Straining against the leash

On this Palm Sunday, when Christians recall Jesus entering Jerusalem astride a donkey to Hosanna cheers, this column will address itself to another of God's creatures, the ubiquitous canine.

The dog, as is the donkey, is mentioned in the pages of Scripture. The Scotsman Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832), author of the celebrated novel "Rob Roy," viewed the dog as a divine gift:

"... The Almighty, who gave the dog to be companion of our pleasures and our toils, hath invested him with a nature noble and incapable of deceit."

It is said that the principal characteristic of a dog is loyalty. And dog, spelled backward, is God. Loyalty is an easy-to-recognize similarity between man's best friend and man's Maker. The dog, once imprinted by a human being, is utterly faithful to that person, even if mistreated. Unshakeable fidelity.

God, who chose Israel to be His people, remained completely attached to the Israelites even when they forgot Him, ignored him and disobeyed Him. The Bible refers to God's attitude toward Israel as steadfast love.

There is also a way that a dog and a human being are similar. Both will strain against the leash.

The other night, our family took a walk around Rotary Lake in Jackson. It was a beautiful evening, with a clear sky and pleasant temperatures. Our dog, Lucy, tethered on a leash, accompanied us. No matter how much slack we gave the leash, Lucy pulled against it.

She would smell something interesting and stop to investigate while we kept walking. She'd spot a squirrel, instinct taking over, and would dart over to see it. Another dog would get close and she'd shuffle over in a single-minded quest to touch noses. In each case, the leash would grow taut.

Lucy, straining to get to get to the object of her desire, would begin to choke herself, her breath coming in ragged gasps. What I've detailed has been experienced by virtually every person who has taken a dog for a stroll.

As dogs strain against an expandable leash, human beings resist the invisible leashes placed in front of us. We know the limits yet we strain against them.

Humanity's first couple was told not to eat of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. It was the only leash in the ancient Garden, yet they strained against it. They defied God by eating the tree's fruit. It was rebellion.

Moses was told to speak to a rock to elicit water for desert-parched Israelites and he struck it with a rod instead. Rebellion.

Texting while driving, amazingly, is not against the law for those 21 and older in Missouri. There is no official leash, and every driver should know how monumentally dangerous it is to plink out a message while operating a vehicle at 50 miles per hour. It's not illegal but it should be -- yet the absence of a law emboldens motorists (sometimes even me) to rebel against good sense.

The speed limit is 35 miles an hour and we strain against the leash and drive at least 40.

Examples are legion. As loyalty is a prime characteristic of a dog, rebellion fairly describes human beings of every age, every socioeconomic status and every place. We individually and collectively strain against the leash.

The good news is that God loves rebellious humanity. The words that jump out at me this Lent come from the cross as a pain-wracked Jesus overlooks the landscape of first century rebellion and cries out, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do."

I am grateful for the love and fidelity of God in the face of my rebellion and yours. Thanks be to God for a love that will not let me go.