Lessons from Jake

I have had some wonderful dogs in my life. I am rather fond of our current dogs, Abby and Hunter, and I truly enjoyed Buddy before them. However, of all the dogs I have ever been associated with, Jake was undoubtedly my favorite. Part of it was his personality, and part of it was the fact that he was my constant companion through what can only be described as the most difficult period of my life. Jake was an ugly dog, to be sure, but he was my friend, and as we traveled our wilderness trails together, he taught me a few things.

I am convinced that Jake took pride in the fact that we paid one hundred and twenty five dollars for him. In moments when he seemed a little down, I would remind him of that and I think it lifted his spirits. Of course, I never mentioned that we had paid for the things they had done to him rather than for any inherent value he may have possessed. He really didn't need to know that truth, and it wasn't lying to say that we paid one hundred and twenty five dollars for him, so who did it really hurt?

Jake and I had things in common. We were both ugly, and we both were blessed with rather strong stubborn streaks. Actually, stubbornness that bordered on rebellion. Well, in Jake's case it did. He was rebellious, and I'm strong willed. I like to think that there is a difference.

By coincidence, our names mean the same thing. It's true. Jacob and James mean the same thing. They both mean, "Supplanter" or, "One who takes he place of." Like the patriarch Jacob in the Bible, both Jake and I, on occasion, like to lead instead of follow. In all fairness to me, it was a stronger characteristic in Jake. In any case, there have been times when we both thought that our plans were better than the plans of our master.

As Jake's master, I have to tell you that there were occasions when I found this characteristic frustrating. To be sure, Jake wasn't a bad dog. In fact, he had an obedience ratio of probably close to ninety-five percent. The vast majority of the time when I called him, Jake would actually respond. There were occasions however, when he would see a rabbit or a deer, or perhaps get a whiff of some odor he wanted to explore, and he would be gone. I could call all I wanted, but he would not come back until he was good and ready to turn around.

Years ago, when we were traveling some trails in Northern Minnesota, Jake ran off on me. I called for him but, if he heard me, he ignored the command and kept running. Unfortunately, shortly after Jake left on the mission he had created in his mind, a storm came up. Thunder and lightening. Heavy rain. The whole works. It was also close to the Fourth of July, and fireworks seemed to be everywhere.

In the confusion of the storm and the noise, Jake apparently lost his way. As his master, I spent hours, even days, looking for him. I would walk and bike, calling his name, hoping he would hear my voice and come home. I wasn't mad at him, you understand. I realized that he had made a mistake in not listening to my call, and the unexpected storm had sent him in the wrong direction. My only concern was that I would find him, and have him back at my side.

Technology is, in most cases, a wonderful thing. Jake had a little thing implanted in him that, when scanned and read, told people that he belonged to me. It would tell anyone who checked that I was Jake's master. He was mine. That's how we found him. Jake ended up in an animal shelter, they checked his tag, and found out that he belonged to me.

At the time, I didn't want to embarrass Jake but, truth be told, he was a pathetic sight in that tiny kennel at the shelter. His head was between his front paws on the cold cement floor, as he stared forlornly ahead. I think he realized that, with just one moment of carelessness, he had traded open spaces to run, and a family that loved him, for a four by five cell and some strangers who were kind enough to feed him once a day. In his mind, he had lost it all just by ignoring his master's voice when I tried calling to him.

But there was that tag. That implant that told the world that he belonged to me. The thing that declared that I was his master. And it was that implant that allowed Jake to be brought safely back to me.

Many of us are a lot like Jake. At least, I know that I am. Remember, our names mean the same thing. But many of us are in the same boat. We're pretty good people. As Christians, we have a fairly high obedience ratio. Maybe even as high as ninety-five percent. However, there are those times when we get a little whiff of something. Something we would prefer to pursue rather than responding to the voice of the Master. We set our own course, and take off on our own mission without hearing, or maybe even ignoring the voice of our Master calling us back.

Most often, we eventually come to our senses, and head back to the safety of the Master's side. But occasionally, as we wander on our own course, storms come up and we lose our direction. The noise and confusion of life causes us to run the wrong way. Rather than running toward the Master, we find ourselves running away from the only truly safe place there is for us.

When these times come, it's important for us to understand that the Master isn't mad at us. That's not the nature of the God we serve. His desire is for our safety. He wants us back at His side, enjoying each others company. Whenever I've been distracted by the storms and noise of life, and have headed away from the Master, I find myself pretty much like Jake in that shelter. A forlorn, helpless creature, realizing that I've traded all kinds of freedom and joy for a moment of ignoring the Master's call.

But friends, the gospel of Christ is a beautiful thing. When we come to Christ, and accept the salvation offered through His sacrifice, we are given an implant. O.K., maybe I exaggerate when I call it an implant. But we are given a seal. We are sealed by the Holy Spirit as being one who belongs to God. We have been purchased by Him, we have been bought by Him, and He is our Master. The seal is proof of that truth.

And when we lose our direction. Or when we refuse, in our rebellion, to listen to the Master's call. When we lose our way home. In those times, He comes to us wherever we may be. He comes to us in our despair, and the self-made prisons in which we have placed ourselves. He comes to us in our loneliness and regrets. And he looks at us with eyes of love and says, "That's one of mine. His name is Jim, and he belongs to me." If anyone would have the courage to ask the Creator of the universe how He knows which ones belong to Him, He would tell them, "I know he's mine because of that seal. That seal identifies him as one that I've purchased, and I am his Master."

As Christians, we rejoice in the fact that whatever storms we may face in life, we have a seal that will always get us back home. We are marked as being one who belongs to the Master. We are one of the chosen, one of the elect, and we are marked as belonging to the Creator of all things. He always leaves the light on for us. He never stops calling for us. And when we can't find the light or hear the call, He searches the dungeons and prisons we've locked ourselves in, finds us, picks us up, cleans us off and brings us home.

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Restoring the Wounded

It has been said that Christian's are infamous for shooting their wounded. While that may be true in the general sense, it is probably more accurate to admit that our preferred weapon would be stones. To be sure, shooting would be more humane, and restoring them to health would be more beneficial to the battle in the long run. But it's hard to beat the feel of a solid, well balanced rock being flung with justification and vigor in the cool of the morning. I understand the truth of this for I have hurled a few in my youth, and I have been pummeled by many. In our defense, it is easier and quicker to heave the stone than to put the time and energy into restoring the wounded.

I only mention this because I overheard an interview with Joni and Marcus Lamb the other day. It would not have been something that I normally would have listened to, but it happened to be on while I was painting my living room, and I was interested in the discussion. I learned that Marcus Lamb is a pastor as well as the founder of a Christian television network called Daystar. Guess I should have known who he was, but I really don't watch a whole lot of Christian television. At any rate, I also learned that Marcus had confessed to his wife Joni, as well as to the people at Daystar and his church, that he had committed adultery. Since I have some understanding of the Christian psyche when it comes to this offense, I prepared myself to hear a story of abandonment and isolation as well as a few details of other well placed spiritual stones. I was wrong, and I was blessed.

I was impressed with the way Pastor Lamb took responsibility for his sin. I was impressed with the honesty and openness with which he and his wife discussed the situation. But I was truly inspired by the leaders of his church. They didn't ignore the fact that it had happened. They didn't minimize the impact or the disappointment. But they also didn't reach for the stones. They recognized that the warrior had been wounded, and they prayerfully took action to restore him. They asked him to step down from preaching for a year, not to punish him, but to give him time to heal. There were other actions I am sure, but none of them were designed to leave him without hope. All of them were designed to return the warrior to battle. It blessed me.

I do not know all of the details of this situation and do not speak as an expert. I can tell you the picture that has been painted in my mind. In this picture, I am not naïve enough to think that stones are not being thrown, for that would not be realistic. I do, indeed, picture stones being flung from every direction. I picture a wounded man surrounded by those closest to him. The stones are landing, but not on the warrior. They land on those who surround him as they work toward his restoration, and it blesses me.

The Kingdom

Once upon a time in a land far, far away, in an age long forgotten, there was a kingdom. It was a small kingdom, but yet a great and powerful kingdom, with fortresses reaching nearly to heaven.

The strength of this kingdom was in its king. He was a strong man, known for his fairness as well as his unselfish love for the people of his kingdom. The king was a man of great stature who wore long, flowing garments of linen covered by a majestic multicolored robe. This robe was no ordinary robe. At times it appeared to be blue in color...a blue that was more clear than the sky on a bright, sun filled day. In the next instant, the robe might display a bright red, or a dark purple. Occasionally, the robe would appear as a pure white which rivaled the freshly fallen snow. There were other times that the color given off by this magnificent garment could not be described by the people who saw it, for they had nothing with which to compare its splendor.

It was truly a wonderful robe, worn by this king in this kingdom long forgotten.

With the passing years, the people of this kingdom lived securely under the rule of their king, for no enemy dared to challenge the power of this empire. The people of the kingdom held the king in highest esteem. They would bow before him as he walked among them in the cool of the evening, always wearing his multicolored robe. They worshiped him out of love and respect, rather than fear, for they knew of his great love for them. But, it was also true, that as they gazed upon this indescribable robe, they perceived that the man wearing it was worthy of their honor and praise.

Yes, they loved their king, these people of this kingdom in an age long forgotten.

As time passed, a faction arose within the kingdom claiming that the king's robe gave off only a red color. It was indeed a beautiful red they asserted, but red all the same. Actually, to be precise, their charter did allow for slight variations of the color red but stopped short of acknowledging anything close to pink.

Well, this caused quite a stir in this little kingdom, and before long another faction had banded together claiming the king's robe was blue. They had witnesses that had seen the king's robe as blue, as well as evidence from the kingdom books which described the king's robe as blue. They felt as if they had a clear mandate to rid the kingdom of the people who saw the king's robe as red.

As you can well imagine, before long the kingdom was divided into no less than fifty groups declaring their own color as the color of the king's robe. The red believer's would have banquets honoring the king, but the blue believers would not attend....nor would any of the other forty-eight groups of color worshipers. The blue believers would bow before the king as he walked about his kingdom in the cool of the evening, but only when his robe was showing the appropriate shade of blue. They would, however, find themselves bowing alone, for the red believers would never bow when the robe was blue.

Yes, they loved their king, but hated each other, these people in this kingdom in an age long forgotten.

When the enemies of this kingdom saw the division among the people of the empire, they were determined to take advantage of this weakness and prepared to attack. They hit the walls of the fortress with every weapon they possessed, and slowly the walls began to crumble. The enemy sent wave after wave of men over the tumbling walls in its attempt to conquer the little kingdom. They met no resistance. The people of the kingdom were arguing so loudly among themselves that they failed to hear the enemy upon the walls. They had their eyes fixed so steadily upon each other, and upon the king's robe...in anticipation of it showing their color....that they did not see the adversary coming through the gates.

As the kingdom was about to be destroyed and fall to the enemy, the king appeared, as if from nowhere, leading a handful of his faithful servants prepared for battle. These were the servants who had not been involved in the color controversy. They had worshiped the king regardless of the robe or its color, for they realized the power was in the king and not his robe. They pushed the enemy back over the wall and into the surrounding country. The battle raged for several days as the king and his warriors stood against the onslaught of this fierce enemy.

When, at last, the enemy was defeated, the king stood alone in the silence following the battle. He lovingly gazed at his wounded and dead soldiers. From the direction of the kingdom he heard the sound of people loudly debating. He could not make out every word, but a few were clear... "red"..."blue." Tears streamed down the king's face, and the robe gave off a color it had never displayed before as the king went to his faithful warriors.. He touched the wounded, and they were healed. He cradled the dead in his arms, and they began to breathe.

The king and his men slowly walked through the dead of the enemy in a direction opposite the fallen fortress. He had decided to build a new kingdom using these faithful men who had fought beside him as its foundation.

In the end, it was for the best.

You see, the first kingdom was so busy discussing the color of the king's robe that they didn't miss the king.