We are the Branches (Part 2)

(Below is a second selection from a sermon of mine. See the first part here.)

Spring is a beautiful time of year, and we mark its arrival in different ways. For some, spring is announced by the call of a bird returning from its winter in the south. For others, seeing the ground finally peek through the winter-long blanket of snow signals the beginning of spring. For most everyone, however, spring is marked by sprouts of new growth on winter-bare trees. Vibrant green leaves shoot from grey branches, and buds open into bright, scented blooms. The dreary winter landscape is transformed into the dramatic colors of spring.

We need times of spring in our spiritual growth. Times of dramatic, joyful bursts of life. I hope everyone reading has experienced that kind of spiritual newness. It often catches us unawares.

Sometimes it’s just a moment: we’re singing a song and suddenly we hear all those around us and it’s like we’ve been transported into God’s heavenly presence and the angelic chorus is singing all around us; we reflect back on our life, catch a glimpse of God’s artful plan for us, and cry humble tears of gratitude; we see a reddening sunset or a star-filled sky or a delicate bloom or a souring mountain and we fall to our knees in awe of the Creator; we hold a child or grandchild tightly in our arms and know, suddenly and more certainly than ever before, God is good. Moments of renewal, sudden freshness.

Sometimes it’s a season of growth. A summer of youth activities, a couple of months in which prayer seems easier and more urgent, several weeks in which God’s word seems to daily reveal something new and wonderful about Him, a period in which the Spirit seems to be empowering us to break free from old habits. God feels so close.

We need spring-like spiritual growth—the sudden, vibrant, joyful surges of life—but, of course, that’s not what typifies our spiritual lives. The leaves turn red and fall. Winter comes. We’re not in heaven, yet. We can’t enjoy the permanent, unmediated presence of God. At times He will feel far away. Sin will seem too powerful. Prayers will be dry; singing will be hollow. Doubt will assail us. Winter is cold and lonely.

But the winter tree, the leafless one surrounded by snow—it isn’t dead. It’s very much alive and assuredly growing . . . but slowly. It’s a different kind of spiritual growth.

John of the Cross, a sixteenth century monk, warns about this stage in our spiritual lives: “At a certain point in the spiritual journey God will draw a person from the beginning stage to a more advanced stage. . . . Such souls will likely experience what is called ‘the dark night of the soul.’ The ‘dark night’ is when those persons lose all the pleasure that they once experienced in their devotional life. This happens because God wants to purify them and move them on to greater heights.” Winter is the time for cleansing, purifying, pruning.

Such slow growth may not be the most vibrant, but it is the most lasting. The shiny green leaves will come and go, but the trunk will keep slowly, steadily broadening and strengthening. This is truly the transformative growth. It’s the kind of growth that can’t be seen in the moment, but after years have passed, you’ll sit under the canopy of a mighty shade tree and marvel when you think of the sapling you planted so long ago. You’ll see a picture of yourself in an old photo and marvel at what God has done over the long years. You’ll praise him for the bursts of spring and the prunings of winter.

I hope you’re enjoying some spring-like spiritual growth right now. I hope you're experiencing that kind of explosion of spiritual life. But if you aren’t, don’t worry. Even the branches attached to the vine are pruned in winter. Even those who are abiding in Christ must be cleansed. Rest in the blessed assurance that the loving vinedresser is at work, and he is trustworthy.