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The True Vine
Rebecca Clancy
John 15:1-8
The gospel of John, which through most of the history of Christianity has enjoyed a certain prominence, if not to say preeminence, among the gospels, has been demoted by contemporary scholars. It has been demoted on account of all of its abstractions – all of its metaphors and allegories. These indicate to scholars that the gospel of John contains little hard historical information about Jesus; that the gospel of John is, rather, they believe, merely a theological interpretation of him.
And hard historical information about Jesus is the name of the scholarly game nowadays. The scholarly game is to extricate from the gospels the “historical Jesus.” The gospel writers were, after all, scholars presume, ancient people with ancient, therefore outmoded, understandings. If scholars could only extricate from the gospels the historical Jesus, we would know who he really was and could respond to him appropriately. If Jesus were really a sage, then we could grow in his wisdom. If he were really a social or political revolutionary, we could join forces against existing power
systems. If he were really a healer, then we could bind up the wounded. If he were really a spiritualist, then we could cultivate inner transformation.
I, personally, do not salute the gospel of John’s demotion. I am not particularly impressed with the scholarly game of extricating from the gospels the historical Jesus – as though this were even remotely possible in the first place – in order to know who he really was. Bumpkin that I may be, I think the gospel writers knew who he really was and is. He is the Son of God. He is the Lord.
And this is precisely why the gospel of John expresses itself in abstractions; in metaphors and allegories. How else does one express the mystery that lies behind history? And the import of history, for Christians at least, is not history itself, but the mystery that lies behind it. It is just as poetry in the last analysis better expresses who we fully are than a biology textbook. Our import is the mystery that lies behind our biological makeup.
John indeed understands that Jesus was a historical man, but he seeks to express the import of that historical man, the mystery behind that historical man – that he was the word made flesh. Accordingly, he expresses himself in abstractions – metaphors and allegories.
And so Jesus, in the gospel of John, declares of himself: “I am the light of the world.” “I am the bread of life.” “I am the good shepherd.” “I am the gate for the sheep.” And profundity compounds profundity there. For recall that God in the book of Exodus first declared of himself, “I am who I am.” I am who I am?” But who was he? He was an unknown sovereign, further knowledge of which he would not grant to his people, as he struggled with them, disciplined them, formed them away from their rebellious nature into the means of his salvation.
But then, in the fullness of time, the word became flesh, no longer, “I am who I am,” but “I am the light of the world, the bread of life, the good shepherd, the gate for the sheep” – no longer unknown, but manifest as our vision in the darkness, our spiritual nourishment, our tender and keeper, our one and only way. No, I, at least, am not quite ready to strip the gospel of John of its rank for its supposed paucity of hard, historical information about Jesus.
And of all John’s abstractions, I think the one from this morning’s gospel lesson is my very favorite. “I am the true vine, my father is the vine
grower…and you are the branches who bear much fruit.” What a beautiful metaphor. Jesus the vine and we the branches – Jesus sustaining and nourishing us with his own life, infusing us with his own essence, with the father tending us both. What’s more, as branches we bear his fruit. We are in history his ears and eyes, his hands and feet. We are utterly dependent upon him for our life and vocation, but surprisingly, he too is dependent upon us.
Here is a metaphor that truly captures the import of history and our history, the mystery behind them both. I suppose this metaphor is my very favorite though because it brings me solace. I have gotten to an age in life where I know I am nothing without him and this metaphor confirms that I am right, that I am nothing without him. But it confirms too that I am not without him. That’s solace.
Solace but for one possible spoiler, for Jesus talks of pruning, “Every branch that bears fruit (the father) prunes to make it bear more fruit.” To a branch, pruning is not an inviting prospect. It sounds painful. This talk of pruning turns solace to tension, to fear, to dread even. But, in truth, it should not.
What Jesus is teaching when he talks of pruning is the way to view the trials that befall us, whether they are trials that befall us as God’s judgment for our fault or error, or trials that simply befall us, it matters not. Jesus is teaching the way to view them.
They are the opportunities to bear more fruit. Our trials must not, must never, then, make us cynical, hard, sullen, bitter, complaining, or angry. No, this is self-indulgent and self-defeating, and the one always leads to the other. What’s worse, it is faithless. No, our trials must open us up to new opportunities for helpfulness, new opportunities for sympathy, understanding, fellow feeling, compassion, and humility. And this too is solace. Not pie crust solace that crumbles before the realities of life, but real solace, that covers the realities of life.
The life of C.S. Lewis provides the perfect illustration of this. Many of you are probably familiar with his writings, but perhaps not with his life story. His mother, whom he loved dearly, died when he was a boy of ten. “It was the end of my world,” he wrote. “I remember my father in tears. Voices all over the house. Doors shutting and opening. It was a big house, all long, empty corridors. I remember I had the toothache. I wanted my mother to
come to me. I cried for her to come, but she didn’t.” In his suffering, Lewis retreated to a fortress in which he felt safe, away from emotional involvement or attachment. He retreated behind walls of reason and intellect.
He grew to adulthood an avowed atheist, but his reason and intellect eventually led him to discredit and disclaim atheism and to embrace Christianity. Upon his conversion to Christianity, he became one of its greatest defenders. But Christianity remained for him an intellectual, rational proposition.
Then, rather late in life, he met an American woman – a Jew who had become a communist, who then converted to Christianity after reading Lewis’ books. Her name was Joy Gresham. She had come to England with her son fleeing an unhappy marriage – destitute, distraught, with no real plan but to get away from her old life and to meet Lewis.
Theirs became an odd kind of friendship, this now world famous author and this woman of questionable standing. But once she claimed his acquaintance, he felt a certain obligation toward her, an obligation, as well as an appreciation and fascination with her mind. “Her mind was lithe and quick and muscular as a leopard,” he wrote. “Passion, tenderness and pain were all equally unable to disarm it. It scented the first whiff of cant or slush, then sprang, and knocked you over before you knew what was happening.”
One day she made a strange request of him -- that he marry her so that she could avoid extradition to America. It was just to be a paper marriage, nothing more. He agreed to do it, and they married by civil ceremony. Shortly thereafter, she was diagnosed with terminal bone cancer. He then and there realized that he had fallen in love with her. They married again on her deathbed, this time by a Christian ceremony. Then a miracle occurred. Her cancer disappeared, and theirs became one of the great love stories of history. But when her reprieve was over, when she died of bone cancer some years later, Lewis’ safe fortress of reason and intellect had been breached.
His suffering was extremely intense, but only weeks after her death he was able to write this, “From the rational point of view, what new factor has her death introduced into the problem of the universe? What grounds has it given me for doubting all that I believe? I knew already that these things, and worse, happened daily. I would have said that I had ‘taken them into account.’ I had been warned…We had been promised sufferings. They were part of the programme. We were even told ‘Blessed are they that mourn,’ and I accepted it. I’d got nothing that I hadn’t bargained for……Of course it is a different matter when the thing happens to oneself, not to others…Yes, but should it make such a difference as this? No. It wouldn’t have for a man whose faith had been real faith….whose concern for other people’s sorrows had been real concern. If the house collapsed at one blow, that is because it was a house of cards. My faith which ‘took these things into account’ was not faith. The taking them into account was not real sympathy. If I had really cared, as I thought I did, about the sorrows of the world, I would not have been so overwhelmed when my own sorrow came. Mine had been an imaginary faith playing with innocuous counters labeled, ‘Illness’ ‘Pain’ ‘Death,’ and ‘Loneliness.’”
For C.S. Lewis then, at the nadir of his suffering over the loss of his beloved Joy, he saw the opportunity to bear more fruit. “I have been given the
choice twice in my life. The boy chose safety. The man chooses suffering.” He allowed himself, like his savior and ours, to be made perfect by suffering.
Few things are certain in life, but this is. Trials will come to us all. But the mystery behind history, that mystery that once took flesh, teaches us that through our trials we can bear more fruit, and in so doing grow in his likeness. Amen.
Pharaoh, King of Egypt, enslaved the People of Israel. It was not out, as you might assume, out of cruelty. It was, rather, out of judiciousness. The People of Israel were not Egyptians. They were foreigners. They were the rough equivalent of what we today would call the undocumented. So now as then they were deemed to be threats. Add to this that the People of Israel grew increasingly numerous, as numerous even as the Egyptians themselves. This intensified the threat. In those numbers they could simply take over. Or Egypt’s enemies could induce them to fight for them, as a kind of built in fifth column. Pharaoh, King of Egypt, had to act. And so he enslaved the People of Israel. It was the judicious thing to do. But his judiciousness was not rewarded. In slavery, unpredictably, their numbers only increased. Pharaoh’s patience with the People of Israel grew thin. Judiciousness then crossed over to cruelty. He ordered the Hebrew midwives to murder the infant boys as they delivered them. That would thin their ranks. But the Hebrew midwives refused to do so, and with their refusal, civil disobedience was born. They chose to heed God not man. But Pharaoh King of Egypt was not so easily undone. He ordered his army to search out the infant boys and throw them into the Nile. Thereafter, cruelty no doubt took on a life of its own. Pharaoh King of Egypt rightly ranks with the likes of Caligula, Nero, Hitler, Stalin, and Mao. One wonders why it is that so many who rise to power become murderous and maniacal tyrants. The human cost - the suffering and misery and despair and tragedy -- are unimaginable and incalculable. Against this backdrop, a woman from the house of Levi gave birth to a healthy and beautiful infant boy. It would normally be the occasion for celebration and joy, but it was for her the occasion for anguish. When a child is born, a mother’s first instinct is protectiveness. But how could she possibly protect him? She thought desperately at first that she could hide him, and she did so for several months, but that could not go on forever. He could any day be discovered. The lesser of two evils was to abandon him to his fate. So she plastered a reed basket with bitumen and pitch, and she cast her hope upon the water. Low and behold, the daughter of Pharaoh happened upon the basket. She peered into it, beheld the crying infant, and she had compassion. The daughter of Pharaoh has never received the appreciation and respect she deserves. She is, inexplicably, overlooked. What she did was exemplary. Normally when people enslave others, they find justification for it. The enslaved are not deemed the equal of their enslavers. They are deemed subhuman. Slavery, therefore, is a necessity. More than this, it is morally right. That’s what the South advanced in this country, after all. But the daughter of Pharaoh did not fall prey to justification. She had compassion. And she acted upon that compassion. Here is an important reminder. It is not enough to have compassion. To have compassion, or any other altruistic emotion for that matter, does not make you a good person. You must act upon it. If you have compassion and you do not act upon it, that makes you decidedly less than a good person. As Martin Luther King, Jr. famously declared, “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.” And here is something truly astounding. Her act was to adopt him. That was, to say at the least, a courageous thing to do. It certainly would not have put her in good stead with her father. I can just imagine it. “Father, I have a surprise for you. You have a new grandson.” Such an announcement could only have dumbfounded him, but his confusion would have given way to horror as she went on, “I have adopted an infant boy from among your slaves.” If nothing else, we can now set the record straight. We can give Pharaoh’s daughter the appreciation and respect that she deserves. But we can do more than that. As I said, she is exemplary, and so we can follow her example. We can show compassion to those who have cast their hope upon the water. Yes, a mother forced by dire circumstance to give her child up for adoption, hoping that her child will be loved and cherished. But too, one with an atypical identity, hoping to be accepted for who he or she really is. One of a different race, creed, or income level seeking to relocate, hoping not that she will be welcomed, for that would be too high a hope; but hoping she will be at least be tolerated. One who has transgressed, hoping he will be forgiven. One who has something difficult to impart, hoping she will be understood. We can show compassion for those who have cast their hope upon the water. For someone greater, much greater than Pharaoh’s daughter did the same. “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on us!” “My daughter has just died. Come and lay your hand on her, that she may live.” “Even now I know that God will give you whatever you ask of him.” “Jesus, come before my son dies.” “Lord, if you choose, you can make me clean.” “Have mercy on me, Lord, Son of David, for my daughter is tormented by a demon.” “Lord, have mercy on my son, for he is an epileptic and suffers terribly.” “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom” They cast their hope on him. And he showed compassion for them all. And when we cast our hope on him, he will show compassion for us -- unlimited even by a cross. Amen.
I attended a funeral recently. It was for my high school math teacher. He was one great guy. Everyone loved him. He taught math at my high school for forty years, and he also coached wrestling. By the time he retired, he had become something of a legend in his own time. The funeral was upbeat, not like so many funerals that are so very sad. He lived a full and long life, and we gathered to celebrate that. But for one man – a classmate of mine who wrestled for him. He was absolutely devastated. I approached him in the parking lot after the funeral and asked if he was okay. He broke down. “That man was everything to me,” he said. “I was O.K. so long as he was in the world.” Then he shared his story. His mother died when he was very young. His father was a physically and emotionally abusive alcoholic. By the time he was in high school, he was far down a bad road. He hadn’t the support to do well at school, so he didn’t. He was very angry, so he was a behavior problem. The only friends he could make were kids like himself, so he hung out with a tough crowd. And he had begun to dabble in drugs. He was pretty much a lost cause at the age of sixteen. Enter my math teacher. He approached him one day out of the blue and told him he could tell by his gait that he was born to wrestle. This could only have been a ruse to intervene. Even I, who knows nothing about wrestling, am suspicious that you can identify one born to wrestle by his gait. At any rate, the ruse worked. He intervened. And he made him into a great wrestler. On top of that, he made him into a great young man. His advice, understanding, and support were unwavering. He helped him to deal with his past in such a way that it didn’t destroy him. He filled his present with new found responsibility, purpose, structure, and discipline. And he paved his way to a future. After graduation he went to college on a wrestling scholarship and eventually became a doctor. “I feel so lost,” he concluded his story. “What am I going to do now?” While he was sharing his story, I could not help but think how hard life can be. We here are generally prosperous and privileged, so we can afford to put up a front. But behind that front life can be hard. Because it’s out there -- loss, abuse, addiction, and a host of other afflictions. It’s enough to make you lose your way. And as I said, we here are generally prosperous and privileged. What if the loss, abuse, and addiction are compounded by poverty or racism? Then it’s all but a foregone conclusion. Your way is lost. Yes, life can be hard. Life takes casualties. Lots of them. It can make us feel helpless and overwhelmed. We want to make things better, but what could we possibly do? The answer is no farther away than my late math teacher. What could we possibly do to make things better? We could reach out, like he did. And what is in view here is not merely a good example, although we must never underestimate the power of a good example and must always strive to be one. But there’s more in view than that. It has to do with the Bible. The Bible may seem like a forbidding book. For one thing it’s thousands of pages long. It makes War and Peace look like a short story. For another thing, it’s unimaginably ancient. The Bible’s story begins 2,000 years before the Common Era. I just read that a sizable portion of millennials don’t know what the Holocaust was. To them that’s ancient history - a mere 75 years back. The Bible is more than 4,000 years back. That’s unimaginably ancient. For yet another thing, it traffics in extremely complicated and sophisticated theology, plumbing in its unfolding the depths of such mysteries as our nature, the predicament that our nature has landed us in, and the means of our redemption. And it does so all the while purging itself of false starts or conclusions. So it may seem forbidding. But at the same time, ironically, the Bible lends itself to succinct summaries. Here’s one: God lives. Here’s another: Good triumphs over evil. And another: Love triumphs over fear. And another: Practice universal justice. And another: Love one another. And here’s one that’s right on point: Reach out. The Bible can be summarized in just two words. Reach out. Think about it. That’s what God did. God reached out. God reached out to Abraham and told him that from him would one day issue a nation, and not just any nation, but a nation that would somehow bless all the nations by bestowing upon them redemption. God reached out to Moses and bequeathed him an ethical law so that God’s people could bear his righteousness. God reached out to David and told him that from his descendants would emerge one who would embody that redemption. And that one in the fullness of time emerged. God reach out to his son. He told him that if he would make a great sacrifice, the greatest sacrifice, it would be the means for all people to reach out to one another. In a real way. A way that advanced God’s own being and cause. And his son made that sacrifice. And in his brief ministry that preceded that sacrifice, he reached out to everyone. And I mean everyone. Lepers. Prostitutes. Beggars. Even a bitter little man perched up in a sycamore tree. So reaching out is not just a good example. It is nothing less the mechanism that God that employs to bestow redemption. Yes, life can be hard. Paul knew this. “We would prefer to be away from the body and at home with the Lord.” But Paul goes on. “So we must make it our goal to please him, whether we are at home in the body or away from it.” And this means reaching out. “I feel so lost now. What am I going to do?” asked my grieving classmate. I told him that his coach had already showed him what to do. I told him to reach out. Amen.
Jesus was always one to bring the party. All he had to do was show up, and lots of others showed up too -- eager for engagement, eager for excitement, eager for something new. It was little wonder. Here at last was someone who had something to say. Something different. Something provocative. Something truthful. Jesus had a way of uttering truths that had never been uttered before, but at the same time, were strangely recognizable. And it was happening once again. Once again, Jesus had brought the party. He showed up at the house of Mary and Martha, and suddenly the place was filled with men who immediately took their place at his feet. This gesture was an indicator that they were ready and willing disciples. They wanted him to teach them. And so he began to teach. That was Martha’s cue. She sprang into action. After Jesus’ teaching, it would be fellowship hour, and as we all know, fellowship hour is predicated upon food. And in ancient times, you couldn’t rely on your reserves from Costco. Feeding a room full of men was labor intensive. Animals had to be slaughtered and dressed. Bread had to be baked. Water had to hauled. Martha went directly to work, expecting Mary to fall in place behind her. But what did Mary do? She went and sat at Jesus’ feet with the men -- shirking her role, defying expectations, and leaving Martha to shoulder the burden alone. I can imagine Martha’s frustration. I can imagine her passive aggressive attempts to get Mary back in the kitchen. Staring daggers at her from the threshold. Uttering loud sighs as indicators of her strain. Dropping pottery on the floor to startle Mary to awareness. But Mary took no notice. None whatsoever. Martha should have counted to ten. How much strife could be averted if we could all just remember to count to ten, or perhaps twenty. Martha for her part shot like a rocket from outrage to outburst. “I’m doing all the work in here Jesus, while Mary has yet to raise a finger. It’s hardly fair. And have you even noticed? Do you even care?” And there was doubtless more to it than the fact that Martha had to provide all the hospitality on her own. There too was the fact of what Mary was doing. She not day dreaming or singing idly out the window. She was sitting at Jesus’ feet. She was in there with the men. Martha was doubtless chagrined and embarrassed that Mary did not know her place. It certainly did not reflect well on the family. But Jesus did not vindicate Martha. Jesus chastised her, “Martha, Martha,” (and when someone says your name twice, wait for some kind of a correction to follow) “Why are you so distracted and stressed and scattered? Let it go. Mary’s right where she should be.” We’re left to wonder how Martha felt at that point. I bet she wasn’t happy. She simply didn’t get it or she would not have reacted that way in the first place. Now normally this text is interpreted as a caution against busyness. Martha with all her busyness is a prototype that we should avoid. Not that productivity is a bad thing. Idle hands are the devil’s workshop after all. But there’s a certain kind of busyness that’s not good. It’s when we become enmeshed with worldly or personal concerns and address them with obsessive application – application that mixes with pride, competition, insecurity. It becomes a kind of self-perpetuating force. And it causes us to lose all perspective. It causes us to become disoriented. We forget that we’re supposed to be at Jesus’ feet – his disciples, listening to him. And this is a fair enough interpretation, but I think there’s something else here. An elephant in the living room. Mary was right where she should be. She was at Jesus’ feet, his disciple, listening to him. But Mary was, obviously, a woman. Women did not seat themselves at the feet of rabbis. Women were not disciples. All they needed to know was taught to them by their mothers. Women did not sit side by side with men learning. It was unheard of. It was forbidden. And yet Jesus told Martha that Mary was right where she should be. Her place was with the men. Really Jesus? A woman’s place is with the men? Really Jesus? In first century Judaism? Jesus was a revolutionary and a radical, and don’t ever forget it. All down through history and even to this day there has an unspoken and inviolable code. It could be expressed as a variant of a line from the wedding ceremony. What society has divided, let no one unite. And Jesus was saying the polar opposite. A women’s place is with the men. Think about what this means by extension. Women, your place is with the men. Men, your place is with the women. Whites, your place is with blacks. Blacks your place is with whites. The wealthy, your place is with the poor, and the poor, your place is with the wealthy. The powerful, your place is with the powerless. The powerless, your place is with the powerful. The old, your place is with the young. The young, your place is with the old. Jesus was smashing down all dividing walls. His disciples are to be completely and utterly integrated. This is simply too radical, simply too revolutionary. But that’s who Jesus was. This is why he brought the party. It’s because he spoke God’s truth. Disciples are to be completely and utterly integrated, and this in service to humankind that is to be completely and utterly integrated. That all should be one. But this is so radical and revolutionary that it is very seldom approximated. It’s too hard. But is it really? Is it really that hard to forge the way? Is it really that hard to reach out? Is it really that hard to cross the aisle? To be vulnerable? To be risky? To be open? To be accepting? To be understanding? One thing’s for sure. It’s a lot easier than hanging on a cross in faith it could be so. Amen.
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