Great Expectations

(John 14:31-17:1 TLB)

Turning to His disciples, Jesus bids them,

“Come, let’s be going.”  

And so at dusk, after the last supper, they set off on a path to the Garden of Gethsemane.

Winding their way through vineyards.

Although His disciples are used to Jesus’ on-the-spot agricultural realities (“Look at the lilies, they . . . Look at the ravens, they . . .”), they aren’t expecting another tonight.

Entering a vineyard he lifts a fragile branch, beckoning the disciples to lean in.

It’s only spring, so no bursting bunches of grapes.

Just tender shoots and dainty leaves so far.

And so begins, with a delicate branch stretched across His palm, Jesus’ analogy of the Vine and the branches.

Look . . .

An agricultural picture of relationship.

I am the Vine, you are the branches.

But this isn’t what catches my attention.

It’s how Jesus concludes.

I have told you this so that you will be filled with my joy. 

I have told you this, the this about the close relationship with Me that is available to you, for this purpose:

That you will have an abundance of joy.

Flowing from our relationship.

More than you need.

More than you can use.

Which feels like an odd topic for this particular night.

Twenty years ago I planted a pomegranate tree.

To date, it’s grown five pomegranates.

Yes, five.

Some years a meager number of flowers appear, but that’s about it.

It’s like my tree isn’t even trying to grow a pomegranate.

This year though, this year my tree is full of brilliant red blooms.

And my heart is full of hope.

A fruit-stand-at-the-end-of-my-driveway kind of hope.

Great expectations.

But right about here, mid fruitstand fantasy, my own agricultural reality presents itself.

Even if not a single flower becomes a pomegranate, the flowers are a picture of what Jesus is talking about.

Because of the branches’ connections to the trunk, breath-taking beauty abounds.

Abundantly. 

A pomegranate would just be a bonus.

So what does joy look like for us?

I consider my tree.

It has never defined itself by its fruit.

Clearly.

Instead, the branches have stayed quietly connected.

In season and out.

Drawing nourishment and taking direction from the trunk.

Journal in hand, at the foot of my bloom-covered tree, I rewrite Jesus’ words.

I am showing you right here the necessity of your connection to Me . . . and the abundance of joy you will find there.

Now I’m grinning.

At that agricultural picture.

Of joy.

In the form of stunning red blooms bursting out all over those connected branches.

Somewhere along the trodden path that evening Jesus will remark to His disciples, 

“Oh, there’s so much more I want to tell you!”

A clear invitation to them, and to us, to listen.

As their path winds into the Garden, on the way to the worst night of their lives, they enter a grove of olive trees. 

Where, perhaps, Jesus points.

“Look at the olives, they . . .”

Or not.

Either way, the mention of the grove feels like an invitation. 

To maintain close connection with Jesus along the paths of our lives.

Leaning in.

Looking. 

And listening.

With great expectations.

“Oh, there’s so much more I want to tell you!”

“Come, let’s be going.”

See you in a couple weeks.

Love,