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Defined by Love
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10 May 2009 In one of the storms we had last month, a grand old tree in our neighbor’s front yard lost one of its primary limbs. The limb itself easily measured 30" in circumference. Like the tree itself, the limb was mature and strong, healthy in every possible way. What happened to that limb the moment the winds ripped it from the tree? The answer is obvious: the limb died. It wasn’t apparent immediately; its leaves didn’t instantly go limp; the wood didn’t dry out and become firewood overnight. Like a flower cut from the garden, it continued to look healthy as long as the nutrients within the limb held out. But unlike the tree, the limb had no roots. Without its attachment to the tree, it had no way of sustaining itself, no way to draw up life-giving water and nutrients from the soil. No way to photosynthesize the energies of the sun. So in the end, the limb was stripped of its branches and chopped into sections that could be split for firewood. In the language of today’s scripture, the limb no longer abides in the tree. No longer a part of the whole, it is split up even further. Some of the leaves and smaller branches become part of Frederick County’s landfill; the bulk of the limb itself is stacked like cordwood against the neighbor’s house to supply fuel for a winter fire. It will be useful, at least for a short while longer. But it no longer provides shade for our neighbors. It no longer shelters and nests the birds or even gives a perch for rest in flight. It no longer filters the air. It no longer produces its winged seed for fruit. “I am the vine,” Jesus says, “you are the branches.” What happens when the branch is removed from the tree? It stops bearing fruit; it dies. Jesus says, “Abide in me.” Amy Tan’s novel, Saving Fish from Drowning tells the parable of the man who casts his net into the sea every day. Every day the man hauls in a net filled with fish. Every day he carefully removes the fish from the net and lays them on the beach. Every day they die, and he is deeply saddened. But the next day, he returns and repeats the same exercise. When asked why he is so sad, he replies that he works very hard every day. He catches as many fish as he can, and pulls them from the water to give them air, so that he can save them from drowning. Is it that he doesn’t lavish enough on the fish once they are on the beach? Would the results be any different if he covered the fish with a mountain of cash? Or put them in beach chairs and plied them with martinis?[1] Right.... No matter what outlandish arrangements the fisher can possibly make, the result is the same: the fish die. Removed from the life-giving water where they abide, they die. Abide in me, Jesus says. Abide. Webster fleshes it out: abide; stand fast, remain; go on being. Remain in Jesus. Stand fast in Jesus. Go on being in Jesus. Or as one translation puts it, make yourself at home in Jesus. Only what if Jesus isn’t where we make ourselves at home? And if we don’t make ourselves at home in Jesus, where do we abide? Where do we turn when anxiety or loneliness or struggle overtakes us? Where do we turn when we are seeking meaning in our lives? Do we bury ourselves in work? Fill the void with exotic travel or the latest gadgets? Do we camp in front of the tube? Drink more alcohol than normal? Spend hours on the internet? Are these things as just bad habits? Or are they abiding places that are our comforters and friends in a very spiritual way?[2] I am the vine; you are the branches. Abide in me...that you bear much fruit and become my disciples. To abide in Jesus, to bear the fruit which comes from his vine, and become his disciples means that others will see a difference in the way we carry ourselves even in the most extreme circumstances. Those old enough will recognize the name of Ruby Bridges Hall. She is the six-year-old whose walk became an icon in the 1964 Norman Rockwell painting of a small Black girl escorted by four federal marshals walking to school beside a wall bearing a scrawled racial epithet and the letters KKK. Four years earlier, on 14 November 1960, Ruby Bridges entered William Frantz Elementary School in New Orleans, and walked into history. Mobs outside the school were shouting epithets, and during that walk, Ruby stopped. And prayed. Because her mother had taught her from day one that if she was not with her and Ruby was afraid, she was always to say her prayers. If Ruby had a nightmare, she would go to her mother’s bed at night, and she’d say, “Well, did you say your prayers,” and Ruby would say, “No.” And she’d say, “Well, that’s why you had the nightmare. Go back and get on your knees.” So Ruby’s mother taught Ruby to abide in Jesus by telling her, “If I’m not with you, then say your prayers.” On that November day, with angry mobs shouting, Ruby’s mother was not close by, and Ruby stopped to pray because she was afraid. And Ruby’s prayer was for the people in the mob. Ruby was the only child in school that day. And the next. And the next, for the rest of the entire academic year. All of the white children had been taken out of the school in protest. They didn’t return till the following September.[3] I am the vine, you are the branches. Abide in me...that you bear much fruit and become my disciples. By that November day in 1960, a six-year-old girl’s mother had already seen to it that her daughter had someone to turn to when she was not close by. That mother saw to it that her daughter trusted someone who brought courage and strength in the chaos and anger of a mob; someone who gave purpose in the face of ugly, brutal indifference; someone whose name is synonymous with love. That November day in 1960 and every school day that followed, a six-year-old girl bore the fruit of discipleship to an entire nation. I am the vine, you are the branches. Abide in me...that you bear much fruit and become my disciples. *** [1]Max Lucado, When God Whispers Your Name, “Living with the One”, http://www.esermons.com/theDetails.asp?printerFriendly=Yes&id=1363889&weekly_id=&... |