“A God Who Suffers,” part three

Remember how I said one of my former professors likes to compare God (Psalm-like) to a black lab? She’s written a wonderful little book about it called “Dogspell: A Dogmatic Theology on the Abounding Love of God.” Her name is Mary Ellen Ashcroft … look it up on Amazon and get a copy.

Anyway, at the end of this tiny tome, she talks about “Rescue Dog,” and his extraordinary love … how he is always there, wherever we are, to share our sorrows with us. “In the ICU, the mortuary, the nursing home – there is God, muzzle against cheek,” she writes. Human rescuers “race in, equipment in hand, all efficiency – where’s the problem? They set up machines, take measurements and rush, sirens wailing, through the streets. They maintain the patient’s vital signs, help them hang on for dear life – if “life” is a permanent vegetative state. If time is a lockstep through eternity, then we must check off as many heartbeats, as many breaths as we can.”

But rescue dog is different. He doesn’t swoop in and remove us from our difficult situations. “Rescue dog doesn’t do extreme measures,” she says. “The most extreme measures have already been done – tumbling, stripping, rolling.” He has already come down and joyfully mingled with us in the mud, already given himself to rescue us forever. “It’s enough to be there, dog with us.

“Rescuers rush in and hook up machines. Dog rushes in and licks your face. Presumably, God could pull out machines, machines beyond our wildest expectations – truly dues ex machina – to deliver us. God could do that, but it seems that often God, doglike, prefers simply being there to extraordinary measures. [Dog] comes in and sits, tail thumping occasionally, muzzle on neck, occasional lick on hand until the heart stops.

“It’s all over: The graph lines on the machines fall flat. The rescuers shake their heads and start unhooking.

“Deep within, far beyond their most sensitive monitors, the stilled heart quivers. That sound? What is it?

“A scratch from the other side of glory’s door, a whimper of welcome. The yelp of greeting warns you. Brace yourself: This is the moment you’ve been waiting for. Prepare to meet thy dog.”

I know it’s not a perfect metaphor, especially if you haven’t read through the book to get to this last chapter … you haven’t read about how dog waits eagerly to greet you, face to face. How he longs to w-a-l-k with you in the cool of the day. How he runs joyfully to meet you, with uncontained exuberance, and doesn’t care what you look like or what you do for a living. A God enthusiastic and vulnerable to pain. A God who rushed down the slippery slope through the mud just to be near us where we were.

But it’s this same God of whom David says in Psalms 56:8, “You have kept track of all my sorrows. You have collected all my tears in your bottle. You have recorded each one in your book.” In 85:8, David writes, “I listen carefully to what God the Lord is saying, for He speaks peace to his faithful people.” God speaks peace to us! He catches our tears.

And in Jeremiah 17:7-8, the prophets writes, “Blessed are those who trust in the Lord, and have made the Lord their hope and confidence. They are like trees planted along a riverbank, with roots that reach deep into the water. Such trees are not bothered by the heat, or worried by long months of drought. Their leaves stay green, and they never stop producing fruit.” In other words, they are plugged in to the vine, and draw their sustenance from God himself.

In the footnotes of my Bible it says this: “Those who trust in the Lord will have abundant strength [even in difficult times], not only for their own needs, but even for the needs of others.” They will produce fruit even in their suffering.