Jake and Jesus

I’m typing this from the side of a North Carolina mountain lake with Jake, my 80-pound chocolate lab, at my feet. Jake’s usually a barely noticed or overlooked presence lying next to my chair as I immerse myself in books, notes, and my laptop. Though today, he’s as much muse as silent companion.

Last night, as Jake curled into a tight ball on his blanket, I reflected on the events of the previous 24 hours and how totally unflappable and unoffendable he had been. On the way here, I was unhappy with the traffic. I had to hit the brakes rather hard once, and the mountain of coolers, suitcases, hiking gear, books, food… reaching the top of the Jeep behind Jake came crashing down upon him. I immediately pulled over and could see only the top of Jake’s head through the layers of stuff piled on top of him.

Not a whimper. Silent. Patient. He gave me the sincerest look of gratitude for digging him out without an ounce of judgment for my precarious packing or driving.

Later, we had three different encounters with dogs who either thought Jake was a threat or simply wished to establish their dominance with lips rolled back exposing chomping teeth between barks and growls. However, if you were only watching Jake, you would not know they existed. No response. He was content, peaceful, unruffled by their canine bravado. That’s consistent with his nature. He only shows concern for other dogs if they are whining, whimpering, or simply alone and quiet. Then he insists on going to them.

About sunset yesterday, we stepped into a lake side yellow jacket nest as we were climbing into a canoe. Jake and Jo were getting more of their attention than me, and with two paws on the bank and two paws in the canoe, I fully anticipated that he’d panic and capsize me, already seated in the back. Not Jake. True to character, Jake carefully climbed aboard, laid in the bottom of the canoe, and quietly used his paw to swipe his attackers from the tip of his nose and his legs. No cussing or fussing. No panic. No anger.

Jake’s focus seems to always be on Jo and me. If we are near, he’s content. His peace seems utterly disconnected from his circumstances, and totally reliant on his relationships. If we’re pleased with him, he could care less what others think. His identity, security, and self-esteem are found only in his relationship with us, and that seems to make him unflappable and unoffendable when the world attacks, accuses, or berates. He only wants to please and honor us.

This morning, while reading the Gospels, I recognized that same unflappable and unoffendable quality in Jesus.

His own family questioned him.

Satan sought to manipulate him.

The disciples repeatedly doubted him.

The rich young ruler walked away from him.

The Pharisees tried to trap him.

Judas betrayed him.

Caiaphas judged him.

Pilot questioned him.

The crowd rejected him.

The guards tortured, crucified, and mocked him.

Even a robber, being executed, jeered him.

Silent. Patient. Peaceful. Loving. Forgiving. His focus was on pleasing and honoring his father.

To follow Jesus is to humble ourselves, our predispositions toward self-centered pride and fear, and become more like him in our thoughts, actions, and reactions.

So here I am, watching the fog roll across the surface of the lake, and realizing that the dog by my feet may be more like Jesus than me. I’ve been claiming to follow Jesus since 1989, and my four-year-old four-legged friend is ahead of me. The fact that I cringe at such a thought may be the most telling affirmation of this truth.

Perhaps the most Christ-like thing I can do today is to remember Jesus’ presence, consider what pleases him, and determine to be unflappable and unoffendable no matter what happens or is said today, and to consider the example Jesus has given me in Jake.