God responds to our ‘barking' with grace and love

Last Sunday a large color photo of a dog ran in the "Good Times" section of this newspaper. The dog's name is Buddy, and he's a special golden retriever trained not to bark and not to run.

Chateau Girardeau recently held a 10th birthday party for him. The room where the soiree was held was packed; he is a popular canine. Buddy lives with one of Château's administrators and comes to work each day with her. Although he spends virtually all of his time in the Health Center, occasionally Buddy wanders upstairs to independent living. He came into my office one day and contentedly plopped down in the corner. Buddy is friendly and approachable but not overly affectionate; he won't jump up and lick your face, for example.

Buddy's loving caretaker, Joyce Stacy, says "[Buddy] can get people to take their therapy and meds." She adds. "When he comes into residents' rooms, they say, ‘I'll do it for Buddy.'"

Our family has a dog a little older than Buddy and nothing like him. Lucy bonded quickly with my wife and, to a lesser extent, with our two daughters. Lucy's aversion to me was immediate and unmistakable. The first time I laid eyes on her, she barked at me. She's been barking at me for 11 years now. I'm not sure I can impress upon the reader just how off-putting it is for a dog to unleash a bloodcurdling wave of barking just because you walked into the room.

Here's some helpful background. Lucy was rescued by our family in 2002. She had been neglected and starved by her previous owner -- a man we were told may have been mentally disabled. When we got Lucy, she was skin and bones. A veterinarian, who has written a book entitled "Your Neurotic Dog," says dogs can become autistic if they do not receive any love or attention during the critical growing period. As a result, such dogs can become fearful, excessively shy and withdrawn. Part of the syndrome is that because Lucy did not receive proper socialization at the right time in her development, she is particular fearful of men. In other words, Lucy simply can't help how she responds to me. It's not her fault. I didn't realize that for a very long time.

We once hired a dog consultant who told us that Lucy might be reached if I modified by behavior. Why did I need to change? Because I have the bigger brain. The consultant recommended I make 20 positive impressions on Lucy every day, generally through the offering of food. Admittedly, my efforts to respond to this suggestion were halfhearted at best. My family of origin has always had dogs, and they were uniformly happy to see their people. After a short while, seeing no progress whatsoever, I grew weary and gave up the attempt. I regret that. I regret occasionally responding with aggression to the barking and growling. I regret not realizing that Lucy simply can't help being afraid. I regret not giving the consultant's prescription for change more of the old college try.

As a theologian-in-retirement, it occurs to me how weary God must get of human beings. The pages of the Old Testament are replete with God's anger, frustration and disappointment. God's call on his people to turn and change never flags nor wavers. God, according to the pages of Genesis, gave up on us only once, via the great diluvial flood. The deluge account, which has parallels to the Gilgamesh story, shows a God who didn't give up on everybody -- preserving a righteous remnant.

The Old Testament shows in repetitive detail how human beings essentially growled and barked at God -- and how God responded with steadfast love and the never-ending invitation to return. I'm a long way from God but He's not finished with me yet. Nor with you.

Dr. Jeff Long is executive director of the Chateau Girardeau Foundation, president of the Cape Girardeau Public Library board of trustees and a retired United Methodist clergyman.