Let me sing for my beloved. Isaiah begins with a love song—a tender, aching ballad about a vineyard planted with care. Cleared of stones. Planted with choice vines. Watched over with hope. But when the time came for fruit, it yielded only wild grapes. Sour. Unfit. Unfaithful.

And so the song turns. The beloved will tear down the hedge. Break the wall. Withhold the rain. Let the vineyard become a wasteland. Not out of spite—but sorrow. Because justice was expected, and bloodshed was found. Righteousness was hoped for, and only a cry came forth.

Psalm 80 picks up the lament. “You brought a vine out of Egypt… you planted it… it filled the land.” But now the vine is burned. Cut down. Ravaged. And the psalmist pleads, “Turn again, O God of hosts… look down from heaven and see… restore us.”

There is grief in these texts. But not hopelessness. There is judgment. But not abandonment.

Because Hebrews reminds us: we are not the first to walk through fire. We are surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses—those who passed through the sea, endured the sword, wandered in deserts, and still believed. They did not receive the fullness of the promise, but they pressed on. And now, we are called to run our own race—with perseverance, with courage, with our eyes fixed on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of our faith.

And then Jesus speaks. Not with comfort, but with fire. “I came to bring fire to the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled!” These are not easy words. They unsettle. They divide. They burn. But they are not cruel. They are clarifying.

Jesus is not calling us to destruction. He is calling us to discernment. To see the signs. To read the times. To know when the vineyard is bearing fruit—and when it is not.

So what does this mean for us?

• It means we must tend the vineyard—not just with ritual, but with righteousness.

• We must pray—not just for restoration, but for readiness.

• We must run—not just with endurance, but with vision.

• And we must discern—not just the weather, but the Spirit’s fire.

This is not a season for comfort alone. It is a season for clarity. For courage. For choosing the way of Jesus, even when it divides. Even when it burns. Even when it costs.

Because the fire Jesus brings is not meant to destroy us—it is meant to refine us.

To burn away the wild grapes.

To clear the stones again.

To make room for fruit that lasts.

So today, let us sing the vineyard song with honesty. Let us pray the psalm with longing. Let us run the race with perseverance. And let us welcome the fire—not with fear, but with faith.

Because the One who planted us is still watching. Still tending. Still calling us to bear fruit worthy of the kingdom.

Amen.