Pensees: If you forget you’ve been forgiven, it’s a dog’s life.

If you forget you’ve been forgiven, it’s a dog’s life.

We just got a dog. A real live, pooping dog. I can’t believe it. My mind vacillates between humored satisfaction and shock. I can not believe that I so easily succumb to the charms of my wife and daughter, but I do. Now I own a third part of a toy poodle and it seems like my third is the rear third. So far that part of his nearly four-pound anatomy has become an issue of tension between him and me. And Milou, the poodle puppy, is showing an eerie likeness to the Christian me.

I do not think that I am overbearingly proud or overweeningly presumptuous in my self-estimation, but I do think highly enough of myself that I simply cannot tolerate any defecation done in my presence. (Even if it is done by a darling, little, apricot-colored fur-ball.) It offends my sensibilities. Well, Milou, the little peachy poof, calmly squatted and did his business right beside me while I was reading D.A. Carson’s critique of the Emerging Church. I was unspeakably offended.

I smacked him like he had blasphemed and verbally chastised him like there was no tomorrow. I was so vexed by his errant behavior that I nearly re-christened him Brian McLaren (heretic!) on the spot while I anointed his nose with his – um – stuff. It was a sad scene, friends. Very sad. Our frolicking fellowship was severely disrupted.

Anyway, Milou’s feelings are hurt even though I am clearly in the right. He will not play with me now. If Jennie and Patience walk in the room he wags the little stub he calls a tail. When I walk in he just stares. He’s mad, caught up in a self-absorbed pity party. It’s a dog’s life for Milou right now. At least whenever I come into the room.

But here’s the tragedy. He has no need to be mad. I have forgiven him. I told him so. I picked him up, loved him, scratched his ears, and told him that everything was ok. It was all over. How gracious of me. How loving. I bought him. I would never cast him away. I reaffirmed his place in our home. Good grief! I told him. When I buy worm medicine for somebody that means I’m pretty serious about the relationship.

Yes, of course, I told him that he should never poop in my presence in my house. Yes, I told him that I must to be honored in the most minimal of ways. But, being a loving master, I understood that he was a puppy, and so all was forgiven. Let’s move on. Let’s grow. Our relationship will be so much better now that you have a healthy fear of offending me in this area.

Milou doesn’t buy it. Stupid dog. He is acting irritatingly like a Christian who has been dishonorable in the presence of God (for that is what all sin is). He slinks away, sad and forlorn, looking longingly at the toy that I hold in my hand, but denying himself the pleasure of puppy/master playtime because he refuses to believe that he’s forgiven. He won’t play. He is delaying playtime with me until he feels like he is back in good standing with me (or vice versa).

He should know better because the Canine Catechism is quite clear that relieving one’s self (if you are a dog) anywhere but in the designated place is an offense punishable by anything from thrown shoe to furious swat with yesterday’s paper. The Canine Catechism is also equally clear that human beings are very forgiving of puppies. They love puppies. They have a soft, silly (or stupid?) spot in their hearts for pups. That’s why they get them in the first place. Any self-respecting dog who knows anything about the Canine Catechism and humans should be assured of these things. But Milou? The mutt is so human. Grrrrrr.

Before the whole incident I was his human playmate of choice. I have a charming way with dogs, I guess. When he plays with me he gets more exercise and education than he does while playing with my wife who doesn’t want too much puppy slobber on her hands or while being held in all kinds of unnatural positions by my five-year-old daughter. I was the coolest human in the house. So I understand his sense of ruin for having offended me. Poor thing. I can’t imagine the sick feeling he must have in his stomach grieving over the fact that he has stupidly gone and acted so dog-like in the very presence of such a respectable human. I sympathize. But I want to yell out in the canine language that he’s FORGIVEN! “Hey, Pooch! You’re missing out on a lot of fun just because you can’t grasp the concept of forgiven.”

But Milou is a reflection of me. When I sin I grovel, tuck my tail in between my legs, slink away, and punish myself. I hate myself for having acted so human-like in the presence of Divine Holiness. I cower in shame and burrow myself deep into self-absorb barrenness, staring into oblivion while waiting for the mysterious moment when I won’t feel so badly and can confidently return to delighting in God again.

I think every human has an innate Roman Catholic dwelling within them. We sort of believe in penance. Not officially, of course. But we humanly sympathize with the whole concept. I told my congregation the other night that the seeds of every false religion are in the flesh. That’s why, though we may not be Roman Catholic in creed, we do penance in deed. It takes an unnatural faith, a God-given faith, to embrace forgiveness immediately upon the confession of sin. It takes a holy daring to enjoy God right away, to let our spirits dance and frolic in His radiance, and to settle comfortably in the strong arms of the Father purely on the basis of His assuring word: forgiven.

But if we don’t, we miss out. We won’t grow in grace. We won’t delight in God. We won’t experience the thrill of the spiritual virtues that comes with the grace of being forgiven. “For he who lacks these things has forgotten that he was cleansed from his old sin” (2 Peter 1:10).

You know what bothers me about Milou right now? It’s not that he pooped in my presence. I’ve forgotten that. I’ve forgiven him. What bothers me is that he thinks so low of me that he cannot believe that everything is back to normal. No, take that back! Every thing is back to better! He should now know by experience that restoration is possible. A good relationship is always better when one knows, not just in theory, but in experience that restoration is guaranteed.

But Milou is a reflection of me. Have I not done the same thing to my Heavenly Father? Do you think that the Heavenly Father must ache in His heart to see that His children cannot bravely resume fellowship on the basis of His forgiveness? Do you think that perhaps He is now more grieved by the dishonor we bring on Him by not understanding His claim on us than by the forgotten sin? Could the real sin that separates us from delighting in God be the sin of delayed fellowship – the delay of our own choosing – since the old sin has already been confessed and forgiven? Do you think He hates our self-imposed penance as much as this one-third part dog-owner is saddened by the self-imposed sadness of his dog?

Possibly.

Suddenly I realize something. While Milou, the dog, is a reflection of me, my full forgiveness and desire for fellowship as his master is a reflection of God. As a daddy of a precious human being I want to do good, lavish love, forgive freely, and be at peace as soon as possible with my child. I cannot endure broken fellowship. Why, then, should I, being evil, think that I have any better fatherly instincts than those of my Heavenly Father?

Thus, the dog/master relationship provoked worshipful thoughts and thanksgiving in my heart for a generous, gracious, and abundantly forgiving Father. It’s a dog’s life when you forget that you’ve been forgiven. Thus, Milou has already begun to teach me. And my heart continues to soften by degrees toward the furry creature.

I have too often lived a dog’s life.