Growing up, I was always dismayed to see my father with a hedge-clipper at this time of year. I knew what was coming. It was time to trim and prune.
My father, ever the consummate gardener, knew best how to care for his plants and trees. To my untrained eye, his work in the yard looked like a massacre. Branches would litter the yard, and otherwise, pleasant-looking bushes would be butchered by my father's handiwork. I couldn't understand why you would cut back bushes and trees without cause.
"Jeffrey," he would tell me with a weary shake of his head, "Pruning the branches sparks growth."
Even after all these years, I still don't get it. I don't understand how cutting something back can make it grow.
In John 15, Jesus tells his followers that "God removes every branch…that bears no fruit. Every branch that bears fruit he prunes to make it bear more fruit."
I'm certainly no arborist, but even the green-thumb simpleton in me can acknowledge that there is an elegant beauty at work in managing plants and flowers. The image of God pruning the garden of His creation feels like dialogue, or better yet, a dance. Each action elicits a reaction. A clip here, a blossom there. A cut there, new growth here.
Today marks the beginning of Lent, a season of preparation for Easter. The days are growing longer, the soil is getting warmer, and daffodil stalks are beginning to peak through the pine straw. Ash Wednesday inaugurates a season of growth that culminates in palm branches and Easter lilies.
As we prepare for our valleys and mountain hollers to green up, the question before us is this: What should we prune so that something new can grow?
Yes, Lent is traditionally a time of sacrifice and fasting—of going without something, whether a tasty dessert or a personal vice. It's typically a dour and somber season. However, it is—at its core--a season of preparing for spring, for new life, and Easter. Trimming back the parts of our lives that are gnarly and unproductive to spark something new makes good, practical sense. And with Jesus's image of His father tending to His vineyard, the process of pruning feels faithful if not prophetic.
I remember the moment well. Sensing my discomfort with pruning, my father would seemingly take a perverse pleasure in showing me how to pluck blossoms off plants and vegetables to get them to grow. The practice felt unnecessary and contradictory. Even though I would shake my head as he pinched and pulled, he knew what I would grow to respect: his garden would yield more fruit and vegetables than he and my mother could manage. Clearly, he was doing something right.
It's Lent, y'all. It's time to manage our gardens.