My mother’s funeral was very well attended.  Following the service, our home was flooded by dozens of friends who were faded into faceless, sepia-toned images by my state of shock.  But two grief-painted portraits hang side-by-side in memory’s hallowed gallery.

She was a pretty, middle-aged lady who tried with all her might and makeup to be beautiful and wise.  With one arm on my shoulder, she guided me around my mother’s yard, explaining each plant, flower, and emotion of the day’s experiences as if I were a tourist.  She was Job’s friends meets Charlie Brown’s teacher—infuriating and unintelligible!

To the speechless onlookers separated from us by window glass and better judgment, we must have looked like Pain and Comfort quietly walking through Grief’s Garden.  Pedestrians may have observed a beggar at the Beautiful Gate, but grief bends reality making cripples of the strongest.

“Randy Stevens is here to see you,” said a faceless voice.

We were just on the little boy side of toddlerhood when Randy’s parents noticed a problem.  Muscular Dystrophy became the rule which measured the childhood reality of my friend.  What began as weakness all too quickly became struggle, resignation, and a chair.  Disease stole Randy’s health almost as quickly as divorce separated him from childhood friends.  We did not meet again for years.

Doctors predicted Randy would not live to see sixteen.  He was seventeen the night he came to see me after the funeral.  He was only able to see me because he had lost all voluntary motor functions, including his ability to speak.  In a disease-twisted mass on the floor of a van, barely alive, he just looked at me.

On the ugliest day of my young life, I saw something beautiful.

Twenty-five years hence, I am grateful for my ugly beautiful memory of Randy Stevens.  I am only just learning to see the Ugly Beautiful and Randy is one of my tutors.   I am humbled he came to see me.  I am surprised by the wordless volumes he spoke in those brief moments and thankful that tears still come with these recollections.

Forty-one years hence, I am only just beginning to love the Ugly Beautiful and I am humbled by a Savior that came to see us.  I am continually surprised by the wordless volumes the Word became flesh speaks to my soul.  Inescapably drawn to Jesus’ cross,  I am filled with wonder and amazement at a God who bends grief into glory and ugly into beautiful.

]]> http://tobydubose.com/2011/04/07/ugly-beautiful.html/feed 2 http://tobydubose.com/2010/12/23/being-tolerant-about-creationism.html http://tobydubose.com/2010/12/23/being-tolerant-about-creationism.html#comments Thu, 23 Dec 2010 20:12:50 +0000 toby http://tobydubose.com/?p=239 Merry Christmas!

So, I haven’t blogged in a while–sorry!  But with it being Christmas, and having a little time on my hands, I thought it might be fun to pick this up again, but in an unlikely place.  Please accept this article as my Christmas present to all who care to read it.

As you may know, I’ve been dual-employed for the past many months as a public school teacher and as a part-time pastor/preacher.  My school employer asked me to handle “character education” in addition to teaching 5th grade language arts and social studies.  When we arrive back to school after the winter break, our character education focus for January will be “Tolerance”.  A few days ago, the Duval County Public School System web site provided me a link to an article titled “Being ‘Tolerant’ About Creationism” by Sean Price.

After reading his article, I felt compelled to respond and include all of you.  So, sit on something comfortable, read his article and my response below.  (I sent him the response at noon on 12/23…he has not yet posted it to the “Tolerance” site.)

Mr. Price, I am a Christian and a Creationist.  I have a master’s degree, am a public school teacher, and I am in charge of character education at our school.

Let me start by saying I’m sure you never expected for someone like me to even read your article.  However, I have and I find it both condescending and ironic.  I’m not sure who has linked ignorance and poverty to people who believe in Creationism, but I’d really love to see that research!

If one only casually studies the history of education in America, they would be confronted with the fact that Christians founded many of the educational institutions and continue to educate millions of people worldwide every year.  And should you question the quality of their education or be tempted to label it as “ignorance”, examine the facts and do the research.  Take a good look at parochial, Catholic, and Evangelical Christian Schools–are their SAT scores lower or higher than their public school counterparts?  Do a lower percentage of students at Creation-teaching schools go on to colleges and universities?

The irony of your article is that Secularists have won the day in the public education arena and yet you are still whining about not having 100% compliance.  The irony of your article is that had it not been for tolerant Creationists, you would not have the voice you now have.  So the tables have turned and the majority (by a margin of 3%) believes in Evolution over Creation.  The question for you should now be, “Who is failing?”

Since Evolution (in the vast majority of public schools, colleges, and universities) is and has been the ONLY scientific perspective taught for the last 40+ years, and you have only managed to win by a margin of 3%, how successful do you suppose you have been?  If your science is so unquestionable, so convincing, so irrefutable, why have you not convinced 97%?  I guess battling the ignorant, impoverished Creationists is a job too difficult for the largest and wealthiest public education system in world history!

One final thing…Creationists are not your real enemy, Evolutionists are.  I have studied in public institutions and private ones long enough to know Evolutionists don’t always agree with themselves.  Furthermore, how often have the text books been changed because Evolution Scientists got it wrong or simply falsified “evidence”?   Do you remember “Nebraska Man” or “Piltdown Man“?  In the late 1980′s while at a Christian university some of the hoaxes of Evolution were exposed to me using Time Magazine and other secular periodicals. I then matriculated to a state university where the biology texts were teaching “Piltdown Man” as scientific fact.  When I questioned the professor about what everyone else had accepted as a hoax, he dismissed me and quickly defended his belief and the text much like a Christian would a Bible.  I have since encountered similar resistance to honest discussion among many of the Evolutionary scientific community.

Most Christians are tolerant of Evolutionists as long as they are honest about their science and their agenda.  And herein is the rub: When you guys are honest, it comes off with the same intellectual superiority and condescension with which you wrote this article.

Mr. Price, what if the shoe was on the other foot; would you want your “tolerance”?

Toby

Language Arts Teacher

Character Ed Director

Jacksonville, FL

Psalm 51:9

Do you ever marvel at the magic of garbage removal?  One night each week we put cans full of seven days’ refuse at the end of our driveways and go to bed.  We wake the next morning, back our cars out of the driveway, and find those same cans upside down, emptied of their vile contents; and not just our garbage, but that of the whole neighborhood.  It’s as mysterious as it is amazing!

Never is the magic of garbage removal more important than just prior to a move.  After all, before moving from one location to another, from the old house to the new, one must clean out the closets, cabinets, and garage and get rid of the refuse.

I was once preparing to sell my house and move to a new city when I learned the deeper magic of garbage removal.  I started by cleaning the yard, working from outside-in.  What I thought would take only a few hours took several days.  The funny thing about looking for your garbage is the more you look, the more you find.  I found enough of my own rubbish to fill the ten feet at the end of my driveway with a chest-deep pile.  Some items included the construction debris from last summer’s home improvement project, worn-out old clothes, unused toys, and bags of household trash.  I stood in front of my garage and marveled at the site of all my old stuff.  How could one man accumulate so much junk?  Should I put some of it on e-bay?  Would the garbage man have a coronary when he saw the magnitude of my mountain?  Would he take it all or leave some for next week?

Guilt is an understandable response when one sees the mess they’ve made.  So I decided to set my alarm for o’dark-thirty, don my work gloves, and help my garbage man just to make sure my driveway was thoroughly cleaned.  But, what if he comes before my alarm goes off? I thought.  So, I decided to sleep on the couch, near the front door so I might hear the early morning symphony of diesel and steel, arise and help the garbage man.  I awoke before dawn, went outside into the driveway and found nothing but empty cans.  Standing in bleary-eyed disbelief, I looked and wondered how I could have slept while the garbage man moved my mountain of mess.  In the shadow of early morning, I saw an amazing picture of expiation; the removal of spiritual garbage. 

Do you ever marvel at the magic of garbage removal?  Human beings can accumulate a lot of spiritual trash in the course of life.  Yet for the Christian there is a Garbage Man!  Repentance is taking our cans full of refuse to the end of the driveway and trusting the Garbage Man to do His work while we are at rest.

The magic of spiritual garbage removal is never more important than when preparing to move.  I am going to leave my old life, my home in this city and move to a new home in a New City.  Before leaving, the cabinets, closets, and garage of this old life must be rid of their rubbish.  The job one might think would take only hours can turn into a lifetime.  The funny thing about looking for my garbage is the more I look, the more I find.  I find sacks of selfishness, pounds of pride, an avalanche of anger, and the debris of unresolved fights with family.  Sometimes I stand and marvel at the site of all my stuff!  How could one man accumulate so much junk?  Should I put some of it on e-Bay?  Will the Garbage Man have a coronary when He sees the magnitude of my mountain?  Will He be able to take it all away, or will He leave some behind?

Guilt is my understandable response when seeing the mess I’ve made.  So, I set my alarm to wake up at o’dark-thirty to don my religious work gloves and help the Garbage Man clear my driveway.  But to my constant surprise, when I wake in the morning I find nothing but empty cans.  Standing in bleary-eyed disbelief I often wonder, How can I sleep while the Garbage Man removes my mountains of mess?  I would have helped if He had only awakened me.

Suddenly the fog of my own self-absorbed delusion lifts as understanding dawns.  God doesn’t need me to help Him remove my garbage.   He has Jesus, the Garbage Man for that.  King David had it right in his psalm of repentance when he said, Purify me from my sins, and I will be clean; wash me, and I will be whiter than snow.  Oh, give me back my joy again; you have broken me—now let me rejoice.  Don’t keep looking at my sins. Remove the stain of my guilt (Ps 51:7-9).  From the evidence of the verbs David used, he believed he was passive with respect to his spiritual garbage removal.  That’s where Jesus, the Garbage Man comes in:  We repent, Jesus removes.

Isn’t repentance our part of spiritual garbage removal?  Don’t we have some work to do?  Certainly we have some responsibility to take out the trash, to get the cans to the end of the driveway, but is that the same as removal?  No, all we can do is present all our stuff to the Garbage Man at the end of the driveway of surrender and trust Him to remove it from us.

Epilogue:  An Unexpected Opportunity

There is an unexpected benefit produced when He removes so much of our garbage— the neighbors notice!  A neighbor recently commented, I guess you are serious about moving!  I saw all your trash out last night—didn’t think the Garbage Man would take so much!  I answered back, Yeah, I know.  But under my breath I whisper, You have no idea how much the Garbage Man can take—not yet!

Are you serious about moving?  Discover the magic of Jesus, Garbage Man!

I remember the day my childhood ended. August 27, 1986 was to be the first day of my senior year of high school. The simultaneous ringing of a doorbell and telephone awakened me to a terrible reality—my mother was dead. I was sixteen years old, but whatever part of me was still a child was introduced to adulthood by grief. Death pierces us all; sometimes with a needle, sometimes with a sword, sometimes with a cross.

Mary’s Piercing

Mary’s grief was unique. When Joseph and Mary took the newborn Jesus to be dedicated in the temple (Luke 2:21-35), they were full of extraordinary hopes and dreams. Their baby would be the long-awaited Savior of His people—the Chosen One and Son of God—the King of the Jews. All parents have delusions of grandeur where their children are concerned. Mary and Joseph had God’s guarantee.

Simeon’s prophesy over the newborn Jesus must have carried Joseph and Mary to unknown heights of joy. But without warning, Simeon turned to the teen mother and said something terrible: “…a sword will pierce your own soul too.” Don’t let his poetry dull the effect, Mary shared God’s joy and sorrow. What must life have been like for Mary with this Sword of Damocles hanging over her soul?

Jesus’ Piercing

God’s grief was a bottomless pit. Jesus’ torture and death by whip, thorns, nails, cross, and spear were gruesome and cruel, but they were barely a pin prick compared to what impaled his soul. Thomas could see where nails pierced flesh, but none of us can see what pierced the soul of Jesus (John 20:24-28).

700 years before the cross, Isaiah wrote about Jesus’ piercing: “Surely he took up our infirmities and carried our sorrows…But he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities…the LORD has laid on him the iniquity of us all…it was the LORD’s will to crush him and cause him to suffer…After the suffering of his soul, he will see the light of life and be satisfied…” (Isaiah 53:4-6, 10-11). Jesus’ soul was pierced by the full-on wrath of God—in short, Jesus’ soul was shot-through with Hell!

For who and what was Jesus’ soul pierced? Notice the pronouns: “our infirmities…our sorrows…our transgressions…our iniquities…” Do you get the picture? Then don’t miss this detail: While Jesus was suffering hell on the cross he also “carried our sorrows/grief”. He carried all the grief of all His people—even those yet to be born. Ironically, he carried the sorrow of the sword which pierced his mother’s soul. He even carried the grief I experienced over the death of my mother on August 27, 1986!

Easter

The sweetness of Easter joy is impossible if it does not follow the bitter drink of Good Friday’s cross. So in order to fully savor the moment, I like to summon to my heart and mind all the sad things and shame which have pierced me throughout my life. I then take it all into the empty tomb and remember “He carried my sorrows”. In that hallowed place, my sorrow becomes his and I envision the day when sadness will have as much hold on me as grave clothes have on Jesus!

Selah: Hobbit Theology

At the end of the Lord of the Rings book trilogy, Sam says the most amazing thing to Frodo: “Have all things sad become untrue?” For those who believe, that’s what the resurrection of Jesus Christ means (1 Corinthians 15:55, Revelation 22:1-5). One day, on the other side of the grave, all our sadness will become untrue!

In eternity, will you visit your empty tomb?

Have a joyful Easter!

Genesis 3:7

Most of us have heard the message, “Jesus died for your sins” more times than we can count.  But do you know Jesus died for your shame?

I would see Suzie everyday at the bank as I made the daily deposit.  As head teller, it was Suzie’s job to “roll out the red carpet” for her business account holders.  But she always made me feel a little uncomfortable.  Her tall, thin frame was crowned with a mop of unstyled, shoulder-length, straw blond hair and minimal cosmetics to cover the hard years her eyes had seen.  Her slightly out of fashion clothes always made her appear socially awkward, but there was something else, something deeper making sadness seep from her soul, especially when she smiled.

Suzie’s husband, John, would occasionally wave to me from his car as he waited to drive her home after work.  John was not the man anyone imagined was waiting for Suzie.  His appearance, I thought, explained a lot about Susie’s demeanor.  He looked like an always dirty ex-convict sitting in the loosing car from a demolition derby as he shouted my name from across the parking lot.  I wondered if he was the abusive drunk he appeared to be.

On the other side of my social railroad tracks, I had become friends with a wealthy, locally prominent businessman.  He invited my wife and me over to his home for a poolside cookout one Saturday afternoon and extended the invitation to any friends we wished to bring with us.  I naturally thought of Suzie and John.  We had been trying to forge a friendship with them, but there seemed to be unspoken obstacles.

I still remember the telephone call I made to invite Suzie and John to the party.  After the explanation for my call and a few moments of the typical niceties I said, “What do you think, can you guys come with us to the party?”  Then I sensed the same, sad vibe coming from Suzie she broadcasted in the bank each day.  Her voice became thin and she sheepishly muttered “Oh, I don’t think we can make it”.  Naturally I pressed her a little and then she said with a nervous laugh, “You see, I have several tattoos I got when I was young, so we don’t like to go to places where they might be seen, like the pool or beach.”  Naively, I attempted to brush off her sadness and said, “It’s o.k., I mean it’s not like we’ve never seen tattoos before.”  “You don’t understand,” she said, “I have a lot of them and some of them aren’t very nice.”  Nervously, I replied, “Oh, I understand.  Well, I guess I’ll see you later at the bank.”

In that moment, my Jesus wasn’t big enough for Suzie.  Not “Jesus”, my Jesus; that little man who is sometimes barely recognizable when compared to the Son of God.  My Jesus wasn’t big enough to cover Suzie’s shame.  He wasn’t even big enough to cover mine.

What if Suzie came to your church this Sunday and sat down next to you?  What if her unfashionable dress wasn’t long enough to cover all of her “not so nice” tattoos?  Would your Jesus be big enough to cover her shame?  Is He big enough to cover yours?

I wonder how Jesus would have handled my phone conversation with Suzie.  I asked Him about it and I’m sure I heard him say, “Suzie, I know you have tattoos and I know some of them aren’t very nice.  But it’s o.k.  We all have tattoos and some of them aren’t very nice either.  That’s why I’m inviting you to the party.”

Acts 2 tells the story of the first large church service in the New Testament and the advent of the Holy Spirit.  On the Day of Pentecost 3,000 souls were added to the fledgling church.  Even though it was a difficult time and place, their church was not defined by her difficulties, but by her devotion:  “They devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching and to the fellowship, to the breaking of bread and to prayer…All the believers were together and had everything in common” (Acts 2:42, 44).   They were simply devoted with all their hearts to God and each other.

The church of Acts was just that—a church of acts!  Their devotion was demonstrated in their daily habits which create a pattern for us to follow.  Every day they met together for worship, Bible study, and prayer.  They even shared their meals together!  But that is not all they shared—they shared everything as “they gave to anyone as he had need” (Acts 2:45).  It seems God was a part of the sharing as well as we are told “And the Lord added to their number daily those who were being saved” (Acts 2:47).

However, we can not simply mimic behavior to obtain a desired result.  The key to having an Acts-like church is exalting Christ.  The action of the Book of Acts began when the Holy Spirit was poured out on the church and Peter preached the exalted Christ to the crowd:  “God has raised this Jesus to life, and we are all witnesses of the fact. Exalted to the right hand of God, he has received from the Father the promised Holy Spirit and has poured out what you now see and hear” (Acts 2:32-33).  All of our action as the church begins when we exalt Christ.  Our devotion will always flow from His exultation.

God really doesn’t want a lot from us—He wants everything! The church of Acts embodied this principle in their daily habits.  The Acts-like church will also.  Do you?

1 Corinthians 13:11

The Church in Corinth was as gifted as she was wild.  She was Paul’s “wild child” and he desperately wanted her to grow up.  So, he wrote her a love poem.  But unlike many romantic poems, Paul’s was dripping with parental sarcasm.  His basic message was, “You’re gifted, but immature!”

Spiritually gifted immaturity may seem counterintuitive.  Surely God would not give big gifts to little children—or, would He?  

On my 9^th birthday, my dad gave me what every 9 year old boy needs—a BB gun!  Any gun (BB or otherwise) is a big responsibility, so dad gave me 3 rules:

1. Don’t shoot your eye out!  (Can you guess my favorite Christmas movie?)
2. Don’t shoot your little brother!!
3. Always shoot away from our house!!!

I spent my entire birthday afternoon shooting everything my father’s laws would allow.  As the sun dipped below the horizon and the shade of evening set in, I pumped up my air rifle and selected one final target.  By the time the rifle was at maximum air compression, a cardboard box on our backyard picnic table had caught my eye.  With gun pressed firmly to shoulder, I carefully set the sights and slowly squeezed the trigger.  A nanosecond before the BB flew from my “blue steel beauty” my father’s words rang through my head, “Always shoot away from our house!”  But it was too late.  The BB hit the target center mass and barely tapped the brakes before crashing into our back patio sliding glass door.  Safety glass crackling like thin ice summoned my father from his La-Z-Boy to my life-sized kaleidoscope. 

I lost the BB gun for a while but learned a person can be gifted and immature at the same time.  Gifts don’t make us mature—love does. 

Looking back over my last few years in ministry have left me wondering if I learned or am learning “the BB Gun Lesson“.  Perhaps Prodigal Pastors and Corinthians have this much in common—they shoot toward the house!

Jesus keeps giving me this one question maturity test:  “What’s more important to the Father—what you can do or who you can love?”  I know the right answer, but live like a 9 year old with a new BB gun.

Ben Hooper grew up in a small Tennessee town.  Townsfolk called him “Little Ben”.  Little Ben never knew who his father was which, in those days, meant a life of shame and humiliation.  Little Ben came to expect whispering and hard glances which seemed to suddenly start or stop as he entered and exited every social setting.  Little Ben’s name had become a cruel town joke.

When Little Ben became an adult, he kept to himself and rarely went to church.  But one Sunday, he sneaked in and sat on the back pew after the service was well in progress just to see and hear the new preacher.  Little Ben was captivated by his words, but as the service came near an end, he quickly slipped out the same way he entered.  Week after week Little Ben continued coming in late and leaving early so he could avoid the cruel judgments of the crowd.

On one particular Sunday, Little Ben was more captivated by the preacher’s words than ever before and he lost track of time.  Before he knew what had happened, the service was over and he was caught in the crush of people he had so often tried to avoid.  Feeling suddenly self-conscious and panicked, Little Ben quickly tried to make his way to the door and safety.  Suddenly a voice rang out over the crowd, “Whose boy are you?”  The question landed like thunder after years of silent lightening.  Every tongue was stilled as one voice published the single thought which had occupied their minds for so many years.  As everyone (including Little Ben) turned toward the sound, all were shocked to see it was the preacher!   As he approached Little Ben, he thundered again, “Whose boy are you?”  The tension was unbroken by a huddle of bloodless faces.  And then the preacher said, “I know whose boy you are—the resemblance is unmistakable—you are a child of God!  That’s a pretty big name you’ve got to live up to!”

Little Ben Hooper says it was on that day he was elected and reelected as the governor of the state of Tennessee.  Because a Christian’s name is a reflection of His character and His character and our destiny are inseparable.

It was Christmas 1998 and I was a seminary student in Orlando at Reformed Theological Seminary.  Deborah (my wife) and I joined Saint Andrews Chapel and were enjoying R.C.’s teaching every Sunday.  As Christmas approached, Deborah began singing in the choir and was asked to sing “O Holy Night” for the Christmas Eve service.  At the conclusion of the service, R.C. stopped me in the foyer and asked “Are you husband of the young lady who sang ‘O Holy Night?’” (That’s how I’m most often known—“the husband of the one who sings”).  But his next questions changed our lives forever.

After Deborah sings, she often tries to hide—she really doesn’t like being the center of attention.  So, R.C. waited with me for the humble diva to come out of the ladies room.  When she finally emerged, R.C. commandingly said, “Young lady come here!  You sang beautifully this evening.  But why do you so often hang your head after you sing, like you’ve done us all some disservice?”  Deborah explained how she had dropped out of voice study 10 years before because a vocal coach at Florida State said “You are just a lyric soprano—your voice type is a dime a dozen.”  R.C. furrowed his brow with displeasure and said something I’ll never forget, “Young lady, I have lots of dimes but there are not a dozen of you!”

For 10 years, everyone who loved Deborah tried with all their might to convince her to go back to school and study voice.  But something had been broken at FSU.  Deborah had been pushed off the lofty and tenuous place where gifts and calling live together in fragile clay pots.  Of “all the King’s horses and all the King’s men”, God used R.C. Sproul to put my wife back together again! 

Redemption is buying back what once belonged to oneself.  Whenever I’m tempted to forget what it means to be redeemed by God, I think about Christmas Eve 1998.    It’s then I remember God not only re-buys broken people, but He also re-builds their broken pieces!  Deborah’s “dime a dozen” broken pieces were redeemed when she graduated summa cum laude in 2003.    Redemption is God’s gift, but in 1998 the gift came wrapped in R.C. Sproul.  Now I’m left wondering what God would say about all the other “dime a dozen” souls in the world.  Perhaps, He would say, “I have lots of dimes, but I have given My only Son for you!”

When I was about 7 years old, I saw an unforgettable scene in a war movie from the early ‘60’s.  The scene involved the torture and murder of a soldier by an angry Chinese mob.  The soldier was hung up spread-eagle, his shirt torn off, and then the real horror began.  One by one the mob descended on the victim, each one making small cuts in the man’s flesh.  The Chinese called it “Death by a Thousand Cuts”.   Recently, I feared my soul had become a victim to the same fate.

A year ago the church of which I was pastor for 6 years closed.  Friends and relatives were encouraging and everyone (including me) believed I would “find a call” to a new church quickly.  Well, what can I say—it’s been a tough year!  But before I go into “morose mode” (hey, look I’m French—we work with melancholia like some artists work with oils or clay!), let me offer some encouragement…

Jesus said, “I am the true vine, and my Father is the gardener. He cuts off every branch in me that bears no fruit, while every branch that does bear fruit he prunes so that it will be even more fruitful”  (John 15:1-2).  As I meditated on these verses, two possibilities presented themselves: (1) I have been a fruitless branch and God has cut me off;  (2) I am a fruitful branch and have been pruned for greater fruitfulness.  This is literally life or death by “cuts”.

After some prayer and soul-searching, I am convinced I have been pruned.  What is it like to be a “pruned preacher”?  It’s quiet.  But God, with the surgical precision of The early morning Gardener, often does amazing things when it’s quiet!  He clips off my arrogance so humility can grow.  He trims back charisma, personal power, and self-reliance so meekness can bloom.  He cuts off my wild branches of sloth, apathy, and even youth so the flower of wisdom will finally come into season.  The Gardener hacks, cuts, and trims—sometimes I’m sure He’s killing me!  In fact, He is killing me, so I may truly live.

As much as it hurts, pruning is not punishment; it’s God’s way of making room for Jesus.  The more He cuts off me, the more Jesus grows in me.  This is what it means to “abide in” Jesus.  This is “Life by a Thousand Cuts”.