At several points over the last few years, I’ve heard reports of anthropologists, sociologists and marketers who have gained significant insight into the lives we live by going through our garbage containers. Apparently, what we discard gives so much information about us that it’s fairly easy to develop profiles describing our likes and dislikes, our patterns and our habits. I’m sure that the data-gatherers are pleased that they’ve been able to develop so much knowledge from our trash. I’m just as sure that they long for access to the real window into family life—the refrigerator door. Whenever I’m in someone’s kitchen, I always feel a little bashful about looking at the refrigerator. I have seen some unadorned refrigerators, but for the most part, refrigerators are like family albums that give us a pretty good sense of our history, values and relationships. My own refrigerator has pictures of my daughters and granddaughters, some birthday cards and a collection of cartoons—all of which have been sent to me by daughters and all of which show a facet of our family life. One of the latest cartoons shows two dogs. The one which appears to be speaking has a very pained expression. The caption reads:
Oh, no—I sounded just like my mother when I barked that!
I remember the first time I heard my mother’s voice coming from my own mouth. I was shocked and horrified. When I was a child, I was always offended if someone told me I looked like my mother. I thought she was beautiful, but I wanted to be myself—I didn’t want to look like anyone else—not even my mother. And I didn’t want to act like my mother. As the years have passed, I have grown to cherish many of the ways I am like my mother—and to forgive both of us for the ways we share that are less productive. As I grew up, I was grateful for the mother I could count on to love me, to care for me and to be there to cheer me on as well as to try to nip in the bud those qualities and behaviors that didn’t meet her approval. I was always grateful for her, but it’s the passing of years that has taught me exactly how I’ve been blessed by my mother and all the women in my life who have been as a mother to me. They have been a consistent source of strength, connecting me to my roots, grounding me in my womanhood, correcting and supporting me when I head off-course and sharing with me the wisdom passed down from their mothers and born of their own experience. As an adult, I can make choices about much of what I’ve learned from them, but as the child of my mother and the recipient of care of many women, I can never sever the connection between us and still remain the woman I am. I cannot pull too far away from their care and nurture and remain the woman who carries their legacy
At first glance, today’s gospel story of the vine and the branches doesn’t seem to have much connection with our celebration of our mothers and the women who have been as mothers to us. But when we look again, we can see some similarities.
The people of Jesus’ time would have clearly understood the picture painted in today’s Gospel portion. The vineyards of that time were not the relatively tidy vines we experience in our own wine country. Those vines were not neatly strung along fencing for ease of care and culture. The vineyards of Jesus’ time were often ancient, with sprawling, knotted vines. Branches that didn’t bear fruit had to be pruned away to give access to the fruit. In order to maintain the link between the life-giving vine and the grapes for the harvest, the fruit-bearing branches needed to be carefully positioned and propped to prevent the weight of the branch and the fruit from pulling away from the vine. Care had to be taken to prevent the weight of abundance from separating itself from the very source of life.
We live in an abundance that sometimes threatens to separate us from the source of our life as Christians. We’re busy. There’s a lot of stuff to do. Every day seems to bring yet another distraction to grab our attention. Every week seems to present another responsibility we must respond to—another task for the to-do list—another activity of value that takes another bite out of our time, attention and energy. We blink our eyes and feel another day slip by us. We turn around twice and yet another season zips through our lives. It’s so easy for our lives to pull us away from the core of our being—away from the deep-rooted vine of God’s love that nurtures and sustains us. It’s so easy to get pulled away—so easy that we sometimes don’t even notice when it happens. Something shifts, but we’re not quite sure what’s happened. We may find it a little harder to touch the joy in our lives. We may have difficulty naming the emptiness we feel, but we know that something is missing.
When that happens—when we get disconnected from our source—we lose an important part of who we are as Christians. When we are disconnected—when we move away from prayer, study and worship— our work ceases to be ministry. It’s still good work—it still benefits the other people and the community around us—but it’s no longer ministry—it’s no longer work in Christ’s name but in our own.
Does that matter? Some folks would say it doesn’t. I know that it matters for me. I know that I can never do on my own what I can do in the name of Christ. I know that when I lose my connection, it’s hard to find my course through every day. It’s so easy to get pulled away from the source of our lives, but the good news is that it’s even easier to return.
Jesus still says to us, “Abide in me as I abide in you.”
Find strength in me.
Find life in me.
Abide in me.
All we have to do is reach out our hands to receive the loving care he offers us.
Reach out your hand.
Receive the gift of his love.