The Emperor Hadrian, riding through the streets of Tiberias, spotted a very old man on his knees in the dirt, planting a fig tree.
Hadrian dismounted. He could not resist the question.
"Why plant that?" he asked. "If you had worked in your youth, you would have a store for your old age. You will never eat from this tree."
The old man lifted his head. He brushed soil off his hands.
"In my youth I worked," he said, "and I still work. If it pleases the Holy One, I may yet taste the fruit of this tree. I am in His hands."
Hadrian laughed, curious now. "Tell me your age."
"I have lived a hundred years."
"A hundred years old — and still expect to eat the fruit of this tree?"
The old man did not flinch. "If such be God's pleasure," he said. "And if not, I will leave the fruit for my son, as my father left the fruit of his labor for me."
The emperor considered this. He was used to power that expected immediate return on every action. Here was a man planting a tree whose harvest was a question he would not ask to be answered.
"Well," Hadrian said, half-teasing, half-disarmed. "If you do live until the figs ripen, send word to me. I would like to know."
The sages tell this story to answer a different question: what does faith look like in a body that has nearly run out of time? It looks like a man on his knees, covering roots with soil, trusting the inheritance more than the harvest.