God’s Will In the Eyes of a Dog

It was an unusually quiet afternoon on our street. Speeding cars, pedestrians, and stray dogs were few and far between, and I was thankful because the more there are of any of them, the exponentially more difficult it becomes to walk our three monsters—I mean—our three dogs. Recently I’ve just been taking them out one at a time. It takes longer, but it’s much less of a spectacle. And this time, in the cool slanting sunlight of a late afternoon in October, a strange feeling crept up on me as if from behind, and to my utter surprise, I was actually enjoying the walk.

It was me and a dog on a leash traipsing down the sidewalk on Yellow Bucket Street. Me and a dog and the almighty Maker of heaven of earth, that is. He stooped low for those few moments; I felt him, and my mind turned to all the questions I wish he’d answer.

How would he make the path before us clear? What would his clarity look like to help us decide the best path to take through the desert and over the next looming mountain range? The desert seemed too wide and the mountains seemed too tall for us to ever choose the best path on our own. We needed a sign. We needed concrete answers, and I wasn’t too picky about how he should let us know: text message, email, writing in the sky, writing on the wall, an audible voice from heaven. He was free to choose whatever method he wanted to speak, and I was willing to listen carefully, take notes, and move forward accordingly. If he’d only speak and make his will known.

So how could I ever determine his will?

A. W. Tozer said that it’s not just that God spoke once when he created the world and then fell silent. He’s speaking now. Just like a baby is born once but then continues to exist, so the words that God spoke all those millennia ago continue to reverberate and speak just as loudly and clearly today. His speaking is what moment by moment maintains the universe in existence. His word is ingrained into every last atom, and as a result, every last atom and raindrop and bird and mountain and galaxy can’t help but declare that which the word that sustains them impels them to declare: truth about the living God.

How will you know which way to walk, Eric? he asked.

My eyes fell on the four-legged sniffing machine sticking her nose into a patch of grass beside the sidewalk. How did she know which way to walk? Which way we were going was probably the furthest thing from her mind. She wasn’t wondering in the slightest what my will was as to which direction we were walking that day or what my intended destination was. She simply moved in accordance with my tugs on the leash. She knew which way to go by merely staying close to me, a proximity ensured by the loving leash I’d clipped on her harness before we left the house. That leash of love would allow me to keep her from running out in the street when a car went speeding by. It’d keep her from sprinting off in the direction of a stray dog with which she’d inevitably get into a fight. It’d communicate to her, moment by moment, my desire, to turn this way or that, to walk faster or slower, to stop and sniff or to move along. My sovereign will over her ensured that she wouldn’t leave the path I intended for her to walk that day even if she wanted to go her own way. It was my responsibility as her owner to ensure she’d go on the good walk I’d planned for her. All she had to do really was remain close to me, and I was more committed to maintaining that proximity than she was.

Apart from staying close to me, she was as happy and free as she could possibly be. In fact, it brought joy to me to see her sniffing like crazy and peeing on everything she possibly could and scratching the dirt with her claws. She was simply acting out of her nature, the nature God had given her. She wasn’t concerned with deep philosophical questions like, “I wonder which way my master would want me to walk. Does he want me to sniff this tree? Does he want me to pee here or over there?” She didn’t end the walk that day wondering, “Now, how did my master get me from the house all way down the street and over the bridge and around the soccer field and back?” She just doesn’t think in those categories. All she knows is that she goes where I go. As long as she was close to me, it was my joy for her to do whatever she pleased. It was my job to keep the course and to decide how far we’d walk and when we’d turn around. Her job was simply to move as I moved. That’s what it means for me to be the master and her the dog.

And that’s how the word of God that exists within my dog and sustains her spoke that afternoon and revealed something about God’s will to me.

If I then, an evil dog owner, know how to guide my dog on an afternoon walk, how much more will my good Father in heaven guide me as we walk together down this path called life? My only thought must be keeping close to him, and even that is ultimately secured by him through his loving leash. I’m free to stick my nose in absolutely anything he leads me to, and if there’s something I shouldn’t stick my nose in, he’ll tug and I’ll feel it somehow and he’ll lead me to the thing he does want me to sniff.

Am I humble enough to heed the word that God speaks to me through my dog? Am I humble enough to imitate her freedom and dependence and joy?

Help me, Father, surrender to your very happy love.