John 15:1-5
In the southwestern United States, there is a tree that grows where almost nothing else can: the Cottonwood. It is considered a sacred tree by Arapaho and Cheyenne peoples, in part because of its branches. If you cut a branch, you will see the shape of a star in its center.
There is a legend that the Cottonwood tree is the conduit for stars in the night sky. As the story goes, stars begin their lives underground, in the rich soil. They seek out the roots of the Cottonwood to begin their long journey to the sky. They move through the roots into the branches and wait there until they are needed. When the Spirit of the Night Sky needs more stars, she calls out to the Spirit of the Wind, asking her to blow through the Cottonwoods. A branch breaks, and a star is released into the night sky. The sky, the legend teaches, is full of stars released when Cottonwood branches have broken during storms.
Earlier this week, when I picked up today’s scripture passage, I found myself thinking about this legend of the Cottonwood. The story helps me claim what it means to be a branch in a different way.
“I am the vine; you are the branches.” What a beautiful, evocative image–conveying connection, interdependence, nurture. The image is embedded, though, in a longer passage that includes a harsh warning: if you don’t bear fruit, Jesus seems to be saying, you’ll be discarded.
I don’t like it. What happened to grace? I also don’t like that this passage has been used to argue that Jesus is the only vine, the only way to bear fruit, the only path to salvation.
It helps me to remember that John wrote his gospel for his early Christian community, which was struggling through a time of disorienting change and distress. They were new at being community; their connections with each other were tenuous. They were challenged and maybe even threatened by other spiritual communities also trying to negotiate uncertain times. Everything John wrote was intended to help his community stay together and stay faithful.
In this reading, John quotes Jesus speaking to his disciples at their last supper together. John uses Jesus’ words to convey a message to his own people. Behind the sharpness of the message is the urgency of the moment–both for Jesus and his disciples the night before his crucifixion and for John and his community in a time of crisis.
“You have borne fruit through the nourishment of these teachings and this ministry,” Jesus and John say to their respective communities. “But now it’s going to get hard. Now you really need to stay connected so you can continue to bear fruit. Don’t slip away and end up all on your own; come closer and draw nourishment from the Source you have already found.”
It’s important to remember that Jesus was not making a proclamation about all people forever. He was not claiming to be the one and only vine that can connect branches to the soil of God’s love. He was speaking to his disciples–men and women who had already found meaning and purpose, hope and love through his ministry.
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Even when I get past the “warning” tone of this passage, I find myself focusing on the “I am the vine” part of the message. Stay close, stay connected; remember how much you need Jesus. The Cottonwood legend helps me shift my focus to the wonder and challenge of being a branch. Cottonwood branches don’t create the stars–but the night sky would be utter darkness without the branches of the Cottonwood tree that hold the stars and release them when they are needed.
Jesus is the vine; we are the branches. It is true that a branch cannot bear fruit without the vine that connects it to the soil’s nourishment. It is equally true that the vine needs the branches. The branches produce leaves and reach for the sun, absorbing its energy and transforming it to feed the entire plant. Without the vine, the branches wither and die. Without the branches, the vine can do nothing.
What a wondrous and daunting truth: Jesus needs us. Jesus needs us to reach out our branches, to stretch toward the sun, to absorb the energy around us and use it to strengthen the entire plant, the entire community, the entire world.
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The other reason I found myself drawn to the Cottonwood legend this week is that it acknowledges the reality that branches break. That rings all too true right now.
On Friday morning, I settled into my living room with my I-pad and yoga mat and tuned into Danielle Rousseau’s Gentle Yoga live-stream class. It was the first class this week where I was simply attending. As she invited us to breathe, I began to feel the enormity of the losses of the past few weeks. Losses at so many levels. Canceling our Palm Sunday parade. Knowing that we have to start imagining Easter via live-stream. Not being able to sing together. Not being able to cook a meal for friends. The reality that people are dying all over the world, and my fear that reality might ultimately come to people I love. Folks in Framingham who have lost jobs and don’t know how they will survive. People struggling with addictions who cannot find a life-giving AA meeting. Healthcare workers risking their lives every day.
I had been so busy learning Zoom and trying to figure out how far six feet really is that I had not stopped to acknowledge the loss, the brokenness of our branches. I thank Danielle for inviting me into a space to do that.
The Cottonwood legend names the reality of brokenness, and puts it into a context of hope and light. It is when a branch breaks that the star within it is revealed and released, to help illuminate the night sky. The promise of this legend is that, when we face our own brokenness, we also discover the light within, the light we can contribute to the world. The central promise of our faith, which we will celebrate in a few weeks at Easter, is that God works through our brokenness to bring new life and new hope.
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Jesus says, “I am the vine; you are the branches.” What does it mean for you today, sitting at home practicing social distancing, to claim the glory and the challenge of being a branch?
Maybe you are feeling disconnected. If you are, allow Jesus’ words to inspire you to come closer to the source of your nourishment. Reach out to a friend. Take a little extra time to talk with God in prayer. Join in a live-stream Bible Study.
Maybe you are feeling stuck inside yourself in this time of isolation. If you are, remember that, in order for the whole plant to thrive, its branches need to reach for the sky. So reach. Stretch. Lift your arms overhead. If you can get out in the sun, do so. If you can’t, do a Sun Salutation seated in your chair. One way to stretch is to use this time to learn something new. Study a few words of Spanish or Portuguese. Read a book about trees, or about people making a difference in the world.
Maybe you have found ways to be so busy in this time that you haven’t let yourself feel the loss, the brokenness. If so, let today be a day to pause, to feel, to trust that your feelings will not destroy you. Trust that God’s gift of new life emerges when we honor the reality of loss.
Or maybe you are acutely aware of your own brokenness and the brokenness of our world right now. If so, I invite you to wonder what shape the star revealed in your own broken branch might take. What might be the light you have to contribute to our world? It may be that you already know the answer to that question. If so, rejoice that you are light for the world. It may be that the answer eludes you. If so, dare to trust that, when it is time, you will awaken to your own starry-ness, and you will discover the light you are already bringing to our world.
“I am the vine,” Jesus says. Let us give thanks for the promise of connection and nourishment. “You are the branches.” Let us reach for the sun. Let us fling our stars into the night.
Amen.