When Your Flippant Faith Stinks
I saw Bradford Pear trees along the streets of Atlanta years ago. I asked a few locals if the pears from the trees tasted good, they laughed at me. “They don’t bear fruit,” they said, as though I was the village idiot. My question was, “Why call them pear trees if there are no pears?” I may not be the sharpest guy, but I thought it was a good question. When we lived in Tennessee, we loved looking at our five huge Bradford Trees, but hated managing them. When we sold the home, the buyer actually required me cut them down (and pay for it!) in our agreement. Smart fella. In moving to Texas, my wife told me she’d found the house she wanted. My first question was not about price or location or taxes. It was, “It doesn’t have any Bradford Pear trees does it?” “Only one,” she said, “and it’s cute.” …Won’t be for long, I thought. I’ve spent so much of my home owner’s life pruning, repairing, raking the leaves of, and generally detesting the trees we’d had in Tennessee. Downsize to cute, and still I remain with truckloads of crashed leaves and branches, my chainsaw, and more pruning –even a damaged roof! The Bradford Pear is as troublesome as an undisciplined child. It just won’t do anything right – and it gets more complicated with age. According to my friend, Steve McCary, the Bradford Pear is like sinful flesh of a not-so-serious Christian.
Thoughts from John Meador and insights from God's Word.