Nothing But Plunging In
Sermon
Sermons on the Gospel Readings
Series II, Cycle B
Commenting on our lection, John 15:1-8, a great American preacher wrote, "There is nothing for it but to throw oneself bodily into this unfathomable parable." Many scriptural texts are like this one. They are so filled with provocative words, images, and challenges that it is difficult to have any single understanding of them hold up. These passages are like raking leaves on a windy day. After hard work with the rake we pause to congratulate ourselves on a job well done. Then a wind blows across our neighbor's yard and deposits a fresh crop of leaves back on our lawn, so we must do the job all over again.
Another thing is that such texts are tightly compacted. They swirl around a single theme so that there is no developmental flow about them. They are like flames off a cozy log fire in the fireplace, shooting out here and there from the log. They aren't going anywhere, but their moving bursts of flame are captivating to watch. We are forced to ponder these verses in order, but we'll just plunge in as advised.
Jesus says, "I am the true vine...." Biblical religion has never been a soft religion, one of those religions so tolerant that they promote a mushy meaninglessness or lay themselves open to great dangers. "Oh, it doesn't make any difference what you believe, just so you are spiritual," we hear people say. Well, the Russian Bolsheviks were spiritual, believing in the economic dialectic and the dictatorship of the minority; and in the process they nearly destroyed Russia. It did make a terrible difference what they believed in their sort of spirituality.
So too, people who say with a soft, sweet, and disarming voice, "I'm not religious." They usually mean they don't show up at their local church, synagogue, or mosque. They avoid working with the young children, they don't visit the sick and those caught in the bondage of dementia, and certainly they don't make a pledge of money toward the mission of the church. But they insist they are spiritual. Theirs is a sentimental cop-out. Sometimes they say they avoid the worshiping community because it is beneath them, or they can't find a church that deserves their commitment. Perhaps our churches don't need these folks anyway.
Then there are those who leave the church because they "aren't getting fed." Somehow this seems like depicting the church as a large hog trough. Since when has the church become a place where we go mainly for our own needs? Isn't the church more a place where we go to witness our faith, regardless of whether or not the worship or the preaching thrills us to the core, or causes a warm tingle in our hearts? Being spiritual without the church expresses an aura of religiosity, but it doesn't help out on the tough, everyday stuff.
Jesus is the true vine. He calls us to a life of serious discipleship: "God removes every branch in me that bears no fruit." Churches often clean their rolls of those who have become inactive or who no longer live in the area. This process has slowed considerably since the church growth movement. We piously say that we don't take anyone off the rolls because we might leave them dangling out in some never-never land far beyond the church. The real reason is that the church has taken on the church growth movement's insistence that numbers determine the vitality of the church. Everything is measured by the number of members and Sunday morning worship attendance. Nevertheless, some churches that have courageously purged their rolls make a statement against the soft discipleship of many of our churches. These churches are not at all wary of detaching such folks from Christ. Some churches are willing to announce that if we haven't been willing to suffer with Jesus under a theology of the cross, then we shall have no sense of the glory of Christ. Martin Luther may have had his social ethics shortcomings, but in this he was certainly right about the connection between Christ and suffering discipleship.
In Bible times, bodily purity before God and one another was terribly important. Personal cleanliness was mandatory. Foods were cooked in a way that avoided forbidden foods. Bodily discharges could make one impure, as could blemishes on the skin. What the New Testament calls leprosy may have been a range of skin diseases, and touching a corpse could make a person unclean, requiring the cleansing rituals of a priest. A modern version of this purity concern is putting on our Sunday best to go to church. Admittedly, the "Sunday best" routine has been given over to casualness in recent decades. We began to say that we do not want the poor to feel uncomfortable when they come to church, or think about coming to church. However, our lean toward casual dress has not created any huge numbers of the poor wandering into our congregations. Could we put this one to rest? Dressing attractively could symbolize bringing our best self as a gift to God.
Even more important, however, is the cleansing of the spirit, as our passage describes the work of Christ: "You have already been cleansed by the word that I have spoken to you." Christ cleanses us from hopelessness, revenge, and a mean spirit. In this cleansing we are given what Paul so beautifully describes, "love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control." What wonderful gifts Christ gives us in place of those things that put us at odds with him, others, and even ourselves.
In John, Jesus calls us to, "Abide in me as I abide in you. Just as the branch cannot bear fruit by itself unless it abides in the vine, neither can you unless you abide in me." Some American historians have credited the saga of the thirteen seaboard colonies exploding to the western reaches of the Pacific shores as "rugged individualism." This undertaking was accomplished at a terrible expense to the Native American population, a sad tale of deceit and violence. Rugged individualism is that peculiar American trait we show to the entire world. Today, we celebrate rugged individualism through Hollywood characters portrayed by actors like Harrison Ford and Mel Gibson.
Yet rugged individualism, whether in a secular or sacred version, is a vicious lie. It is a lie against all those people, social structures, and events that have shaped our lives. None of us live to ourselves. Too many people have shaped us with graciousness, right from the moment of our birth. The early television newscaster, Edward R. Murrow, wrote to his fianc?e that all she liked in him was due to his college speech and dramatics professor, Ida Lou Anderson. Morrow says she taught him that "one must have more than a good bluff to really live." Anderson called him "her masterpiece" and Murrow said she taught him how to live. This makes us feel we would rather have Morrow as a next-door neighbor, than some self-promoting self-deceived rugged individualist. So too, with Christ. In bondage to him he makes something of our lives, something that would not otherwise happen.
This is reinforced in the next verse, "I am the vine, you are the branches. Those who abide in me and I in them bear much fruit, because apart from me you can do nothing." Repetition helps in learning how to cope with life. The kindergarten child goes over and over the letters and sounds of the alphabet until that wonderful day they begin to read. Delightfully, Eliza in My Fair Lady, repeats the sounds of proper English until she could speak like a nineteenth-century lady. People in therapy groups repeat healthy responses to life bringing them good relationships rather than troubled and jangled ones. Parents repeat to their children the sort of behavior they wish them to have so that the children may learn ways of living that give them acceptance, not rejection.
Repetition is also very much part of the spiritual life in Christ. Abiding in Christ means that we practice the ways of Christ until we reach that magic moment when the rigors of practice move us into the freedom of spontaneous faith and behavior. It's something like the repetitive hours of practicing the piano -- scales, arpeggios, phrasing, and dynamics. For a time all this seems forced and somewhat clumsy. But there can come a day when all the work of practicing bursts forth in the spontaneity of music. Similarly, we may give ourselves over to a study of the ways of Christ, to worship that focuses on his spirit, and to deeds of self-denying love that emulate our Lord. Much of this repeated effort may seem difficult and uninspiring. Then -- like our pianist -- because we have kept close to Jesus, we can experience something of this wonderful reality ourselves.
But the good news of Christ always comes with a warning. Some portray Jesus as sweet and gentle and quite harmless to anyone. This is not the Jesus of the New Testament. Jesus got people into trouble and danger, calling them to give up their lives and follow after him. Jesus had strong language for those who would undermine his ministry. Jesus taught a life of self-denial and concern for others. Similarly, the Jesus of our lection says, "Whoever does not abide in me is thrown away like a branch and withers; such branches are gathered, thrown into the fire and burned."
Today, many Christians have no grasp of a "right now eschatology." "Eschatology" is what comes at the end. A "right now eschatology," however, is the present judgment of Christ because we have slid off into unfaithfulness. This judgment isn't something that waits for the end of everything. "Right now eschatology" means we are in danger of getting cut off from the source of real life in Christ -- today! This scares us a bit, or should.
When we slip away from Christ and his hope for this world, from his challenge upon all the status quo arrangements, from his uncomfortable judgments upon us and our world, then life goes sour. There are numerous books, articles, and testimonials of persons who gave up on Christ, later coming to a feeling of being "thrown away like a branch and withering." They have come to the conclusion that life apart from Christ has not been the free and wonderful thing they hoped. They confess that in their abandonment of Christ, they wound up with a wasted life, eagerly hoping it's not too late to make a humble return.
This next verse is the gracious word about that happy return, and a comfort to all those who have been faithful all along. "If you abide in me, and my words abide in you, ask for whatever you wish, and it will be done for you." Here are the words of the gospel -- the good news of Christ -- found in so many places in both the Hebrew Bible and the New Testament. One cannot hear the words of Psalm 103 without knowing the gospel was around before Jesus:
The Lord is merciful and gracious, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love.
For as the heavens are high above the earth, so great is his steadfast love toward those who fear him; as far as the east is from the west so far does he remove our transgressions from us.
-- Psalm 103:8, 11-12
Jesus makes no rash promises. He knows we really wish for deliverance from our sins, the drag of the past, and for our hopelessness about the future.
Finally, our lection ends with these words, "My Father is glorified by this that you bear much fruit and become my disciples." We might guess that from the beginning of human consciousness people have considered what they could do to please that mysterious power called God. In the Hebrew Bible this question receives a definitive answer which Jesus surely would approve. To Micah's asking of this same question -- what makes God happy? -- the prophet receives this compelling answer:
He has told you, O mortal, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you; but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?
-- Micah 6:8
Another thing is that such texts are tightly compacted. They swirl around a single theme so that there is no developmental flow about them. They are like flames off a cozy log fire in the fireplace, shooting out here and there from the log. They aren't going anywhere, but their moving bursts of flame are captivating to watch. We are forced to ponder these verses in order, but we'll just plunge in as advised.
Jesus says, "I am the true vine...." Biblical religion has never been a soft religion, one of those religions so tolerant that they promote a mushy meaninglessness or lay themselves open to great dangers. "Oh, it doesn't make any difference what you believe, just so you are spiritual," we hear people say. Well, the Russian Bolsheviks were spiritual, believing in the economic dialectic and the dictatorship of the minority; and in the process they nearly destroyed Russia. It did make a terrible difference what they believed in their sort of spirituality.
So too, people who say with a soft, sweet, and disarming voice, "I'm not religious." They usually mean they don't show up at their local church, synagogue, or mosque. They avoid working with the young children, they don't visit the sick and those caught in the bondage of dementia, and certainly they don't make a pledge of money toward the mission of the church. But they insist they are spiritual. Theirs is a sentimental cop-out. Sometimes they say they avoid the worshiping community because it is beneath them, or they can't find a church that deserves their commitment. Perhaps our churches don't need these folks anyway.
Then there are those who leave the church because they "aren't getting fed." Somehow this seems like depicting the church as a large hog trough. Since when has the church become a place where we go mainly for our own needs? Isn't the church more a place where we go to witness our faith, regardless of whether or not the worship or the preaching thrills us to the core, or causes a warm tingle in our hearts? Being spiritual without the church expresses an aura of religiosity, but it doesn't help out on the tough, everyday stuff.
Jesus is the true vine. He calls us to a life of serious discipleship: "God removes every branch in me that bears no fruit." Churches often clean their rolls of those who have become inactive or who no longer live in the area. This process has slowed considerably since the church growth movement. We piously say that we don't take anyone off the rolls because we might leave them dangling out in some never-never land far beyond the church. The real reason is that the church has taken on the church growth movement's insistence that numbers determine the vitality of the church. Everything is measured by the number of members and Sunday morning worship attendance. Nevertheless, some churches that have courageously purged their rolls make a statement against the soft discipleship of many of our churches. These churches are not at all wary of detaching such folks from Christ. Some churches are willing to announce that if we haven't been willing to suffer with Jesus under a theology of the cross, then we shall have no sense of the glory of Christ. Martin Luther may have had his social ethics shortcomings, but in this he was certainly right about the connection between Christ and suffering discipleship.
In Bible times, bodily purity before God and one another was terribly important. Personal cleanliness was mandatory. Foods were cooked in a way that avoided forbidden foods. Bodily discharges could make one impure, as could blemishes on the skin. What the New Testament calls leprosy may have been a range of skin diseases, and touching a corpse could make a person unclean, requiring the cleansing rituals of a priest. A modern version of this purity concern is putting on our Sunday best to go to church. Admittedly, the "Sunday best" routine has been given over to casualness in recent decades. We began to say that we do not want the poor to feel uncomfortable when they come to church, or think about coming to church. However, our lean toward casual dress has not created any huge numbers of the poor wandering into our congregations. Could we put this one to rest? Dressing attractively could symbolize bringing our best self as a gift to God.
Even more important, however, is the cleansing of the spirit, as our passage describes the work of Christ: "You have already been cleansed by the word that I have spoken to you." Christ cleanses us from hopelessness, revenge, and a mean spirit. In this cleansing we are given what Paul so beautifully describes, "love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control." What wonderful gifts Christ gives us in place of those things that put us at odds with him, others, and even ourselves.
In John, Jesus calls us to, "Abide in me as I abide in you. Just as the branch cannot bear fruit by itself unless it abides in the vine, neither can you unless you abide in me." Some American historians have credited the saga of the thirteen seaboard colonies exploding to the western reaches of the Pacific shores as "rugged individualism." This undertaking was accomplished at a terrible expense to the Native American population, a sad tale of deceit and violence. Rugged individualism is that peculiar American trait we show to the entire world. Today, we celebrate rugged individualism through Hollywood characters portrayed by actors like Harrison Ford and Mel Gibson.
Yet rugged individualism, whether in a secular or sacred version, is a vicious lie. It is a lie against all those people, social structures, and events that have shaped our lives. None of us live to ourselves. Too many people have shaped us with graciousness, right from the moment of our birth. The early television newscaster, Edward R. Murrow, wrote to his fianc?e that all she liked in him was due to his college speech and dramatics professor, Ida Lou Anderson. Morrow says she taught him that "one must have more than a good bluff to really live." Anderson called him "her masterpiece" and Murrow said she taught him how to live. This makes us feel we would rather have Morrow as a next-door neighbor, than some self-promoting self-deceived rugged individualist. So too, with Christ. In bondage to him he makes something of our lives, something that would not otherwise happen.
This is reinforced in the next verse, "I am the vine, you are the branches. Those who abide in me and I in them bear much fruit, because apart from me you can do nothing." Repetition helps in learning how to cope with life. The kindergarten child goes over and over the letters and sounds of the alphabet until that wonderful day they begin to read. Delightfully, Eliza in My Fair Lady, repeats the sounds of proper English until she could speak like a nineteenth-century lady. People in therapy groups repeat healthy responses to life bringing them good relationships rather than troubled and jangled ones. Parents repeat to their children the sort of behavior they wish them to have so that the children may learn ways of living that give them acceptance, not rejection.
Repetition is also very much part of the spiritual life in Christ. Abiding in Christ means that we practice the ways of Christ until we reach that magic moment when the rigors of practice move us into the freedom of spontaneous faith and behavior. It's something like the repetitive hours of practicing the piano -- scales, arpeggios, phrasing, and dynamics. For a time all this seems forced and somewhat clumsy. But there can come a day when all the work of practicing bursts forth in the spontaneity of music. Similarly, we may give ourselves over to a study of the ways of Christ, to worship that focuses on his spirit, and to deeds of self-denying love that emulate our Lord. Much of this repeated effort may seem difficult and uninspiring. Then -- like our pianist -- because we have kept close to Jesus, we can experience something of this wonderful reality ourselves.
But the good news of Christ always comes with a warning. Some portray Jesus as sweet and gentle and quite harmless to anyone. This is not the Jesus of the New Testament. Jesus got people into trouble and danger, calling them to give up their lives and follow after him. Jesus had strong language for those who would undermine his ministry. Jesus taught a life of self-denial and concern for others. Similarly, the Jesus of our lection says, "Whoever does not abide in me is thrown away like a branch and withers; such branches are gathered, thrown into the fire and burned."
Today, many Christians have no grasp of a "right now eschatology." "Eschatology" is what comes at the end. A "right now eschatology," however, is the present judgment of Christ because we have slid off into unfaithfulness. This judgment isn't something that waits for the end of everything. "Right now eschatology" means we are in danger of getting cut off from the source of real life in Christ -- today! This scares us a bit, or should.
When we slip away from Christ and his hope for this world, from his challenge upon all the status quo arrangements, from his uncomfortable judgments upon us and our world, then life goes sour. There are numerous books, articles, and testimonials of persons who gave up on Christ, later coming to a feeling of being "thrown away like a branch and withering." They have come to the conclusion that life apart from Christ has not been the free and wonderful thing they hoped. They confess that in their abandonment of Christ, they wound up with a wasted life, eagerly hoping it's not too late to make a humble return.
This next verse is the gracious word about that happy return, and a comfort to all those who have been faithful all along. "If you abide in me, and my words abide in you, ask for whatever you wish, and it will be done for you." Here are the words of the gospel -- the good news of Christ -- found in so many places in both the Hebrew Bible and the New Testament. One cannot hear the words of Psalm 103 without knowing the gospel was around before Jesus:
The Lord is merciful and gracious, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love.
For as the heavens are high above the earth, so great is his steadfast love toward those who fear him; as far as the east is from the west so far does he remove our transgressions from us.
-- Psalm 103:8, 11-12
Jesus makes no rash promises. He knows we really wish for deliverance from our sins, the drag of the past, and for our hopelessness about the future.
Finally, our lection ends with these words, "My Father is glorified by this that you bear much fruit and become my disciples." We might guess that from the beginning of human consciousness people have considered what they could do to please that mysterious power called God. In the Hebrew Bible this question receives a definitive answer which Jesus surely would approve. To Micah's asking of this same question -- what makes God happy? -- the prophet receives this compelling answer:
He has told you, O mortal, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you; but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?
-- Micah 6:8
