Metaphor run into the ground. Heard often, preached often, embroidered often on the wall by the bathroom sink.
Just one minute, pilgrim.
Halt your hurried steps long enough to answer just this:
Do you realize what a branch is?
It is the branches that tell whether a tree is alive or dead. It is from the branches that a million leaves open to gather up the sun. It is the branches that turn the used-up air of living organisms back into Oxygen.
It is the branches that hold the fruit...
All the fruit.
A branch that is dry in the height of spring testifies to a tree starkly dead in the midst of bursting life.
Only this Tree, this Vine, can't die.
If it looks dead, it's a lie.
The branches are lying.
Tied up there with twine, but disconnected.
But do you wonder that the world looks no further than the fruitless bough and pronounces the Tree unworthy?
"I am the vine, ye are the branches..."
Incomprehensible is the honor of holding the fruit born of His strength and sap.
Unthinkable the dishonor of surrounding Him with fruitlessness.