Making Peace with the Pruning Shears

I am the Real Vine and my Father is the Farmer. He cuts off every branch

of me that doesn't bear grapes. And every branch that is grape-bearing 

he prunes back so it will bear even more.          

I have a beef with this particular passage of Scripture from the beginning verses of John 15, taken here from Eugene Peterson's paraphrase, The Message.

It leads me to imagine God as a flint-eyed gardener gleefully sharpening his cold steel pruning shears. Not exactly an image that gives me the warm fuzzies.

What ever happened to 'the Lord is my shepherd'? And why is it so hard to reconcile the image of the One who leads me beside still waters and restores my soul with the same God who is just waiting to prune the struggling bits off the vine? 

I'm sure this is harsh, but boy I don't like this metaphor for God. In my experience, being cut hurts, whether it's a slip of the knife while making supper, or the harsh reality of job cuts, or not making the cut for the team. 

Couldn't we all just put those scissors down and talk about this for a while? Or, I hear that playing music for plants and talking nicely to them can do absolute wonders... Maybe we could try that!

I. Don't. Want. To. Be. Pruned.

I've seen firsthand the effects of hands that were too eager to lay the axe to a program or ministry that they felt wasn't producing enough fruit, when perhaps there was still plenty of life left in it after all. And it didn't feel good at all.

But, on the other hand, I have been really struggling to manage my time and juggle priorities lately. I am desperately thirsty for more time for prayer, for reflection, for meaningful conversations with other people--all good and necessary and healthy components of pastoral ministry, and of life more broadly. And the only way that is going to happen is if something else can be trimmed--if the places that are taking up too much energy without producing good fruit can either be pruned or grafted onto another vine where they will be able to thrive.

So I find myself caught in the middle, gazing fearfully at God and his steel shears, wondering if I can trust that they will be wielded for my good and not to harm me--like a good surgeon can wield a scalpel for healing instead of harm--while at the same time starving for permission to take my own set of shears to my responsibilities in a way that I'm convinced will lead to better health not only for me, but in the long run also for everyone around me. (If only cleaning the bathroom or taking out the garbage could be the first thing cut from the list!)

It reminds me of the lengthy conversation I had with the oral surgeon at the consultation appointment prior to having my wisdom teeth removed. Having just enough medical knowledge to be dangerous, I engaged her in a detailed discussion about the pros and cons of anesthesia, leading ultimately to a discussion about anxiety medication as an option should I feel that would be helpful. (In my own defence, I just really like to have all the information before making a decision...)

Even as I sat in the chair and the oral surgeon talked aloud to herself about the correct dose of the anesthetic, I was nervous about the sedation process and its possible risks. And counting out loud backward from ten when I didn't feel tired in the least seemed like a foolish process--until one minute I was counting and the next I was wide awake in the recovery room, with no recollection whatsoever of how I got from one room to the next, or of what happened in the interim.

Which is to say--maybe I'm overthinking this. Maybe there is a time for pruning, just as there is a time for gentle shepherding.

And maybe I, of all people, need to have more empathy for those who resist changes to the familiar patterns of doing things, even if I suspect that it's for the greater health in the long run.

Maybe I should know that it's hard to trust the One who wields the shears.

Until you take a closer look at the gardener, see those familiar eyes looking at you with such love, and realize that it's the Teacher, and he knows your name, as Mary Magdalene also found out so very long ago (John 20:15-16).