Picture the scene: it is the final week of Jesus’ earthly ministry, the air thick with messianic anticipation following His triumphal entry into Jerusalem. The next morning, as He journeys from Bethany, His hunger draws Him to a fig tree adorned with foliage. From afar, it promises sustenance; yet, upon inspection, it yields nothing—no figs, only leaves. Mark notes an arresting detail: “It was not the season for figs.” Jesus, undeterred by this apparent excuse, declares, “May no one ever eat fruit from you again.” By the following day, the tree stands withered, a stark testament to His words. Peter marvels, and Jesus pivots to a discourse on faith and prayer. What are we to make of this?
At first, we might be tempted to dismiss it as an impulsive act—a rare lapse in the Savior’s composure, born of physical need. But such a reading fails to grasp the intentionality of Jesus’ actions. This is no petty outburst; it is a prophetic sign, a deliberate enactment of judgment with roots in Israel’s sacred story. The fig tree, in the Hebrew Scriptures, is no mere botanical detail—it is a symbol freighted with meaning. Jeremiah 8:13 laments, “There will be no figs on the tree, and their leaves will wither,” a judgment on Israel’s unfaithfulness. Hosea 9:10 likens God’s people to early figs, once delightful, now fallen. When Jesus approaches this tree, its verdant leaves evoke the covenant promises of a fruitful nation, yet its barrenness mirrors a deeper spiritual reality.
Consider the historical moment. Jesus has just entered Jerusalem, where the Temple looms as the epicenter of religious life. Yet, what He finds there—and what this tree presages—is a hollow façade. The leaves of ritual, the trappings of piety, abound; but the fruit —is absent. The tree becomes a living indictment of Israel’s leadership, particularly the religious elite who have turned the house of prayer into, as Jesus will soon declare, “a den of robbers” (Mark 11:17). Its cursing is not capricious; it is a clarion call to authenticity, a warning that God sees beyond outward displays to the heart’s yield.
Yet the detail that it was “not the season for figs” gnaws at us. Does this not exonerate the tree? Here, we must delve deeper. In the agricultural context of first-century Judea, certain fig trees bore an early crop—small, edible buds known as taqsh—before the main harvest. A tree laden with leaves might reasonably signal such fruit, even out of season. Jesus’ expectation, then, was not unreasonable; the tree’s failure was its pretense. This unveils a profound truth: God’s call to fruitfulness transcends circumstance. The seasons of life—whether abundance or aridity—do not absolve us of bearing the fruit of faith. Jesus’ subsequent teaching on faith (Mark 11:23) underscores this: fruitfulness is not a product of external conditions but of an unwavering trust in God’s power.
This narrative, however, is not merely a relic of judgment on a bygone people. It confronts us with piercing questions. What of our own lives? We, too, can cultivate leaves—impressive resumes of religious activity, eloquent prayers, visible piety—while remaining barren.
THE ESTABLISHMENT’S TREES WITHER
The narrative of Jesus cursing the fig tree offers a poignant lens through which to view the current state of the Southern Baptist Convention, a denomination grappling with a sustained decline in membership and influence. Reports indicate that the SBC, once a towering presence in American Protestantism with a peak of 16.3 million members in 2006, has shed over 3 million members in the intervening years, falling to 12.9 million by 2023—the lowest since the mid-1970s. The most recent data highlights a slowing of this decline (a 1.8% drop in 2023 compared to steeper losses in prior years), yet the trajectory remains sobering. Alongside this, the convention lost nearly 300 churches in 2023 alone, a net reduction that underscores a broader erosion. How might the fig tree’s fate illuminate this moment?
As I explained the fig tree above, I noted that the fig tree’s abundance of leaves masked its barrenness—a disparity between appearance and substance that provoked Jesus’ judgment. For the SBC, one might see a parallel in the denomination’s historical prominence: a vast network of congregations, a robust institutional framework, and a cultural footprint that once suggested vigorous health. Yet, beneath this leafy exterior, recent decades have revealed a troubling fruitlessness. Membership rolls, long inflated with names of the inactive—a practice some have called “leafy bookkeeping”—are finally catching up to reality, as Lifeway Research’s Scott McConnell has observed. The stark drop of 457,371 members in 2022, the largest single-year decline in a century, reflects not just a pandemic-era anomaly but a deeper reckoning with those who have quietly drifted away. Like the fig tree, the SBC’s outward display has not aligned with the fruit God seeks: lives transformed, communities renewed, and a vibrant witness to Christ.
The story of the fig tree emphasized that Jesus’ expectation of fruit, even out of season, points to a call for faithfulness amid adversity. Here, the SBC’s challenges resonate. Reports highlight a rise in baptisms (226,919 in 2023, a 26% increase from 2022) and worship attendance (topping 4 million weekly), suggesting glimmers of vitality. Yet these gains pale against the losses, with baptisms still below pre-pandemic levels and a ratio of 2.7 members lost for every baptism in recent years—a stark reversal from the three baptisms per loss a decade ago. The denomination faces an “off-season” of cultural secularization, generational disengagement, and internal strife over issues like sexual abuse scandals and theological disputes. The data suggests not only a struggle to bear fruit amid these headwinds, but an abject failure.
What fruit, then, does Christ seek from the SBC today? It’s prayer and faithfulness, if we’re listening to the passage of the fig tree. That doesn’t seem to be what the Lord is getting.
The fig tree’s cursing came without warning, but the SBC’s cursing has come with much. But, the SBC and its leadership have ignored those warnings, ignored their own messengers, ignored their own churches, and have run headlong into a denomination-killing liberal drift. And given that no matter how much money the SBC throws at the problem, Christ Almighty has cursed it to wither and die.
The decline of evangelicalism in America, a movement that once thrived as a vibrant artery of religious and cultural life, reveals a confluence of forces that mirror the barren fig tree Jesus cursed in Mark 11—a symbol of promise unfulfilled. No longer the unassailable giant it was in the late 20th century, evangelicalism has seen its numbers erode as membership in its churches dwindles and its influence wanes. The broader Protestant landscape, of which evangelicals form a significant part, has watched its share of the U.S. population shrink, with the religiously unaffiliated—the “nones”—surging to nearly 30% by recent estimates. This shift is not merely a statistical curiosity but a profound unmasking: the leafy façade of evangelical vitality, once bolstered by megachurches, political clout, and a robust subculture, now stands exposed as the fruit of transformed lives and enduring witness grows scarce.
This faltering cannot be laid solely at the feet of a secularizing culture, though the rise of individualism and skepticism has undoubtedly challenged evangelicalism’s appeal. The movement’s struggles are equally internal, rooted in a dissonance between its proclaimed values and its practiced reality—a tension akin to the fig tree’s deceptive abundance. Evangelicals once excelled at evangelism, yet today their outreach often yields more headlines than converts, as the fruit of love and humility struggles to ripen in a climate of compromises. The result is a movement that, despite its visible branches, finds itself in an “off-season” of relevance, wrestling to produce what its heritage once promised.
INVEST IN THE NEW TREES
As evangelical institutions falter, their once-sturdy branches weighed down by decline and disillusionment, the ground beneath them shifts—crumbling, yes, but also breaking open to reveal soil ripe for new growth. The fig tree of Mark 11, cursed for its barrenness despite its leafy promise, serves as an apt metaphor: when structures fail to bear fruit, their withering is not merely an end but a clearing of space. The erosion of evangelicalism’s dominance marks the twilight of an era. Yet, in this twilight, seeds of innovation and renewal find purchase. History whispers this truth: the Reformation sprang from the Catholic Church’s fractures, just as the Great Awakenings emerged from the ashes of stale orthodoxy. Institutions may falter, but the Spirit’s work persists, coaxing life from the debris.
This dynamic is already unfolding within and beyond evangelicalism’s fading frame. As megachurches and denominational behemoths lose their gravitational pull, nimble movements—smaller churches, new parachurch ministries, and grassroots coalitions—take root, unburdened by the baggage of bloated bureaucracies. These nascent forms often prioritize authenticity over spectacle, echoing Jesus’ hunger for fruit over leaves. Consider the rise of newer ministries you see online, those who are considered the “dissidents” by Establishment Evangleicalism. Data hints at this shift: while traditional attendance wanes, newer movements suggest the revitalization of the Christian ecosystem, less tethered to crumbling edifices and more attuned to our original purpose; reaching the lost and glorifying God by a simple obedience to his Sacred Writ.
The promise of such renewal, however, is not automatic; it demands cultivation. New movements thrive only when rooted in dependence on God, not in the mere rejection of what came before. The failure of old institutions—whether through scandal, rigidity, or irrelevance—offers a cautionary tale: fruitlessness invites judgment, but it also beckons redemption. As evangelicalism’s giants stumble, the opportunity arises for a humbler, more adaptive witness to emerge—one that cares less what the world thinks of us, and cares more about faithfulness to Christ. In this liminal space, where the old withers and the new takes root, the church might yet find its truest calling: not to dominate, but to flourish as a living vine, bearing sustenance for a weary world.
Christians should recognize that the Populist Social Revival will see the death of many institutions in evangelicalism, and the rise of new ones. Find them. Foster them. Support them. And make sure that never again, so long as we are alive at the least, will we build institutions that compromise on Scripture or fear men, but those that keep our first love of Christ and Scripture.
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