Preacher: The Rev. James C. Bouzard, campus pastor, Christ Chapel, Texas State University
Song at opening: God and Dog by Wendy Francisco
We got
her through Facebook; a friend of a friend saw a puppy alongside the road,
clearly abandoned, and how anyone could do that, I don’t know, but the friend
of a friend scooped her up into safety, put her picture on the Internet, and
next thing you know, we have a dog. I grew up with dogs, but this is the first
dog we’ve had in our home after thirty years of marriage, and the first dog my
wife has ever had. Her name is Frida
(the dog, not my wife) and she has brown hair and weighs around 15 pounds. Again, I’m referring to the dog and not my
wife. The vet said that biologically
speaking, Frida is probably some kind of dog, but wasn’t willing to commit much
beyond that. But we’ve had her for three
years now, about the length of time for Jesus’ ministry. To be sure, Frida’s accomplished considerably
less than our Lord in that time, but the anniversary of her arrival has got me
thinking on matters canine domesticus, and in particular what I’ve learned with
regard to the spiritual life from my dog.
And it turns out I’ve learned a few things, some of them possibly useful
even to those of you who are not dog-blessed.
First,
you may have noticed that I’ve never said we own a dog. Yes, we are responsible for the vet bills and
we buy her food and provide her an endless supply of tennis balls and chew
toys, but we don’t own her. That would
be to mischaracterize the relationship; one doesn’t own a companion, after all,
one has a companion. And that’s what
Frida is; a companion, a word that means, “breaks bread with.” Com means “with,” pan means “bread,” and ion…
well, that means ion. Now we don’t
literally break bread with her. That
would be silly, as she can’t even hold a fork.
But we have an appreciation for each other and prefer each other’s
company over being apart. I express that
preference by tapping the seat and having her sit next to me as we watch
America’s Got Talent. She expresses her
preference by greeting me every time I come home with an enthusiasm normally
reserved for returning prisoners of war.
It begins with a slight tremor, then the tail starts wagging, then her
whole back half, and then the whole of her goes into full wiggle mode with
energy enough to alter weather patterns.
Then there’s the jumping up and down and barking and licking and sheer
joy. And that happens if I’ve been gone
all day, or if I’ve just been in the backyard pulling weeds for an hour. I know dogs can’t tell time, but it gets a
bit ridiculous except for this. Look
around you; these are your companions on the journey, the journey of being a
follower of Jesus Christ. God has called
you together, whether you always like each other or not. I don’t ever remember
Jesus saying, “Like one another.” He
said, “Love one another,” a much harder thing, because it means remaining
companions through thick and thin, even as Frida remains my companion despite
the loss of several pairs of shoes, two phone chargers, three ballpoint pens,
four Christmas ornaments, half-a-dozen pencils, and a small stack of
photographs which she thought especially delicious. You are companions by the call of Christ,
whose first disciples didn’t always see eye-to-eye, but who nonetheless broke
bread with the Savior, who saw it fit for all of them, even the one who
betrayed him, to eat together as companions.
Now I am not suggesting you adopt Frida’s style of welcome; it would
scare off visitors if you all went into full-wag mode every time you saw each
other. But I’m mindful of those people I
don’t see for a week or month or so, and then fail to tell them it’s good to
see them. So I’d challenge you to do
that; see each other as companions and speak to each other that way; I dare you to even say the truth; not just
it’s good to see you, but “I love you.”
Something
else I’ve learned from Frida is gratitude, gratitude for companionship, for
life, for food; especially for food.
That dog has been on this earth for just over a thousand days, and not
on one day has she been full. Maybe it’s
because of those first few days alone on the road, or maybe it’s just the
nature of dogs, but she loves her groceries, and people groceries most of
all. We sit at our supper table with her
at her feet, waiting for us to drop something, or just waiting for that moment
she hopes will come, that moment that almost always comes, that moment we are
finished and allow her to well, pre-rinse our dishes. I know, it’s gross, but the point is
hope. She hopes for a feast; she doesn’t
get it, but she’s happy with just the little bit left on the plate. Which reminds me of when Jesus was asked by a
Syrophoenician woman to heal her daughter, and he responded in what seemed a
particularly callous way; “It’s not right to throw food that’s meant for the
children to the dogs.” In other words,
Syrophoenician woman, you who are foreign, outside the house of Israel, not of
the chosen people; it is not right that you should be granted healing that is
meant for the family of God.” To which
the woman replied, “Yes, but even the dogs get the crumbs from the Master’s
table.” And amazed at her faith, Jesus
cured her daughter at once. She would
not be deterred; his words only delayed what she knew would not be denied;
crumbs of mercy was all she asked for and all she needed. And that is all we dare ask for, I think;
crumbs of mercy, for we too lack any merit of our own. We can’t claim sinless lives, righteous
deeds, blameless ways. We can only hope
for crumbs, but you know we are given so much more; that is the way it is in
the presence of one who took five loaves and fed five thousand. We hope for crumbs and we get a feast,
Christ’s very self in bread and wine, and with it forgiveness, assurance, and
peace.
So
Frida’s taught me gratitude and hope; she’s also taught me a lot about
friendship. Jesus once said, “Greater
love has no one than this; to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.” Frida would do that for me, I believe. I wouldn’t do that for her; I’ve got a wife
and family that need me way too much, but she would for me, and that makes her
friendship all the more special. She’s a
happy dog, as long as she gets to hang around with me. If I’m busy around the house, she’ll follow me from room to room. If I’m sick, she doesn’t mind just laying
next to me and pass the hours. If I miss
taking her for a walk, she doesn’t get mad at me. She’d prefer the walk, of course; her motto
is, “It’s a great big world, but somebody’s got to sniff it.” So we go on walks and we try to be patient
with each other. I’m patient with her in
that I let her smell just about every mailbox that we pass; she with me when I
yank her leash to keep her from eating a hamburger wrapper. Other dogs – well, they are a definite reason
to bark her head off, at least until they get close enough for a proper hello. People, on the other hand; Frida figures
everybody is a friend and that everybody wants to pet her. Everybody deserves a joyful greeting and should be thought of as
family first, not strangers who have to prove themselves. And this, I would suggest, is a Christ-like attitude we should
remember. We would do well to consider
the other not as a stranger first, a threat or a problem, but as friend whose
name we’ve yet to learn, or even a long-lost member of the family your finally
getting to meet. Would that attitude
change the dynamics of a Sunday morning here?
I suspect it would in just about every church.
Frida’s
tried to teach me other lessons less spiritual in nature, such as “The cat is
fun to chase.” Oh, and “The doorbell on
some commercials sounds exactly like ours, which is therefore all the reason
needed to bark like a madman.” And
“Dirty socks are much tastier to chew up than clean ones,
but either will do in pinch.” I’ve
managed to ignore those lessons, but I am open to learning more. I dare say that I’ve a deeper appreciation
for the wonder and mystery of creation.
I now marvel at the interesting dance through time that brought wolves
from the forest edges to the fire ring to this day when a most un-wolflike 15
pound fuzzball hops up on the couch and demands a tummy rub. And I know that I will learn more about love
as the years go by and someday I will learn about loss, loss too sharp for a
dog, just a dog. But this I believe;
that the One who thought up the dog will one day keep the promise made in
Christ and greet us at the Feast of victory, where we will eat and rejoice and
there at our feet will be my Frida and your dog and all of creation, whole and
restored.
No comments:
Post a Comment