Fifth and Vine (John 15:1-8)

     As I got closer to this Sunday, I couldn’t decide what to write. Jesus’ metaphor of the vineyard—it’s not a parable so much as an image —is one of his more famous, and, perhaps, one of his most famously misused. Mostly, it is used by folks of a a more, how shall we say it, evangelical bent, to push their agenda: to wit, we Christians better be fruitful—defined as winning souls, converting sinners—or we’ll be chopped off the branch—thwack!—and burnt in the fires of, well, you know where that might be. Crackle, crackle, crackle. Never mind the theological inconsistencies, this interpretation of the metaphor is popular and designed to get the hearer off her or his keister and into the streets, asking unsuspecting passers-by if they know Jesus.

And as I said, I was stuck for a sermon . . . the Spirit, which Jesus says blows where it will, apparently wasn’t blowing towards me, so I decided I need a little help, that I needed a little outside inspiration (get it? Inspiritation) so I took a little field trip. And one fine afternoon I got in my car for a drive up Vine Street . . . it begins at the River and goes straight on through the city and out the other side, continuing on into the wilds of Ohio as State Route 4. It’s been around as long as the city itself . . . Today it connects with Walnut to form the approach to the Roebling Bridge; back then it was just a cut down to the river. I stood on the traffic circle that marks that conjunction and tried to imagine the oxen and mules dragging their loads up from the water—dry goods, tobacco, grain, all delivered on flat-boats and barges. Vine and its sister Walnut were arteries carrying the life-blood of the city, distributing it to feed the growing population, which exploded in first half of the nineteenth century.

Shortly after the completion of the Miami and Erie Canal, Cincinnati had grown to 115,000 souls, largely because of its status as the chief hog-packing city in the country, which earned it the nickname “Porkopolis.” Standing at Fifth and Vine, I imagined hordes of terrified, half-wild pigs flowing around me, squeals and rank odor baking in the sun. In no time, Vine became as it is today: the prime North-South route up from the River. And while most towns split East and West addresses based on Main, in Cincy, East means east of Vine and West means west of the same.

Like a lot of streets in Cincinnati, Vine isn’t always Vine. Here are some of its other names, in no particular order: Springfield Pike. Rosa Parks Street. Dixie Highway. Jefferson Avenue. It borders—along with Fifth Street—Fountain Square which, according to Google Maps is a “Civic plaza hosting cultural events” and chicken dances. Ok, I added the last part; after all, chicken dances are cultural events in Cincinnati.

Driving north, I crossed Central Parkway, path of the Miami and Erie Canal and the doomed subway project, and into Over the Rhine, where the poorest of Cincinnatians have often lived. It was ground central in the sorry discrimination against German-Americans in the run-up to the First World War. Their businesses were targeted and streets with Teutonic names rechristened with bland, inoffensive monikers. They were disparaged as “hyphenated Americans,” and President Woodrow Wilson drummed up support for the war in the time-honored, fear-mongering way: “Any man who carries a hyphen about with him,” he said “carries a dagger that he is ready to plunge into the vitals of this Republic” (Rumors persist that dachshunds and German Shepherds were stoned in Fountain Square, but these are doubtless apocryphal.)

The Germans left Over the Rhine in droves, changing their names and moving to Price Hill or up Walnut to avoid persecution. They were replaced by Appalachians from Kentucky, West Virginia and Tennessee, driven out of coal country by depression and mechanization to work in Cincinnati’s World War II effort. The construction of I-75 forced thousands of African Americans out of the West End and into Over the Rhine. By the 1960s, industrial collapse, well-meaning improvement projects and absentee landlords had broken the backs of many along Vine. By the end of the decade, those who could afford to leave had done so and the people left were the ones who couldn’t get out.

Fast forward to the two thousands, and in the wake of the 2001 riots, Over the Rhine—including of course Vine—was named the nation’s most dangerous neighborhood, beating out Compton in Los Angeles by a nose. Then something called the “Miracle on Vine” happened. Local industries, in partnership with the city, began pouring millions into the area, and several blocks of pretty mean Vine streets were transformed into upscale eating and drinking establishments. And though the economy has picked up, this gentrification has had the usual effect of driving up property values and driving out residents who can’t afford to pay the freight. Thus creating yet another migration from and infilling of Vine Street.

Well. After Over the Rhine, Vine swoops up the hill toward the University of Cincinnati then along its eastern border, where it’s called Jefferson; I passed the hospital, Zoo and Saint Bernard before dropping into the Mill Valley for the long run up to our neck of the woods. And as I drove its length, I couldn’t help but notice how it connects and nourishes all the institutions of our city—threading its way between Great American Ballpark and Paul Brown Stadium. Gliding past Carew Tower, Fountain Square and the Kroger Building. Past gleaming towers and 19th-century Italianate gems. Libraries, markets and hospitals. Fairgrounds, soap factories and Zoos. All linked, all nourished by the commerce and humanity that flows through and out of Vine.

And I wonder: would Jesus use Vine Street as his metaphor of intimacy and deep connection if he were at it today? He was a master of matching the teaching to the audience. To fishermen, he talked about fishing for people. To the religious and political elite he spoke of coins and effigies of Caesar. And to day-laborers and shepherds and agriculturists he spoke of fair wages and sheep-folds and vines. Today, when the majority of Americans have lost their connection to the land, when most live in urban or at least suburban landscapes, I suspect he’d not spend a lot of time bemoaning the fact, or seeking to change things, but meet the people where they are to teach them the mysteries of existence. And the lesson is one of intimacy, of connection, to the divine Christ—who after all holds all things together—and through him one to another.

Let’s try it on for size: Jesus says “I am Vine Street—the artery, the through street—and God is the city planner, who shapes the neighborhoods I feed, sending through me life-giving resources, dispatching them to businesses, houses, schools and families. Through me, God provides services and entertainment and learning. Through me, God remakes diseased neighborhoods, restoring them to vitality and health. Therefore, abide in me as I abide in you, stay connected to me, stay a part of me, as I am a part of you. Just as the community cannot bear fruit by itself unless it abides in me, neither can you unless you abide in me. I am the through street, the avenue, the boulevard, you are the side streets, the communities, the locales. Those who abide in me and I in them bear healthy families, healthy communities, because apart from me they can accomplish nothing.

But though city streets can be mean streets, and people and whole neighborhoods can be intolerant and downright cruel, there is none of that in Christ. In Christ—in Christ who is all in all—everyone is welcome, nobody is shunned, everybody is at home. Amen.