something bigger. Turns out, the waiting wasn’t for naught.
And then Jesus—who tells a story about a tree. Three years, no fruit. The owner’s had enough. Cut it down. It’s wasting space. And you can see his point. A fig tree is supposed to make figs. If it doesn’t, what’s the point? But then, the gardener steps in. Give it one more year. Let me dig around it, fertilize it. Let me give it the care it needs.
Now, this isn’t just about trees. This is about us. About how we think our faith should grow, how our work should pay off, how life should make sense. And when it doesn’t—when we don’t see the fruit—we start to wonder. But God? God’s not in a hurry to cut things down. God is patient. God digs around the roots, breaks up the hard ground, pours in what’s needed. Even when nothing’s growing, even when it looks like wasted time, wasted space—it’s not for naught. Moses got called, but God did the real work. The fig tree had to bear fruit, but not without the gardener tending it first.
Same goes for us. We are called, yes. We are told to love, to serve, to grow, to do the work God has given us. But it’s not about us making things happen on our own. It’s about what God is already doing—what God has been doing from the start. God calls. God prepares. God digs into the soil of our lives and works through us, in us, alongside us. And maybe that’s what makes it so frustrating when we don’t see the fruit right away. You’ve put in the years, worked hard, done your part—but the world feels different now. Maybe you’re raising grandkids instead of enjoying retirement, trying to balance your own needs with the needs of a family that still relies on you. Maybe you’re watching the industry you gave your life to shrink or shift, leaving you wondering what all that time and effort was for. Maybe you’re caregiving for a spouse, a sibling, a friend, and the weight of it is heavier than you expected. Maybe you’re struggling to find where you fit in a world that keeps changing, faster than you ever thought it could. You’ve done the work. You’ve been faithful. And yet—what now? What next?
And yeah, sometimes it feels like nothing’s happening. Like we’re just standing in dirt, waiting for a bush to catch fire. Like we’re tending to vines that won’t grow. But God doesn’t waste time. If we’re waiting, there’s a reason. If we’re working, it’s worth it.
That arbor my dad built? It stood there, year after year, waiting. The vines? They stretched, they climbed, they tangled up the beams. And then—after patience, after tending, after trimming back what needed to go—grapes. Not just a few. Buckets. The work wasn’t for naught. It just needed time.
So take heart. Keep digging. Keep tending. Keep waiting. Because with God? The work is not for naught.
In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
The Rev'd Daniel W. Spigelmyer, Jr. 