Clingy

Clingy

Fix your thoughts on what is true, and honorable, and right, and pure, and lovely, and admirable. Think about things that are excellent and worthy of praise. (Phil. 4:8)

Have you ever thought, "I'm a spiritual flop," or "The only fruit I bear is fear." Ever said, "Perfect peace? I feel like a perfect mess." The phrase "fruitless and fret-filled" describes too many of us. We don't want it to because we long to follow Paul's admonition to, "Fix your thoughts on what is true, and honorable, and right, and pure, and lovely, and admirable. Think about things that are excellent and worthy of praise." (Phil. 4:8) So, with a grimace and fresh resolve, we determine, Today I’m only going to think of true, honorable, and right thoughts . . . even if it kills me. Unfortunately, Paul's call to peace can become a list of requirements: every thought must be true, must be honorable, must be right, must be pure, and must be lovely, admirable, excellent and worthy of praise. Gulp. Who can do that?

Maybe Paul’s list works for you. But if it doesn’t, there’s a simpler approach. Make it your aim to cling to Christ. Isn’t he true, honorable, right, pure, lovely, admirable, excellent, and worthy of praise? “Abide in Me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit of itself unless it abides in the vine, so neither can you unless you abide in Me. I am the vine, you are the branches; he who abides in Me and I in him, he bears much fruit, for apart from Me you can do nothing. If anyone does not abide in Me, he is thrown away as a branch and dries up; and they gather them, and cast them into the fire and they are burned. If you abide in Me, and My words abide in you, ask whatever you wish, and it will be done for you. My Father is glorified by this, that you bear much fruit, and so prove to be My disciples. Just as the Father has loved Me, I have also loved you; abide in My love. If you keep My commandments, you will abide in My love; just as I have kept My Father's commandments and abide in His love.” (John 15:4-10)

Jesus' allegory is simple. God is like a vine keeper. He lives and loves to coax the best out of his vines. He pampers, prunes, blesses and cuts them. His aim is singular: "What can I do to prompt produce?" God is a capable orchardist who carefully superintends his vineyard. And Jesus plays the role of the vine. Non-gardeners might confuse the vine and the branch. To see the vine, lower your gaze from the stringy, winding branches to the thick base below. The vine is the root and trunk of the plant. It transfers nutrients from the soil to the branches. Jesus makes the stunning claim, "I am the real root of life." If anything good comes into our lives, he is the conduit. And who are we? We are the branches. We bear fruit: "love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness." (Gal. 5:22) We meditate on what is "true, and honorable, and right, and pure, and lovely, and admirable . . . excellent and worthy of praise." (Phil. 4:8) Our gentleness is evident to all. We bask in the "peace of God, which transcends all understanding." (Phil. 4:7) And as we cling to Christ, God is honored. "My Father is glorified by this, that you bear much fruit, and so prove to be My disciples." (John 15:8)

The Father tends. Jesus nourishes. We receive, and grapes appear. Passersby, stunned at the overflowing baskets of love, grace and peace can't help but ask, "Who runs this vineyard?" And God is honored with such questions. For this reason, then, fruit-bearing matters to God. And it matters to you, too. Because don’t you grow weary of unrest? Aren’t you ready to be done with sleepless nights? You long to be "anxious for nothing." You long for the fruit of the Spirit. But how do you bear this fruit? By trying harder? No. Branches bear fruit by hanging tighter.

Our assignment is not fruitfulness, but faithfulness. The secret to fruit bearing and anxiety-free living is less about doing, and more about abiding. And just in case we miss this point, Jesus employed the word abide(s) ten times in those seven verses of John 15:4-10. (See, above.) "Come, live in me!" Jesus invites. "Make my home your home." Odds are that you know what it means to be at home somewhere. To be at home is to feel safe. Your home is a place of refuge and security. To be at home is to be comfortable. To be at home is to be familiar. When you enter the door, you don’t have to consult a blueprint to find the kitchen. Our aim – our only aim – is to be at home in Christ. He’s not a roadside park, or hotel room. He’s our permanent mailing address. Christ is our home. He is our place of refuge and security. We are comfortable in his presence, and free to be our authentic selves. We know our way around in him. We know his heart and his ways. We rest in him, find our nourishment in him. His roof of grace protects us from storms of guilt. His walls of providence secure us from destructive winds. His fireplace warms us during the lonely winters of life. We linger in the abode of Christ and never leave.

The branch never lets go of the vine. Ever. Does a branch show up on Sundays for its once-a-week meal? Only at the risk of death. The healthy branch never releases the vine, because there it receives nutrients twenty-four hours a day. If branches had seminars, the topic would be "Secrets of Vine Grabbing." But branches don't have seminars, because to attend them they would have to release the vine – something they refuse to do. The dominant duty of the branch is to cling to the vine. And the dominant duty of the disciple is the same. We Christians tend to miss that. We banter about pledges to "change the world," "make a difference for Christ," and "lead people to the Lord." Yet these are by-products of the Christ-focused life. Our goal is not to bear fruit. Our goal is to stay attached. For instance, when a father leads his four-year-old son down a crowded street, he takes him by the hand and says, "Hold on to me." He doesn't say, "Memorize the map," or "Take your chances dodging the traffic," or "Let's see if you can find your way home." The good father gives the child one responsibility: "Hold on to my hand." God does the same with us. Don't load yourself down with lists. Don't enhance your anxiety with the fear of not fulfilling them. Your goal is not to know every detail of the future. Your goal is to hold the hand of the One who does and never, ever let go. That was the choice of Kent Brantly.

Brantly was a medical missionary in Liberia, waging a war on the cruelest of viruses, Ebola. The epidemic was killing people by the thousands. As much as any person in the world, Brantly knew the consequences of the disease. He had treated dozens of cases. He knew the symptoms – soaring fever, severe diarrhea and nausea. He’d seen the results of the virus, and for the first time he was feeling the symptoms himself. His colleagues had drawn blood and begun the tests. But it would be at least three days before they knew the results. So, Dr. Brantly quarantined himself in his house and waited. His wife and family were across the ocean. His co-workers couldn’t enter his residence. He was, quite literally, alone with his thoughts. He opened his Bible and meditated on a passage from the book of Hebrews. Then he wrote in his journal, "The promise of entering his rest still stands, so let us never give up. Let us, therefore, make every effort . . . to enter that rest." Dr. Brantly considered the phrase "make every effort." He knew he would have to do exactly that. He then turned his attention to another verse from that same chapter in Hebrews: "Let us then approach the throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need." He copied the scripture into his prayer journal and wrote the words "with confidence" in italics. He closed his journal and began the wait. (Hebrews 4:11; 16.)

The next three days brought unspeakable discomfort. The test results confirmed what they feared: he had contracted Ebola. Kent's wife, Amber, along with their two children, were at her parent’s home in the States when he called her with the diagnosis. When her phone rang, she hurried to the bedroom for some privacy. Kent got straight to the point. "The test results came back. It's positive." Amber began to cry. They talked for a few moments before Kent said that he was tired and would call again soon. Now it was Amber's turn to process the news. She and her parents sat on the edge of her bed and wept. Then, after some time, Amber excused herself and went outside.

She walked across a field toward a large mesquite tree and took a seat on a low-hanging branch. She found it difficult to find words to formulate her prayers, so she used the lyrics of hymns she had learned as a young girl. There is no shadow of turning with Thee; Thou changest not, Thy compassions, they fail not. As Thou hast been Thou forever wilt be. The words lifted her spirits, so she began to sing aloud another song she treasured: I need Thee every hour, in joy or pain; Come quickly and abide, or life is in vain. I need Thee, O I need Thee; Every hour I need Thee; O bless me now, my Savior, I come to Thee. She later wrote, "I thought my husband was going to die. I was afraid. Through those hymns, though, I was able to connect with God in a meaningful way when I couldn't find my own words to pray."

Kent was transported from Africa to Atlanta. His caregivers chose to risk an untested treatment. Little by little his condition improved. Within a few days his strength began to return. The entire world, it seemed, rejoiced when he was able to exit the hospital, cured of Ebola. We can applaud the Brantlys' victory over this disease and another, a virus that is every bit as deadly and contagious: the unseen contagion of anxiety. Kent and Amber were prime candidates for panic, yet they reacted with the same resolve that enabled them to battle Ebola. They stayed connected to the vine. They resolved to abide in Christ. Kent opened his Bible. Amber meditated on hymns. They filled their minds with the truth of God. Jesus taught us to do the same. He tells us, rather bluntly, "Do not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink; nor about your body, what you will put on." (Matt. 6:25) He then gives two commands: "look" and "consider."

He tells us to "look at the birds of the air." (Matt. 6:26) When we do, we notice how happy they seem to be. They aren't frowning, cranky or even grumpy. They don't appear sleep deprived or lonely. They sing, whistle and soar. Yet "they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns." (v. 26) They don't drive tractors, or harvest wheat, yet Jesus asks us, “Do they appear well cared for?” He then turns our attention to the flowers of the field. "Consider the lilies," he says. (v. 28) Less than the birds, they don't do anything. Even though their life span is short, God dresses them up for red-carpet appearances. Even Solomon, the richest king in history, "was not arrayed like one of these." (v. 29)

So, how do we disarm anxiety? Stockpile our minds with God thoughts. Draw the logical implication: if birds and flowers fall under the category of God's care, won't he care for us as well? Saturate your heart with the goodness of God. "Set your mind on things above, not on things on the earth." (Col. 3:2) Free from fear. Free from dread. And, yes, free from anxiety.

Grace,

Randy

Clingy - Audio/Visual