Be Fruitful and Multiply
Fruit exists for the seed. Its very purpose lies in protection, nourishment, and reproduction. The fruit isn’t an end in itself—it’s a vessel, a strategy, a means by which the tree ensures its future. It protects the seed from harm, nourishes it with nutrients, and, most importantly, facilitates its dispersal. Without the fruit, the seed is vulnerable. Without the seed, the fruit is purposeless. Together, they form a seamless system of reproduction, propagation, and growth.
This dynamic is the story of life itself. Trees don’t bear fruit to preserve themselves—they do it to give life to what comes next. The fruit is sacrificial by nature; it exists to be consumed, carried, or discarded for the sake of the seed. This is the tree’s way of reproducing its kind, not just in the space it occupies but far beyond its own reach. The fruit’s beauty, its sweetness, its appeal—all of it is an invitation to participate in the reproductive process of the tree. Life gives life.
And this, perhaps, is one of the deepest meanings of all creation. Life exists to multiply. Not just to survive, but to reproduce and extend itself. Reproduction is baked into the DNA of every living organism. It’s the driving principle behind creation itself, a principle so universal that it echoes through Genesis: “Be fruitful and multiply.” Fruitfulness is not a suggestion; it’s an imperative. And not just biologically. It speaks to the entirety of our purpose as humans, our call to be generative, creative, reproductive in every sense.
We see this same pattern in the ecclesial system. The church is called to bear fruit, to reproduce, to multiply. Like the tree, the church’s purpose is to create something that gives life to others. This is discipleship. This is mission. This is the very reason the church exists. But when reproduction gives way to self-preservation, the whole system breaks down. Fruit is no longer about the seed; it becomes about the tree itself. Instead of looking outward, the institution looks inward, consumed with maintenance rather than multiplication. This is the great danger of institutionalization. The structure, which was originally built to enable reproduction, becomes a machine designed for survival. It devours resources, protects its own existence, and bears little to no fruit.
Jesus understood this. His constant warnings against fruitless systems speak to this very tendency. The barren fig tree wasn’t just about a plant; it was a critique of systems that fail to reproduce, that fail to bear fruit for the sake of others. The kingdom is built on fruitfulness. It’s expansive by nature. It’s a seed that grows into a tree, which produces more seeds, which spread and grow into forests. This is the rhythm of the gospel, the life of the church, the calling of every follower of Jesus. The whole system—the seed, the fruit, the tree, the forest—was designed to multiply.
To live otherwise is to miss the point. Our purpose, like the tree, is to be fruitful in every way. To nurture, to protect, to reproduce. The seed in us must give life to something beyond us. Fruitfulness is not just a task; it’s our identity. It’s the way creation itself reflects the Creator’s design. When the church embraces this outward, sacrificial, reproductive posture, it comes alive. It becomes what it was meant to be: a system that multiplies, a vessel that carries life into the future.
But when it does not—when preservation becomes the goal, when fruit is hoarded or the seed neglected—the system stagnates. The church turns inward and begins to wither. Fruit must serve the seed, always. If the seed doesn’t grow, the fruit was wasted. Creation itself testifies to this truth. The tree was designed to reproduce. And so were we.
