Remain

Today in Monday school, I meditated on the Parable of the True Vine with four 8 year-olds. In the Catechesis of the Good Shepherd, the religious formation we do at the Cathedral, the True Vine is the central parable for the older children (6 to 9 years old), just as the Good Shepherd is for the younger children (3 to 6 years old).

It surprised me the first time I heard about the pull of the True Vine for these children.  With the Good Shepherd parable we use painted wooden figures of a  shepherd and several sheep, which come in and go out of a sheepfold made out of hot-glued rocks.  The attraction of this material seems obvious—cute farm animals, a sympathetic hero-shepherd who watches over his sheep and calls them by name, and a popsicle stick sheepfold gate to open and close.  

In contrast, for the presentation of the Parable of the True Vine, we use a simple vine plant—often half dead because I’m not great at keeping anything which needs care (other than children and animals) alive for any length of time.

But when the parable was presented to the eight year-olds today, it was obvious something sacred had occurred.  This was just the image they had been hungering for, “I am the vine and you are the branches.” 

“How close are we to Jesus?”  I wondered. We examined the plant.  Could we tell where the vine ended and the branches began?

What about the life force of the vine—the sap? Was it the same in the vine as in the branches?  What could it be on the True Vine, this sap that connects us?  “Love,” they said, “Jesus,” “Grace,” “the Spirit.

“There is a word,” I told them, “that is repeated ten times in this parable—‘remain.’”  We thought about it together.  What does it mean to remain on the vine?  How do we remain?  “Going to church,” they ventured, “loving people,” “praying,”  and then the one boy in our group almost shouted,  “that’s what we’re doing right now.  We are remaining.” 

And there it was, the great mystery and challenge of the spiritual life distilled so succinctly.  Right now, in this moment filled with love and wonder, we remain. Right here, right now, on the holy ground of scripture meeting everyday life, we remain.  Right here, right now, as we recognize and honor Jesus’ presence among us, and in us, we remain.

During these past weeks of Lent, while I could have been spending extra time in contemplative prayer and fasting, I’ve been instead rushing from here to there trying to get all of the things I think I need to accomplish, done.  Between regrets or longing for the past to anxiety or longing for the future, I haven’t spent much time in the here and now.

Today, Jess stayed home from school to recuperate from the stomach flu.  While I prepared for this afternoon’s lessons and worked on talks I’ll be giving this weekend at a catechist training,  she watched “Alice and Wonderland” and read books.  At 1pm, an hour before Jeff came home and I headed to work, she looked at me and said, “Mom, let’s DO something.”  So I pulled my rocking chair up to the couch and placed the piano bench between us and we played Uno and listened to the “Abba” Pandora Station (Jess’s pick).  Jess rolled her eyes while I sang along to “SOS” and “Money, Money, Money” and then joined me wholeheartedly in “Mamma Mia.”  And in the middle of our second card game I realized it—this is holy ground.  Here, playing this card game, listening to this music, being with you little daughter, is where I am privileged to “remain.”

The parable of the True Vine ends, “As the Father loves me, I love you.  Remain in my love.”  It doesn’t matter if we are in church, at Bible study with Second graders, or playing Uno and singing to 70s music, the call is the same—right here, right now—remain.