Vineyard Rules (John 15:1 - 8)

      In Germany, wine doesn’t come easy . . . even the most southern regions of the country are marginal for wine-making . . . winters are cold and long, and the growing season short and chancy . . . and yet Germany is considered – with France and Italy – as one of the top producers of wine in the world . . . fine German wines are highly prized . . . in particular their reislings and gewertzraminers are unequaled in quality . . . if you go to the Mosel-river region, you’ll see reisling vineyards on the steepest terrain, clinging to precipitous south-facing slopes, right down to the water-line of the river . . . those river-side vineyards are prized because the leaves collect extra sunlight reflected off the water, and in that area, every little bit of solar energy helps.

      As in any vineyard, pruning is vital to train the vines, so that as much of the total leaf area is exposed to sunlight for as much of the day as possible . . . in some vineyards – flat ones, for example – that means training the vines to grow almost like creepers.   , carpeting the ground . . . in others it means a vertical growth pattern, or one that inclines into the sun like a hound leaning gratefully toward a fire.  Soil is just as important as sunlight . . . grape-vines go all flabby and leafy if they’re given too much water, and so the best sites are well-drained, in soils that retain just enough water, but not so much that root-rot settles in . . .

      And I could go on and on, but you’d fall asleep, and you get the point anyway: the metaphor that Jesus uses for Christian existence, Christian life – vitae is Latin for life – is a particularly rich one . . . he identifies himself as the stem, the vine, and God – whom he calls “Father” – is the vine-grower, the viti- the life-culturist.  “I am the true vine,” he says, “and God is the life-grower.”  Christ himself is the stem, the conduit for water and nutrients . . . without the stem, the branches and the leaves can’t grow, they can’t set grapes, they can’t ripen the fruit.  And that’s not all . . . the stem provides the structural integrity for the whole shootin’ match . . . it provides the vital support that makes it possible for God the life-grower to shape and mold the life of the Christian enterprise.

      And now Christ talks about the branches, and we’re used to reading this simply, cleanly, with a clear distinction between the vine – that’s Christ – and the branches – that’s us.  But notice how he talks about the branches . . . he says they are in him, as in a part of him . . . it reminds me a little of Paul’s analogy of Christ as the head of the body, the church, and we as organs within that body . . . there’s an intimacy to the relationship, here, and so when God the viticulturist removes – literally, takes away – the branches that bear no fruit, God is taking away something that is intimately associated with Christ, part of Christ’s own self.

      “You have already been cleansed” Jesus says, “by the word, by the logos, that I have spoken to you  . . .” and though our translation chooses “cleansed,” the Greek is from the same root as pruned, and it’s clear that he is tying the two together . . . it could easily read “Every branch that bears fruit, God cleanses to make more fruit.  You have already been cleansed by the word I have spoken to you.”  This cleansing, this pruning – and could it be what Paul refers to as sanctification? – this sanctifying, this molding is an ongoing process that begins when we hear the word spoken to us, i.e., at conversion.  God the viticulturist is molding us, cleansing us, pruning us so that we bear more and more fruit.

      “Abide in me,” Jesus says, “As I abide in you.”  Stay connected to the life source, you branches, because you cannot bear fruit by yourself, you cannot bear fruit unless you abide in Christ, unless you are joined to Christ himself, the conduit of water and minerals and nutrients.  And it’s good to note that Jesus is talking to disciples here, in the intimate confines of the upper room . . . he’s speaking to folks who are already in the fold, so he’s not talking about conversion here, he’s not saying “abide in me and you’ll be Christians,” he’s talking about the abundant life, bearing fruit . . .

      And what is the fruit of this abundant Christian life?  Though it’s common to read it as evangelical, as in converting the unconverted, it’s certainly more than that . . . fruit of the abundant Christian life is peace, joy and love . . . Paul wrote of these things, saying that “the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.”  Bearing fruit is not limited to making new Christians, but refers as well to living a full, joyful life.

      And we cannot do so without being connected to the source, intimately . . . Jesus’ metaphor of the vine and branches is only just adequate to describe the relationship with him . . . but it hints at it’s fullness in the language of abiding in, as in dwelling within, engulfed by him, surrounded by him, Christ in US. And we in Christ.

      “Those who abide in me and I in them,” Christ says, “bear much fruit.”  Those who are intimately associated with the stem, who are connected to the root and the soil via the umbilical-cord vine, will be abundant in their life, they’ll spread the Gospel faithfully, they’ll lead lives full of love and peace and joy . . . “but whoever does not abide in me is thrown away like a branch and withers; such branches are gathered, thrown into the fire, and burned.”  And I think “Whoa, Nellie!”  Where did that come from?  Here we’ve got this nice little metaphor going, Christ is the vine . . . right, right, I’m down with it . . . we’re the branches . . . that’s cool . . . Christ nourishes us, and feeds us, and keeps us well-hydrated . . . and then Whammo!  Judgment city!  Withering branches!  Burning!  Fire!  And we all know what fire means!

      So … let’s see if we’ve got this straight.  Jesus is the true vine, God is the vineyard owner, and Christians – that’s us! – are the branches.  And if we abide in him, if we have an intimate, personal relationship with Jesus, we’ll bear fruit in the form of converts and a joyful, Christian life.  But if, on the other hand, we don’t do those things, God’ll cut us down, throw us into the fire – otherwise known as Hell or Hades or Cleveland – where we’ll burn for eternity – crackle, crackle, crackle – and the worms will have us for lunch, munch, munch, munch!

      And what we have all of a sudden is every fundamentalist’s dream, every tale told in dark Sunday-school rooms to scare the dickens out of us, to frighten us into submission, to keep us on the straight-and-narrow.  It’s a story about a vengeful God who creates us imperfect and then punishes us for being that way, a God who is love and yet who consigns his beloved creation to hell when they don’t say the right words.  If we Christians don’t connect to Jesus, if we don’t bear fruit, if we don’t make a hundred more little overripe Christian grapes just a-waitin’ to be plucked, God’ll cut us off and consign us to the fires of Hell for all ages to come.  So much for unconditional grace!

      And this reading of the vine and branches seems so inevitable, so logical, and we’re so used to hearing it this way, or some well-meaning preacher preaching around it like the invisible elephant in the refrigerator – you know, the one you can tell is there by the sulfur on its breath – that we never once stop and think that it might not be about God’s wrath at all, that there’s another way to read this passage that is completely consonant with a God of unconditional love, and it begins with the fire . . . we’re so used to equating fire with the wrath of God, with Dante’s whatever-level of Hell, that we can’t see that it’s just a part of the vineyard metaphor.  To paraphrase Freud, sometimes a fire is just a fire.

      And in fact, fire is a normal part of agricultural practice the world over, where refuse is gathered up, thrown on the fire, and burned.  What Jesus is describing here is a natural way of growing grapes . . . every horticulturalist knows that branches no longer connected to the soil through the stem, through the vine, wither and fall off.  The dead branches are gathered up so that they don’t grow pests or parasites that might hurt the living plants, and they’re burned.  The fire doesn’t “punish” those branches put there because they’re already dead!

      It’s important to remember that Jesus is talking to his disciples here, and what he says is absolutely true:  Any Christian entity—whether an individual or an organization—without an intimate, abide-in relationship with the Christ the vine, will wither, its Christian life will be stunted and shriveled, it will not be all it is supposed to be . . .  and as for death, how can we view it as a punishment, we who preach, we who believe in the resurrection?  Eventually, we all die a physical death, all churches have a life-span as well, all wither and are removed from the vine . . . death or dissolution is only an issue if we are afraid of it  . . . and in my best moments, at least, I’m not . . . I will die, you will die, we all will die, and we will all be raised from the dead . . . there is no judgment in this passage, simply a metaphor carried through to its logical ends.

      And speaking of logical ends, the French, those avatars of wine snobbery, have a concept they call terroir . . . and it’s sometimes hard to get your mind around it – and even harder to taste in the wine – but it refers to all the physical and environmental factors – soil, subsoil, temperature, solar energy, water, slope degree, slope aspect – that affect the growing of a grape plant.  It’s akin to the concept of ecosystem, the sum-total of everything in the environment that affects the growth and maturation of that grape plant.

      And when I think of terroir, another piece of the vineyard metaphor comes into focus . . . theologian Paul Tillich called God the ground of all being, and it seems to me that that’s similar to terroir . . . God is our terroir, God is our microclimate, our soil and water and nutrition and sunlight and warmth . . . And it is through Christ that we are connected to this source of all our being, this bountiful supply of all we need to survive, both spiritually and physically.  Christ is the vine, and we are the branches, and God is the ground upon which we grow.

      Wine experts claim to be able to taste terroir.  In two wines of the same year made by the same people exactly the same way, but from vineyards a block away, wine experts can taste the difference, and they attribute it to terroir, to differences in the site upon which they are grown.  And I wonder:  can the world taste the terroir of God in us?  Can they tell that we are nurtured by a different microclimate, in a different soil, under a different sun?  Are we all abiding in Christ, and does Christ abide in all of us, is the connection between him and us strong and deep and wide?  If not, perhaps we should do something about it, perhaps we should examine our spiritual practices – prayer and scripture study and acts of charity and social justice – because these are the building blocks of a strong attachment to Christ’s vine, and through him, to God’s abundance.  And if we do, if we abide in Christ, dwell within him, and he in us, we will bear fruit untold.  Amen.