bear the dog

From the category of "I didn't write it, but I sure as heck wish I had've"... for your day, here is the talents of the late, great Rich Mullins, in an essay written in September, 1994. 

If I loved my Master like my dog Bear loves his, I'd be more saintly than John the Divine... more radical than John the Baptizer... more deeply devoted than St. John of the Cross.

Bear is a golden retriever with a more-than-weird fear of storms, an uncanny sense of how to be especially gentle around children, epilepsy and a coat that is wildly wavy and shines gold.  He has a look of nobility at his 9 years of age, although he still hasn't grown into his feet.  He weights about 75 pounds, eating very little to maintain that weight.  He loves to fetch, especially in water.  He hates baths, but loves to roll in... well, stuff that smells.  He knows Sit, Stay, Down and Heel, but doesn't do tricks.  I suspect he's a little shy when I try to show him off.

An amazing album... with Rich and Bear the Dog

But the devout part... aside from his obvious charm... is the part I most envy.

When a storm comes, Bear unashamedly dashes between my legs.  When I lock them, he attaches himself to whichever leg he is closest to.  He does not run away in a storm, he runs to me.  I don't know if this is about real safety or mere comfort, but I do know that I would do better to crawl between my Master's legs in times of storms than to fake courage or to run for another, no less inferior, shelter. 

Of all the things I've had to teach Bear, coming to me was never one of them.  I've had to teach him not to sit on the couch, or climb on the bed, or beg under the table, but coming to me came easy.  When my friends sit with him, if he gets nervous or upset, they play a tape with my voice on it, or give him one of my sweaters to nuzzle.  Bear not only loves me, he loves my stuff too.  Kind of like I should love God's stuff--His Church, His Word, His stars, His sparrows... His voice... those things that carry His scent.

Bear takes his medicine (for his epilepsy) well too.  I've never been too good at taking medicine.  Bear obviously doesn't like it, but he doesn't resist.  He's only slightly uncooperative.  If I try to sneak it to him in his food, he spits it out.  If I give it to him with my outstretched hand, he'll swallow it.  I try to avoid medicine from God--even to the point of avoiding God. 

Of course, there is one time when Bear runs from me... its when I practice guitar, so who could blame him?  I'd run from me too.  But Bear's master is not as good as playing as my Master is.  Bear's master chunks and plunks away at his instrument in a way that my Master will never do. I have long since given up the ambition of being as good at everything as my Master is.  I just hope my Master will not give up on making me as good at being master as is my dog.

Attics and Temples

Rich Mullins was one of the most gifted, Godly men I had ever had the chance to know about.  I’d never met him, yet I feel when I see him at Home, we’ll just start chatting about everything.  I hold his music close to my heart and use the lyrics for prayers sometimes.  He wrote a column in a quarterly magazine for several years, and after his death in September 1997, the magazine published a book featuring all of his articles.  This is one of those that I felt as if you should know about.

 Attics and Temples

 My new apartment is in the attic of Jim and Megan's house. 

Its a big old one roomer with a mind of its own, a cacophony of lines that occur at 45 and 90 degree angles, with floors that redefine "level".  This  attic has its own idea of what "square" means, its studs have their own interpretation of the classic 24-inch center.

Right now, the whole thing is about two weeks away from being much more than a lot of potential, right now its resistant to change, openly hostile to  what my ideas of what it ought to be.  I am--with the help of some friends,  a hammer, a saw, some nails and a wrecking bar--enlightening it, changing its look, convincing it that it is not merely ugly, but is a space full of promise  and beauty and order and life.

I suspect that is wants to cooperate, but its hard and I must be patient.   Whoever it was that shaped the attic before me did so with some pretty  big nails, deep cuts, hard hammers and rough saws.  They considered  the attic to be wasted space, storage space, a distance between a roof and a ceiling, and nothing more.  They slopped over the walls with  cheap, nasty paneling, covering the floors with ugly carpet.

Sometimes in the heat of my toil labor, I give in to fits of selfish rage,  which is really frustration over my lack of skill than the progress of the apartment. But late at night, when I look over the piles of dust and dry wall and knee deep debris that remain during this reconstructive effort, I am strangely moved by the place, and I proclaim the Gospel to it softly.  I say, "Attic, I know how it hurts to be torn up.  I am often choked on the litter left by my own remodeling.  I know what its like to settle (by the act of strong will) into the despair of believing you are nothing more than wasted space. 

"I felt the blows of heavy hammers that nailed me to a sense of uselessness.  I have been shaped by some pretty careless workers who came to the task of making me and lacked any craftsmanship or artistry.  I know the pain of wanting to be changed, and yet being distrustful of changes, of wanting to be worked on, but being suspicious of the intentions of the Worker. 

“But here is some good news, my Attic friend... (and anyone out there who feels like this, including me : ) ....  He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.  However messy it may be now, however confusing and scary it appears, however endless the task may seem, we will some day be so glorious, beautiful, alive! 

“There is much tearing out to do, a lot to give up.  No thin coat of new paint, no shallow, petty cover up will do. Its not good enough to cover up imperfection, it must be corrected.   Art, beauty, function...  these things take time.  They may take 'til the day of Christ Jesus."

We are not wasted space.  We are temples of a being far greater than ourselves, temples being built to be inhabited and brought to life.  Though we may not understand the process, our Rebuilder does.  We are His workmanship and the place where He lives.  Little Attic, do not despair.  I'm being made by a Master Carpenter, and I'm learning a little about building too.  Essay written by Rich Mullins, Sept 1993

I read this just tonight, for the first time in a while.  Its amazing how God will direct you to certain things that you need to read/hear at exactly the point that you need to read/hear it.

The Summer of Blogging Day Forty Five