So I was out in the back yard tonight doing what seems like an every other day occurrence lately: picking up Molly’s poop (just for the record Molly is my dog, please refer to the post “ANGIE” if you thought Molly was my wife). This particular act, and the frequency there of, got me to thinking about how much I really do love my dog. This was an easily arrived at meditation because as I did the “dirty work” Molly played with her new toy. This new toy consists of a fairly heavy-duty 9’ tire (think mini-Big Foot tire) that has one of those dog chew ropes with the knots attached. Well it was easy to love her despite the poop because she had the business end of the rope in her mouth, whipping it around as hard as she could, which meant the rubber tire was beating against her head with loud thumps. Great stuff. Since I’ve paid big money for a theology degree I’ve allowed myself to be brainwashed to the point of when ever I’m thinking about love I try and relate it to God’s love. Sometimes this intellectual exercise leads to wonderfully enlightening sermon illustrations that make the old ladies giggle with glee over how much I help them understand Jesus better, and make middle school kids spit on themselves because they try to hold in the laughter, because they think it is bad to laugh in church. Other times I just think of really odd or lame illustrations that I used to just inflict on my wife, but now I can just blog about them.
So the thought progression went something like this: 1) I must really love my dog to put on gloves, get out a plastic bag, and scour my yard hunched over for poo, 2) I sure wouldn’t do this for anyone else (with a brief mental sidebar about if I do love Angie enough to pick up her poop, but I’ll save that for another blog), and 3) (here’s were the big money for the Master’s of Theology really pays off) I wonder if God loves me enough to pick up my poo. Of course initially the question was literal, but that’s a dumb question because when I was a kid I remember hanging out with this other kid in a field and he was telling me about how he had to poop in the woods once when he was camping and had to clean up his business end with leaves from a tree and the phobia I already had about not knowing what poison ivy looked like immediately linked with an aversion to camping, so I would never be pooping somewhere that needed picking up anyway. So then I started considering the question metaphorically, which also allows me to use my B.A.which is in philosophy, and I realized that God does love me enough to pick up my poop. But I think it makes him sad.
You see how often do we make messes in our relationship and then beg for God’s help in cleaning it up? And even when we don’t ask for help, when we do crappy things to other people, I think God cares more about restoration of relationships than we do and goes farther than we realize in helping to rectify the situation.
Over all that’s all I got. Not all that profound, and if I thought that any of my professors read my blog I would apologize, but if nothing else I sure got to type “poop” more than I ever have before.
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