Pruning
Stories
Object:
Contents
"Pruning" by C. David McKirachan
"Loving The Despised Ones" by Sandra Herrmann
* * * * * * *
Pruning
by C. David McKirachan
John 15:1-8
I do Bonsai. ‘Tree in a saucer.’ The small trees live in a fragile ecology that is totally dependent on constant care. The dirt is shallow, too much heat or fertilizer can burn the plant. Some cannot be out in the changing seasons. Some must be out but must be protected from severe freezing. If you make a commitment to the trees, you have to be faithful, or they cannot survive, let alone flourish.
Part of Bonsai demands that the tree be pruned. Part of this is to allow the tree to grow into the vision you have for it. Part of it is necessary for the health of this living entity. The roots and the branches and even the trunk must be pruned to allow the tree to be healthy in its confined space. I don’t like to prune. I like to trim, but pruning demands that more be taken. Hard choices need to be made. If I am to be responsible for this being in my care, I have to face and make these hard choices for the sake of its life.
I think we all need to be involved in pruning. It’s called stewardship. I like to think about each day as a clean slate, move into it boldly, doing what I want, even those things beyond my comfort zone. It makes for an exciting life. But as I age I face the truth that none of us are free of limitations. We all live in fragile ecologies, bounded by responsibilities, relationships, and limitations of resources. What is best is not necessarily what we want. So we must prune.
I’ve known people who lived small lives, pruned down to the nub. I don’t like that. I think that’s just sad. But I’ve also known those that never considered the cost to themselves or others. Their ecologies rapidly became unbalanced and sickly.
Our life with Christ, the risen Lord is a life that demands reach and risk and growth. There is a world to save. My ordination scripture was the sixty first chapter of Isaiah. There are very few mentions of self-limitation there. ‘?oaks of righteousness, the planting of our God,’ speaks of deep roots, mighty trunks, and branches. Yet when we begin living in Christ we find ourselves claiming a journey that demands we travel light and make choices for the ministry of reconciliation, bounded by the law of love. So pruning becomes necessary.
It is hard to admit our humanity, our limited nature. It is hard to admit that we hold this treasure in clay pots. But if we face this, squarely, we find ourselves experiencing humility, true humility. It demands that we accept our limitation while we find the best way to be vehicles, effective proclaimers of the love and justice of the crucified and risen Lord.
My vision of my life has become grafted onto the root stock of my Lord’s vision of life. That makes demands on me, but it also lets me flourish in ways I never expected. And how I live within the ecology of my life is part of that.
As I care for my trees, I know that my Lord cares for me. I’m a pretty gnarly tree. But you can’t say I’m not interesting.
C. David McKirachan is pastor of the Presbyterian Church at Shrewsbury in central New Jersey. He also teaches at Monmouth University. Two of his books, I Happened Upon a Miracle and A Year of Wonder, have been published by Westminster John Knox Press. McKirachan was raised in a pastor's home and he is the brother of a pastor, and he has discovered his name indicates that he has druid roots. Storytelling seems to be a congenital disorder. He lives with his 21-year-old son Ben and his dog Sam.
Loving The Despised Ones
by Sandra Herrmann
Acts 8:26-40
I was a student chaplain at a large county hospital in a Midwestern city while I was finishing my seminary degree. It was fascinating work, because we got everyone who needed an emergency room in the downtown area and even beyond. In one day, I had sat with a group of college professors as they waited for word on a visiting professor who had suffered a massive heart attack in the fancy restaurant where they were waiting for a table; then comforted a couple of prostitutes while the doctors tried to save the life of their pimp; escorted a woman to the room where her son lay, bleeding from his wounds suffered when his motorcycle had been hit by a car on the freeway; and stayed out of the way as a man was wheeled in, strapped down to a gurney, screaming his head off due to the PCP in his system. It had been an exhausting day, and it still wasn’t over. I had been asked to go up to one of the floors before I went home so I could pray with a woman who would have surgery in the early morning, and had asked for a chaplain, since she didn’t have a pastor she could call.
I had wandered over to the cafeteria for a cup of coffee and a package of cookies, baked earlier and wrapped up when the kitchen closed. I sighed as I sat down at a table, and bowed my head to thank God for chairs and coffee. I was past thinking. I just sat and stared into space, chewing on an oatmeal cookie with cranberries. Across the room, there sat a young man, slumped in a chair, playing with some coins on the table, ignoring the soda sitting near his elbow. Something about him said to me that he was as emotionally drained as I was. I watched him for a minute, and saw him wipe his nose with a paper napkin. Yep. He was definitely in need.
I got up and sauntered over. “You O.K.?” I asked. He didn’t respond at first, so I said, “I’m the chaplain on call. Is there anything I can do for you?”
He turned his head, and I could see that his eyes were red, sunken into his head. He was pale and drawn.
“How are you doing?”
“I feel like s___.”
“I’m sorry. Would you like some company?” He shrugged. I stood there, but backed off a step or two to avoid looming over him.
“Sure. You wanna sit down?” He gestured to the chair next to him, and I pulled it out and sat down. He pulled himself upright, braced his arms against the edge of the table and hung his head. I drank some coffee and waited.
“You’re a chaplain?” I nodded. “Is that like a God person for the hospital?”
I nearly laughed. It was such a child-like thing to say. “Yeah, I guess that’s a good way to put it. I’m God’s person here in the hospital.”
He looked at me earnestly. “I’m gay.”
“O.K.” We had a lot of gay men come to our hospital. The city we were in had one of the largest gay communities in the U.S., and a lot of them lived in the area where the hospital was located. He wasn’t the first gay man I’d talked to, but unknown to me at the time, he was the beginning of a long line of gay men I’d be talking to very soon.
He looked at me out of the corner of his eye. “O.K.? Really? You’re O.K. with me being gay?”
I was innocent enough at that moment that I said, “Sure. I don’t care that you’re gay. You’re in pain, or in trouble, and I’m here for people who are in trouble one way or another. What’s your name?”
“Gary.” I told him my name, and we shook hands. “My boyfriend is in surgery right now. It’s pretty serious.”
“I’m sorry. Surgery is pretty scary for most people.”
Gary nodded. “What if he dies, chaplain? What am I gonna do if he dies?” Tears crept down his cheeks. “He’s older than me, and he’s been taking care of me for seven years. I can’t go on if he dies.” And now he was crying in earnest, his head sinking down on his arms. I put a hand on his arm. How many times had I sat with people, as they cried that they could not go on living if their loved one died! I had learned that words cannot comfort when we’re crying out in fear, clutching at the life of someone we love, trying to hold them here, to keep them from dying. So I said nothing, just held on to his arm, praying silently that God would give me wisdom.
At last, his head came up, and he asked me, “Do you think Bill will go to hell if he dies?”
I was so taken aback, I literally gasped. “Why do you think he’ll go to hell?”
“Well, he’s ? we’re GAY. My Dad kicked me out of the house when I told him. He doesn’t want me around, doesn’t care if I live or die. He said I’m going to hell! That we’re both going to hell.” Tears were streaming down his face again, his face contorted in fear and grief.
“What kind of a guy is Bill?” I asked.
“He’s a good man. He’s strong, and kind, and when we go out he opens doors for me ? and other people, too. I mean, he’s just that kind of guy, you know, courteous. That’s really how we met. He came into the restaurant where I was working, and he was so polite, he treated me like a person instead of a slave. He smiled at me and thanked me for everything I did for him. The other people at his table were pretty much the same. And when they left, he handed me a slip of paper with his phone number on it and said, ‘Call me.’” At that point, Gary smiled, and I could see how much he loved his boyfriend.
“He sounds like a winner to me,” I said, and Gary nodded vigorously. “You know,” I said, “Jesus hung around with a lot of guys ? and women ? who were pretty much despised by most people. He went to their homes and ate and drank with them, even though he was criticized. And there’s this story about the apostle Philip, who met a guy who was banned from the Temple, because he was a eunuch; he taught him about Jesus, and when the eunuch asked if there was any reason he couldn’t be baptized right there and then, Philip said there was no reason. If those people were good enough to be Jesus’ friends, to be baptized, then I doubt that Bill is going to hell just because he’s gay. Is he faithful to you?”
“Oh, yeah. I can trust him 100%.”
“Is he good to his parents?”
Gary frowned at me. “What’s that got to do with . . . oh, I get it. Yeah, he honors his parents.” He smiled a little. “They were worried when he came out to them, afraid he’d be lonely his whole life. When he brought me home to meet them, his mother hugged me and said, ‘Now I know our boy won’t be lonely. He has such a good friend in you.’ I blushed, and she just patted my face. We go to see them every few weeks.”
“Well, then, it sounds like he’s a good man. I don’t think God sends people to hell unless they’re mean, or violent, or greedy, or take advantage of others. The God I know loves you, and wants the best for you. And for Bill.”
When I told him I had to go pray with someone facing surgery, Gary grabbed me in a fierce hug. He thanked me over and over. Suddenly, all the tiredness I had been feeling was lifted, and I went to pray with the woman facing surgery with a lighter step.
I said that this was a beginning. A few days later, I was asked to see a patient who was recovering from surgery, and you’ve probably guessed it was Bill. Gary had told him my name, and he had asked the nurse if she could get me, specifically. We had a long chat, and Bill was everything Gary had said, and more.
"Pruning" by C. David McKirachan
"Loving The Despised Ones" by Sandra Herrmann
* * * * * * *
Pruning
by C. David McKirachan
John 15:1-8
I do Bonsai. ‘Tree in a saucer.’ The small trees live in a fragile ecology that is totally dependent on constant care. The dirt is shallow, too much heat or fertilizer can burn the plant. Some cannot be out in the changing seasons. Some must be out but must be protected from severe freezing. If you make a commitment to the trees, you have to be faithful, or they cannot survive, let alone flourish.
Part of Bonsai demands that the tree be pruned. Part of this is to allow the tree to grow into the vision you have for it. Part of it is necessary for the health of this living entity. The roots and the branches and even the trunk must be pruned to allow the tree to be healthy in its confined space. I don’t like to prune. I like to trim, but pruning demands that more be taken. Hard choices need to be made. If I am to be responsible for this being in my care, I have to face and make these hard choices for the sake of its life.
I think we all need to be involved in pruning. It’s called stewardship. I like to think about each day as a clean slate, move into it boldly, doing what I want, even those things beyond my comfort zone. It makes for an exciting life. But as I age I face the truth that none of us are free of limitations. We all live in fragile ecologies, bounded by responsibilities, relationships, and limitations of resources. What is best is not necessarily what we want. So we must prune.
I’ve known people who lived small lives, pruned down to the nub. I don’t like that. I think that’s just sad. But I’ve also known those that never considered the cost to themselves or others. Their ecologies rapidly became unbalanced and sickly.
Our life with Christ, the risen Lord is a life that demands reach and risk and growth. There is a world to save. My ordination scripture was the sixty first chapter of Isaiah. There are very few mentions of self-limitation there. ‘?oaks of righteousness, the planting of our God,’ speaks of deep roots, mighty trunks, and branches. Yet when we begin living in Christ we find ourselves claiming a journey that demands we travel light and make choices for the ministry of reconciliation, bounded by the law of love. So pruning becomes necessary.
It is hard to admit our humanity, our limited nature. It is hard to admit that we hold this treasure in clay pots. But if we face this, squarely, we find ourselves experiencing humility, true humility. It demands that we accept our limitation while we find the best way to be vehicles, effective proclaimers of the love and justice of the crucified and risen Lord.
My vision of my life has become grafted onto the root stock of my Lord’s vision of life. That makes demands on me, but it also lets me flourish in ways I never expected. And how I live within the ecology of my life is part of that.
As I care for my trees, I know that my Lord cares for me. I’m a pretty gnarly tree. But you can’t say I’m not interesting.
C. David McKirachan is pastor of the Presbyterian Church at Shrewsbury in central New Jersey. He also teaches at Monmouth University. Two of his books, I Happened Upon a Miracle and A Year of Wonder, have been published by Westminster John Knox Press. McKirachan was raised in a pastor's home and he is the brother of a pastor, and he has discovered his name indicates that he has druid roots. Storytelling seems to be a congenital disorder. He lives with his 21-year-old son Ben and his dog Sam.
Loving The Despised Ones
by Sandra Herrmann
Acts 8:26-40
I was a student chaplain at a large county hospital in a Midwestern city while I was finishing my seminary degree. It was fascinating work, because we got everyone who needed an emergency room in the downtown area and even beyond. In one day, I had sat with a group of college professors as they waited for word on a visiting professor who had suffered a massive heart attack in the fancy restaurant where they were waiting for a table; then comforted a couple of prostitutes while the doctors tried to save the life of their pimp; escorted a woman to the room where her son lay, bleeding from his wounds suffered when his motorcycle had been hit by a car on the freeway; and stayed out of the way as a man was wheeled in, strapped down to a gurney, screaming his head off due to the PCP in his system. It had been an exhausting day, and it still wasn’t over. I had been asked to go up to one of the floors before I went home so I could pray with a woman who would have surgery in the early morning, and had asked for a chaplain, since she didn’t have a pastor she could call.
I had wandered over to the cafeteria for a cup of coffee and a package of cookies, baked earlier and wrapped up when the kitchen closed. I sighed as I sat down at a table, and bowed my head to thank God for chairs and coffee. I was past thinking. I just sat and stared into space, chewing on an oatmeal cookie with cranberries. Across the room, there sat a young man, slumped in a chair, playing with some coins on the table, ignoring the soda sitting near his elbow. Something about him said to me that he was as emotionally drained as I was. I watched him for a minute, and saw him wipe his nose with a paper napkin. Yep. He was definitely in need.
I got up and sauntered over. “You O.K.?” I asked. He didn’t respond at first, so I said, “I’m the chaplain on call. Is there anything I can do for you?”
He turned his head, and I could see that his eyes were red, sunken into his head. He was pale and drawn.
“How are you doing?”
“I feel like s___.”
“I’m sorry. Would you like some company?” He shrugged. I stood there, but backed off a step or two to avoid looming over him.
“Sure. You wanna sit down?” He gestured to the chair next to him, and I pulled it out and sat down. He pulled himself upright, braced his arms against the edge of the table and hung his head. I drank some coffee and waited.
“You’re a chaplain?” I nodded. “Is that like a God person for the hospital?”
I nearly laughed. It was such a child-like thing to say. “Yeah, I guess that’s a good way to put it. I’m God’s person here in the hospital.”
He looked at me earnestly. “I’m gay.”
“O.K.” We had a lot of gay men come to our hospital. The city we were in had one of the largest gay communities in the U.S., and a lot of them lived in the area where the hospital was located. He wasn’t the first gay man I’d talked to, but unknown to me at the time, he was the beginning of a long line of gay men I’d be talking to very soon.
He looked at me out of the corner of his eye. “O.K.? Really? You’re O.K. with me being gay?”
I was innocent enough at that moment that I said, “Sure. I don’t care that you’re gay. You’re in pain, or in trouble, and I’m here for people who are in trouble one way or another. What’s your name?”
“Gary.” I told him my name, and we shook hands. “My boyfriend is in surgery right now. It’s pretty serious.”
“I’m sorry. Surgery is pretty scary for most people.”
Gary nodded. “What if he dies, chaplain? What am I gonna do if he dies?” Tears crept down his cheeks. “He’s older than me, and he’s been taking care of me for seven years. I can’t go on if he dies.” And now he was crying in earnest, his head sinking down on his arms. I put a hand on his arm. How many times had I sat with people, as they cried that they could not go on living if their loved one died! I had learned that words cannot comfort when we’re crying out in fear, clutching at the life of someone we love, trying to hold them here, to keep them from dying. So I said nothing, just held on to his arm, praying silently that God would give me wisdom.
At last, his head came up, and he asked me, “Do you think Bill will go to hell if he dies?”
I was so taken aback, I literally gasped. “Why do you think he’ll go to hell?”
“Well, he’s ? we’re GAY. My Dad kicked me out of the house when I told him. He doesn’t want me around, doesn’t care if I live or die. He said I’m going to hell! That we’re both going to hell.” Tears were streaming down his face again, his face contorted in fear and grief.
“What kind of a guy is Bill?” I asked.
“He’s a good man. He’s strong, and kind, and when we go out he opens doors for me ? and other people, too. I mean, he’s just that kind of guy, you know, courteous. That’s really how we met. He came into the restaurant where I was working, and he was so polite, he treated me like a person instead of a slave. He smiled at me and thanked me for everything I did for him. The other people at his table were pretty much the same. And when they left, he handed me a slip of paper with his phone number on it and said, ‘Call me.’” At that point, Gary smiled, and I could see how much he loved his boyfriend.
“He sounds like a winner to me,” I said, and Gary nodded vigorously. “You know,” I said, “Jesus hung around with a lot of guys ? and women ? who were pretty much despised by most people. He went to their homes and ate and drank with them, even though he was criticized. And there’s this story about the apostle Philip, who met a guy who was banned from the Temple, because he was a eunuch; he taught him about Jesus, and when the eunuch asked if there was any reason he couldn’t be baptized right there and then, Philip said there was no reason. If those people were good enough to be Jesus’ friends, to be baptized, then I doubt that Bill is going to hell just because he’s gay. Is he faithful to you?”
“Oh, yeah. I can trust him 100%.”
“Is he good to his parents?”
Gary frowned at me. “What’s that got to do with . . . oh, I get it. Yeah, he honors his parents.” He smiled a little. “They were worried when he came out to them, afraid he’d be lonely his whole life. When he brought me home to meet them, his mother hugged me and said, ‘Now I know our boy won’t be lonely. He has such a good friend in you.’ I blushed, and she just patted my face. We go to see them every few weeks.”
“Well, then, it sounds like he’s a good man. I don’t think God sends people to hell unless they’re mean, or violent, or greedy, or take advantage of others. The God I know loves you, and wants the best for you. And for Bill.”
When I told him I had to go pray with someone facing surgery, Gary grabbed me in a fierce hug. He thanked me over and over. Suddenly, all the tiredness I had been feeling was lifted, and I went to pray with the woman facing surgery with a lighter step.
I said that this was a beginning. A few days later, I was asked to see a patient who was recovering from surgery, and you’ve probably guessed it was Bill. Gary had told him my name, and he had asked the nurse if she could get me, specifically. We had a long chat, and Bill was everything Gary had said, and more.
Turns out Bill was “The Party Queen” of the city, known in the Gay community for the parties he held every month in his apartment. I was invited, and introduced as “the chaplain I was telling you about” to everyone there. Soon, I found myself sitting in a wing chair in a corner of the living room, surrounded by gay young men who wanted to know about this loving God I seemed to know, and literally asked to “tell us a story about Jesus.” It was amazing to me, and amazing to Bill, as well, who kept asking me, “Are you sure this is all right with you, this story telling? It sounds to me like you’re working, not partying.” When I told him I was having more fun than he could imagine, he took it upon himself to bring me food and drink as long as I was sitting there, and when he thought it was “enough, already!” he’d chase “the boys” away to get something to eat so I could “have a break, stretch your legs, use the bathroom!” I just laughed, but he was right. I forgot everything else in the pleasure of telling these young men that God loves them and wants the best for them. All of them. All of us.
Sandra Herrmann is pastor of Memorial United Methodist Church in Greenfield, Wisconsin. In 1980, she was in the first class ordained by Bishop Marjorie Matthews (the first female United Methodist bishop). Herrmann is the author of Ambassadors of Hope (CSS); her articles and sermons have also appeared in Emphasis and The Circuit Rider, and her poetry has been published in Alive Now and So's Your Old Lady. She has trained lay speakers and led workshops and Bible studies throughout Wisconsin, Iowa, and Indiana. Sandra's favorite pastime is reading with her two dogs piled on her.
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StoryShare, May 3, 2015, issue.
Copyright 2015 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
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