Fifth Sunday of Easter, cycle B

John 10:11 -18

When I started visiting patients at a local nursing home, I met a man named Tom. He had a neurological disease, and had lost the ability to walk; he was also beginning to show weakness in his arms, and had trouble getting from his wheelchair into bed. And he was angry. The first time I met him, he told me he was busy; come back later. So I did. And I persisted until we actually had a brief conversation. He had been a career military man. He also was an alcoholic, and had been on and off the wagon for several years. He and his wife had divorced and he had very strained relations with his two children. He had been raised a Catholic, had been an altar boy, had been married in the Church, but hadn't been to the sacraments for years. Over a few weeks he had regained a little strength through physical therapy and his apartment had been modified so that he could manage, and he left.

About a year later he was back. Now he was bedridden, and could barely lift his arms. But he was changed. His wife was there nearly every day and his two grown kids made visits. He had reconciled with the Church and received communion. He received the sacrament of the Sick several times from Father Reilly. He was optimistic that one of these days things would get better, but when they didn't he didn't seem to be too bothered. And he had become nice. He thanked people for helping him out; he gave compliments; he listened to his fellow patients when they wanted to talk. And he liked to talk to me about what he was reading in the bible and other spiritual books. And when the end was near, he went home with the help of hospice and his wife, to die a few days later.

So what happened? Was this one of those situations where you turn to God because there is no other answer? In my life of dealing with cancer patients I don't think I've ever seen someone change his basic personality because he knew he was going to die. If she was a fighter, she fought to the end; if he was depressed, he stayed depressed; and if she didn't believe in God, the threat of dying didn't change her mind.

I think we see a hint of the answer in today's gospel reading. Jesus tells us that we are branches to his vine, that without that connection we can't bear fruit. Buy the way, he doesn't say that if we are cut off we can't be grafted back on. Jesus point is that connection to him is life, and a very special kind of life. And connection to him is what is necessary to bear fruit.

I used to read this scripture passage and feel inadequate. What fruit have I born, compared to Saint Francis or any saint for that matter? I can easily find examples of people who have born a lot more fruit than I ever will. But whatever fruit is born comes from God and depends on connection to the vine. And maybe that isn't the fruit Jesus is talking about anyway.

Saint Paul tells us that the fruits of the Spirit are charity, joy, peace, patience, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self control And you notice that these have to do with how we approach life, not with great works. I think the Father uses some of us branches to build up the Kingdom – some to a great degree, some to a small degree. But he isn't primarily concerned about that with respect to the individual Christian. What the Father wants is to see Jesus Christ in us. As John the Baptist remarked, “He must increase, I must decrease.”

And those of us who are branches are pruned by the word Jesus speaks to us. If we take his words and examples seriously and apply them to our spiritual lives, how we try to look at the world, how we try to grow in virtue, how we try to conquer our sinful impulses – and you will note I use the word try, because our progress depends not on our own efforts, but allowing the Holy Spirit to work in us, we will all be transformed. Some of us may become great saints; others might show tiny changes, like the Good Thief who at the last moment threw himself on Christ's mercy. And there will be those who simply don't bear fruit, simply don't cooperate with the Holy Spirit flowing through the vine which is Jesus. And some of those people may very well look like saints. Talented and clever people who turn their energies towards appearing holy can even believe they are holy – but holiness is the work of the Spirit, not of anything we can do.

We sometimes say things like “Look busy, God may be watching” or “God's in his heaven, all's right with the world” as the poet said. And we are comfortable with a far-off God who is going to weigh us according to our merits and demerits, preferably on a sliding scale. But the vine dresser is not up in the house on the hill; he is there in the vineyard, cutting off that branch which no longer shows life; trimming back this one because it is making leaves, not grapes; and perhaps grafting on a branch that came from another vine and shows promise.

My friend Tom never accomplished any great work. But he clearly bore great fruit if the fruits of the Spirit are what we are talking about.

They tell a story out in the West about a man from the city who asked an old cowboy if he believed in God. The cowboy said he did. The city man then asked, with a smirk, “ I guess the nest thing you will tell me is that you've seen God.” The old cowboy replied, “I've never seen God, but I've met a few Jesus's in my time.”

The whole reason the Son of God, at the request of the Father, became man and suffered and died, the whole reason he breathed the Holy Spirit into his disciples and through them his Church, was to make it possible for you and I to become Jesus – and God will do all the work. That's the promise of the parable of the vine and the branches.