Transparent Christian Magazine

Among the best of dogs, quiet dogs, yappy small dogs, privileged dogs, nervous dogs, good-natured dogs, big lazy dogs, if there really is a silence is a good thing rule, there are also exceptions. Of course there are. With living things you have to make room for exceptions.

I was working with my son Adam last summer. He has an organic pest control company in Franklin, Tennessee. Business was good. His workload was increasing, and he asked me to come along and help. One of the houses he serviced had an Akita in the back yard. The Akita is a Japanese dog, a very serious minded, no nonsense kind of dog—things I learned later. Of course I did. At the time, I knew nothing of the breed. It was a dog. I knew that. All dogs are alike, right? So I took the immediate posture of well-meaning-nice-guy-getting-the-confidence-of-the-animal-because-I-am-good-at-this-I-know-what-I’m-doing-I-wrote-the-book-dogs-love-me-leave-me-alone. Truth is, I doubt seriously if I had any such thought whatsoever.

As the dog approached the fence, which he did slowly, circumspectly, without thinking about what I was doing I reached in to pet the dog. Big mistake. And the immediate, “stupid, stupid, stupid” detonating in my head. I still have the scar on my right index finger as a reminder. I am glad to have that finger at all. I would not be able to point without it, play my guitar the same again, or hit a clean J on my keyboard. It was a very short skirmish, but a decisive one. Akita 1, David 0.

Having a good time with my son, and eager to get the work going, I was out of the car and at the fence before Adam had any time to warn me about the creature. “Oh yeah, don’t try to pet the dog. Says right here.” But I wasn’t upset with the animal. How could I be? It wasn’t that he was mean. I was dumb. True to his breed, to his own conscience, true to the law in his blood, he was just being himself. I paid no attention to the rules of engagement, those natural laws of predation, aggression, submission, dominance, and so on. I just blustered in. It was a deep cut, and it took quite a while for the bleeding to stop. But it was a lesson learned.

I will respect the mystery. I will observe the rules of engagement.

By the way, the Akita, whose name I never got, made no sound whatsoever. I approached the dog with a kind of idiot confidence. I think they somehow know that. Maybe they feel obligated to teach you something. He didn’t bark. He didn’t growl. His actions said nothing to me (as if it would have mattered). He gave nothing away. There was nothing in his movement that said danger. He walked slowly toward me, confidently, with a kind of nobility, and I, in good faith, offered the right hand of fellowship. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Perhaps I do not need to make the argument for how valuable silence is to the devoted life, how necessary a quiet heart is for anyone who seeks communion with God, who wishes to meet with him in private, beneath the surfaces of life. He is a very present God, yes, as close or closer than your next breath. He is also a God of heights and depths, an omnipresent God who stands at some remove from us, a distance apart, as remote as the universe is wide.

He is extreme other, and yet he loves me and desires nothing more than my company. How am I to resolve such a paradox? It comes over me with quiet. For he has not told me everything. Nor is he obligated to tell me everything. I am therefore awestruck. I live just outside explanation.

I live with wonder, and I am a friend to God. This is the odd condition, the strange love-sickness of the devoted life.

I have learned the lesson I have been taught. I will respect the mystery. I will observe the rules of engagement.

Of course there is more, but not now . . .

© 2009 David Teems. Harvest House Publishers, Inc.