the parable of the orange tree

Published by Miles Vincent Grimes under on 12:54 AM


Dr John White

I DREAMED I DROVE ON A FLORIDA road, still and straight and empty. On either side were groves of or¬ange trees, so that as I turned to look at them from time to time, line after line of trees stretched back endlessly from the road, their boughs heavy with round yel¬low fruit. This was harvest time. My wonder grew as the miles slipped by. How could the harvest be gathered?

Suddenly I realized that for all the hours I had driven (and this was how I knew I must be dream¬ing) I had seen no other person. The groves were empty of people. No other car had passed me. No houses were to be seen beside the highway. I was alone in a forest of orange trees.

But at last I saw some orange pickers. Far from the highway, almost on the horizon, lost in the vast wilderness of unpicked fruit, I could discern a tiny group of them working steadily. And many miles later I saw another group. I could not be sure, but I suspected that the earth beneath me was shaking with silent laughter at the hopelessness of their task. Yet the pickers went on picking.

The sun had long passed its zenith, and the shadows were lengthening when, without any warning, I turned a corner of the road to see a notice "Leaving NEGLECTED COUNTY - Entering HOME COUNTY." The contrast was so startling that I scarcely had time to take in the notice. I had to slow down, for all at once the traffic was heavy. People by the thousands swarmed the road and crowded the sidewalks.

Even more startling was the transformation in the orange groves. Orange groves were still there, and orange trees in abun¬dance, but now, far from being si¬lent and empty, they were filled with the laughter and singing of multitudes of people. Indeed it was the people we noticed rather than the trees. People--and houses.
I parked the car at the roadside and mingled with the crowd. Smart gowns, neat shoes, showy hats, ex¬pensive suits and starched shirts made me a little conscious of my work clothes. Everyone seemed so fresh, and poised, and happy.

"Is it a holiday?" I asked a well-dressed woman with whom I fell in step.
She looked a little startled for a moment, and then her face relaxed with a smile of gracious condescen¬sion.
"You're a stranger, aren't you?" she said, and before I could reply, "This is Orange Day."
She must have seen a puzzled look on my face, for she went on, "It is so good to turn aside from one's labors and pick oranges one day of the week."
“But don’t you pick oranges every day?” I asked her.
"One may pick oranges at any time," she said. "We should always be ready to pick oranges, but Or¬ange Day is the day that we devote especially to orange picking."
I left her and made my way fur¬ther into the trees. Most of the people were carrying a book. Bound beautifully in leather, and edged and lettered in gold, I was able to discern on the edge of one of them the words, "Orange Picker's Manual."
By and by I noticed around one of the orange trees seats had been arranged, rising upward in tiers from the ground. The seats were almost full-but, as I approached the group, a smiling well-dressed gentleman shook my hand and con¬ducted me to a seat.
There, around the foot of the or¬ange tree, I could see a number of people. One of them was address¬ing all the people on the seats and, just as I got to my seat, everyone rose to his feet and began to sing. The man next to me shared with me his song book. It was called "Songs of the Orange Groves."
They sang for some time, and the song leader waved his arms with a strange and frenzied abandon, exhorting the people in the inter¬vals between the songs to sing more loudly.
I grew steadily more puzzled.

"When do we start to pick or¬anges?" I asked the man who had loaned me his book.
"It's not long now," he told me. "We like to get everyone warmed up first. Besides, we want to make the oranges feel at home." I thought he was joking but his face was serious.
After a while a rather well-groomed man took over from the song leader and, after reading two sentences from his well-thumbed copy of the Or¬ange Picker's Manual, began to make a speech. I wasn't clear whether he was addressing the people or the oranges.
I glanced behind me and saw a number of groups of people similar to our own group gathering around an occasional tree and being addressed by other well-groomed men. Some of the trees had no one around them.
"Which trees do we pick from?" I asked the man beside me. He did not seem to understand, so I pointed to the trees round about,
"This is our tree," he said, point¬ing to the one we were gathered around.
"But there are too many of us to pick from just one tree," I protested. "Why, there are more people than oranges!"
"But we don't pick oranges." the man explained. "We haven't been called. That's Pastor Orange Picker’s job. We’re here to support him. Besides we haven't been to college. You need to know how an orange thinks before you can pick it successfully, orange psychology, you know. Most of these folks here, he went on, pointing to the congregation, "have never been to Manual School."
"Manual School," I whispered, "What's that?"
"It's where they go to study the Picker's Manual" my in¬formant went on. It’s very hard to understand. You need years of study before it makes sense."
"I see," I murmured. "I had no idea that picking oranges was so difficult."

The well-groomed man at the front was still making his speech. His face was red, and he appeared to be indignant about something. So far as I could see there was rivalry with some of the other "orange-picking" groups. But a moment later a glow came on his face.
"But we are not forsaken," he said. "We have much to be thank¬ful for. Last week we saw THREE ORANGES BROUGHT INTO OUR BASKETS, and we are now completely debt free from the money we owed on the new cushion covers that grace the seats you now sit on.”
"Isn't it wonderful?" the man next to me murmured. I made no reply. I felt that something must be profoundly wrong somewhere. All this seemed to be a very round-about way of picking oranges.
The well-groomed man was reaching a climax in his speech. The atmos¬phere seemed tense. Then with a very dramatic gesture he reached two of the oranges, plucked them from the branch, and placed them in the basket at his feet. The ap¬plause was deafening.

"Do we start to pick now?" I asked my informant.
"What in the world do you think we're doing?" he hissed. "What do you suppose this tremendous effort has been made for? There's more orange-picking talent in this group than in the rest of Home County. Thousands of dollars have been spent on the tree you're looking at."
I apologized quickly. "I wasn't being critical," I said. "And I'm sure the well-groomed man must be a very good orange picker but surely the rest of us could try. After all, there are so many oranges that need picking. We've all got a pair of hands, and we could read the Manual."

"When you've been in the busi¬ness as long as I have, you'll realize that it's not as simple as that," he replied. "There isn't time, for one thing. We have our work to do, our families to care for, and our homes to look after. We. . .

But I wasn't listening. Light was beginning to break on me. Whatever these people were, they were not orange pickers. Orange picking was just a form of entertain¬ment for their weekends.

I tried one or two more of the groups around the trees. Not all of them had such high academic stand¬ards for orange pickers. Some held classes on orange picking. I tried to tell them of the trees I had seen in Neglected County but they seemed to have little interest.

"We haven't picked the oranges here yet," was their usual reply!

The sun was almost setting in my dream and, growing tired of the noise and activity all around me, I got in the car and began to drive back again along the road I had come. Soon all around me again were the vast and empty orange groves.

But there were changes. Some¬thing had happened in my absence. Everywhere the ground was littered with fallen fruit. And as I watched, it seemed that before my eyes the trees began to rain oranges. Many of them lay rotting on the ground.

I felt there was something so strange about it all, and my be¬wilderment grew as I thought of all the people in Home County.

Then, booming through the trees there came a voice which said, “The harvest is plenteous, but the laborers are few; Pray ye therefore the Lord of the harvest, that he will send forth laborers. . ."

And I awakened because after all, it was only a dream!

Author: Dr. John White


Mark Walsh said... @ March 24, 2013 at 6:47 PM

This article, published by New Tribes Mission, changed my life. I am no longer content to play church or condone such subtle yet devastating diversion from our LORD's commission.

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