After several days of worshiping and practicing mindfulness at temples and shrines, it was a welcome rest to hear scripture read in English in the wooden pew of St. Agnes Anglican Church, International Congregation in Kyoto.
“I am the true vine, and my Father is the vinegrower. He removes every branch in me that bears no fruit. Every branch that bears fruit he prunes to make it bear more fruit” (John 15:1-2).
The Anglican pastor closed his bible and smiled at his congregation, including two pews of American pilgrims. Vines must have a certain shape and stability to grow grapes, he explained — he knew this because he grew up in Califonia and had worked in a vineyard. As a result, some old, dead branches are left in place to provide structure and shape to the growing branches. If the goal is to grow grapes, vineyard workers will cut away green, growing and strong vines because they do not fit the shape that will bear the most fruit.
His words stayed with me after church service as I walked in the well-manicured Kyoto Gyoen National Garden and Imperial Palace. I realized the pruning metaphor touched my grief about leaving my last ministry context. I was not grieving the branch that needed to be cut away, but I was mourning the tiny grapes I could see just beginning to grow on that fated vine. I was grieving for things that were yet to come and now would never be.
I was mourning the tiny grapes I could see just beginning to grow on that fated vine. I was grieving for things that were yet to come and now would never be.
My ministry had the potential for fruit, but it was the wrong shape for the overall structure of the church and my life. I felt led to prune away that branch, and I carried the grief of that choice like pruning shears in my back pocket; when I sat down to think, they poked a tender place. Somewhere along the way, I had internalized that only dead or stagnant branches were pruned. But in Kyoto, I learned green branches and beautiful flowers are cut, not because they are bad or dead, but because there is a shape the Gardner is working to achieve.
I mulled on this truth as my pilgrimage group continued our time in Kyoto. As we walked the Sogenchi Gardens outside of the Tenryu-ji Temple, I thought about how the gardeners tend to the cherry, maples, and zelkova (Japanese elm) trees. I began to see how they nipped the stems of an iris before the buds even opened to greet a bee. Each snip is meant to unlock a greater beauty for the entire chrysanthemum, hydrangea and windflower — for the entire garden. As I stepped back from a camellia to observe the park, I could see that the plants were pruned to create a picture of peace, each giving the other the exact amount of space so that the eye could wander through branches and rest on mossy spaces.
There is an overall look of a Japanese garden that is more important than any one furn or lily. In some instances, older branches of huge evergreen trees are propped up with wooden poles so they stay in place without sagging or breaking. And these gardens are so much more than plant life. Water features and rocks are arranged in relationship to the plants for a particular aesthetic. They are places carefully cultivated for quiet strolls or peaceful meditation. For me, they were a place to let go of the guilt and grief of cutting off budding vines and embrace the shaping of my life.
As I took in the full work of the gardeners and ran my mind over the stubs of pruned growth in my own life, I wept, my tears falling on the roots of an old tree. Maybe she knows, too, how growth and loss are a part of being shaped by the Gardener’s hands. I hope she knows she is beautiful because she was pruned in the shape of love.
