I remember
the first time I visited a vineyard,
and despite the many
references in scripture to vineyards,
vines,
branches—
references that offer vivid metaphors of discipleship—
and despite the deep and obvious connection
between the fruit of the vineyard
and Eucharist,
it was hard to see this glossy,
curated,
picture-perfect experience
as something,
well...Biblical.
As something that related to my
messy,
sometimes chaotic,
always im-perfect life of discipleship.
It was hard to see it
as a metaphor,
speaking an important truth
about faith.
The gleaming white villa,
constructed in a California-Mod
meets-18th Century-Romantic style
was surrounded by manicured lawns
and towering cypress
with neat,
undulating rows of grapevines
stretching out behind.
It looked more like an artist’s rendition
of a vineyard,
than an actual place
of labor and harvest.
The bottles lining the tasting room
glowed like rare rubies and garnets
and the clink of cut crystal
spoke of luxury and privilege--
an escape from reality
rather than immersion
into a life of mission.
What did this place have to teach
about discipleship?
Community?
God?
It felt light years away
and millennia removed
from the words we hear today:
“I am the vine,
you are the branches.
whoever remains in me and I in him
will bear much fruit.’
At least on the surface.
But I discovered,
when I left the tasting room
and walked the land with a grower,
that all vineyards,
ancient or modern,
gritty or Instagram-worthy,
have a story to tell—
a story of patience,
and commitment.
A story of changing seasons,
cycles of dormancy and harvest,
times of watchfulness and growth,
days of hardship and risk.
Even the most manicured vineyard,
beneath the surface,
can tell a parable of discipleship.
Maintaining a vineyard is difficult.
The serenity of a destination vineyard
often hides the raw courage it takes
to embark on this work.
Vineyards are year-round,
labor intensive,
investments in patience,
vigilance,
Attention must be given to the soil,
the sun,
the weeds,
the pruning,
the support.
Planting a vineyard is a promise
made to the future.
It is a deep-pocket commitment
that offers a slow and often precarious
return on investment.
In ancient times
and in our own,
growing a vineyard is a venture
for the bold and daring;
for someone who can afford to wait
and play a long game.
The first few years,
the vigneron must water,
prune,
fertilize,
weed,
build supports,
fight insects
excise disease—
all the while knowing this labor will yield no crop.
Not for the first year.
Nor the second.
Not even the third.
Not until years four and five
might the branches yield
enough grapes for a harvest.
And even then,
it will be yet another year
to produce the first vintage.
The owner pours out effort today,
blindly trusting
in a harvest tomorrow.
Even more time is required
for the vineyard to become profitable,
and the yield to be steady--
perhaps as long as ten years.
So the vineyard is a place of great risk
as well as great beauty.
I think, over the years,
I have finally come to understand
this metaphor of vineyard and faith,
perhaps just a little.
It does speak to us of discipleship,
But not in terms of what we do,
but of what God chooses
to do for us.
God, the harvest master,
plays a long game;
a gambit filled with risk
and laid on a foundation of
perseverence and time.
We tend to long for the immediate—
the now—
the fastest return,
the quickest reward,
the low-hanging fruit.
But the way of the vineyard
is the way of patience.
On the path of discipleship,
it can be easy to mistake pruning
for pain,
supporting ties and trellises
for restrictions,
hedges and walls designed for our protection
as oppression,
a season of dormancy
for abandonment.
Given our own way,
we might avoid pruning altogether.
But the way of the vineyard
teaches that pruning is necessary
to produce good fruit.
Dead and dying vines,
branches that no longer carry nutrients
are pruned,
but so are seemingly healthy shoots
that grow in the wrong direction
or carry hidden disease.
Without pruning,
vegetation will grow at the expense
of the fruit.
Without pruning,
the vine will produce branches and leaves,
but no harvest.
“He takes away every branch in me
that does not bear fruit,
and every one that does,
he prunes,
so that it bears more fruit.”
On the path of discipleship,
seasons of dormancy,
rest,
times of expectant waiting,
so necessary for future growth,
might feel like isolation,
abandonment,
even death.
But the way of the vineyard
teaches that these times of rest
prepare us;
allow us to survive adverse conditions
conserving energy
for the next season of growth.
“I am the vine; you are the branches.
Whoever remains in me and I in them
will bear much fruit,
because without me you can do nothing.”
Each vineyard
tells the parable of discipleship.
In this cycle of planting,
watering,
pruning,
dormancy,
new growth,
and abundant harvest,
we can see a mirror
of God’s action in our lives.
Here is another truth
I learned in the vineyard:
the further away from the main vine
a branch grows,
the harder it is
to receive nourishment.
The closer the branch is to the vine,
the healthier
and more productive it will be.
“Remain in me."
Remain near me.
So, what can a vineyard teach us
about God?
God pours into us,
year-round,
labor intensive,
risk-taking,
investments in patience,
vigilance,
God pays attention to everything
that concerns us:
nourishment,
structure and support,
that which needs pruning,
and what needs to be watered.
God knows that times of fallowness,
times of dormancy
are not abandonment--
they are times when God is particularly near,
preparing us for new growth and opportunity.
God's investment in us is a
promise
made to the future.
It is a deep-pocket commitment
that offers a slow and often precarious
return on investment.
And yet God abides.
God remains.
God waits in patient hope
for a rich harvest bearing the finest fruit.
God invites us to stay close.
"Remain in me,
as I remain in you.
I am the vine,
you are the branches.
For whoever remains in me
and I in him,
will bear much fruit."