January 30, 2005

Glynn Cardy

Epiphany 4     1 Cor 1:18-31     Matt 5:1-12

The way we think about God is influenced by the way we individually think. It is not uncommon for someone whose paramount value is serenity to have a calming, she'll-be-right God. It is not uncommon for someone who fears that things might get out of control to have an organised, general-manager God. For good or for ill we tend to project our needs, our hopes, on to God. This was the same in Jesus' day.

A way of understanding Jesus is to think of him as a debunker of God thoughts. Whenever anyone would try to neatly wrap God up in brown paper and string, Jesus would break lose with the scissors. He was a disturber of the peace. Whenever God seems to be the tame accessory, walking sedately on a lead, the spirit of Jesus wants to cut loose.

I lived with a dog for many years who never used a leash. He didn't like them, and my voice could do the job just as effectively. Mind you, I did have one, but more for show than anything else. He was born a stray, of mixed lineage, and insatiable appetite. He would run and play with the neighbourhood kids in our fenceless street. Why he adopted me I have no idea.

I hadn't grown up with dogs and didn't know the first thing about them. I quickly learnt that sleeping on the bed was out. But he slept nearly everywhere else. He also accompanied me nearly everywhere I went. This was determined by two factors: Firstly, there didn't seem to be any good reason to exclude him, and, secondly, he made a terrible din if left at home.

I became known as the priest with the dog. Or was it the dog with the priest? A consequence being that people assumed that I was an avid advocate for the animal kingdom, and I was crowned with the kudos thereof. Not that I was anti-animal. I just treated the particular mongrel that resided with me as I would any friend whom I spent nearly every hour, every day, every week with.

Mrs Smythe disagreed. "Dogs need to be leashed!" Mrs Smythe was a neighbour. And she owned a dog. Not a very big dog mind you, but it was a dog. She called him Samson, and his hair was clipped short. I would see Samson and Mrs Smythe trotting together every morning at 7 a.m. The leash was on, although I never saw him straining it.

Mrs Smythe kept most things on a leash. Her husband, her house, and her children. Everything was well behaved, well ordered, and ran to time. She had made this her life's work. The leash was almost invisible. But, ahh, should a paw stray off the path... Whambo! The leash would snap tight. So her daughter told me when I met her in London. She was the prodigal who never made it home. Her mother was still waiting for her to come back, settle down, marry, and to suffocate in the maternal embrace.

The one thing Mrs Smythe and I had in common was church. Not the same one mind you. She went to the square brick church on the corner. Every Sunday, rain or shine. God was as regular as Samson's walks. She helped at the Op Shop too. Every Wednesday. She was a pillar of her church, and you were told if you didn't know.

One day we talked about God. It was when I happened, by chance, to spot you-know-who doing you-know-what on her front lawn. "Oh no", I groaned, and headed out with the trowel before the offending article, the offender, or the offender's manservant were spotted. No such luck.

"Good morning Reverend", she hollered, advancing from the side path. "Nice day to be in the garden."

There was no escape. Trowel in hand. Offending article nicely balanced and giving off that nauseous odour. "Hello Mrs Smythe."

"I see you've been collecting the morning's manna," she beams.

I was never one for a quick, slick reply. "Yes," I mumbled and looked for an escape.

"I'm glad I happened to see you," she continued, ignoring my discomfort. Or was she enjoying it? "I was puzzled about that letter of yours that appeared in the Herald."

'Oh no,' I thought, 'this is all I need. I'm about to hear her views, whether I want to or not. Probably the letter about politics and prayer. It was tongue-in-cheek, satirical. But Mrs Smythe's imagination is as fluid as a brick.'

"What sort of God do you pray to?"

Wary of the verbal baseball bat now poised above my head, I proceeded to articulate a most Anglican answer. One of those careful expositions designed to meet the least resistance while bearing a slight semblance to one's actual beliefs. The smell of dog dung hung in the air.

"I think God is straightforward," she responded. Had I expected anything else? "God is there to preserve, protect, and if necessary punish."

Pause. Big pause. That was it. Theology in a thimble.

"Does God ever misbehave?" I ventured.

Momentarily she lost her calm demeanour. "Never!" was the vehement reply. I had the strong impression God was on a leash.

That night I had a dream. Samson had grown his hair long, and in a fit of redemptive rage pushed the pillars over. Down went Mrs Smythe, her house, her husband, and her square brick world. Of course, back in the world of daylight, the dog and I were the ones who moved on. For all I know Mrs Smythe still lives there.