Do You See What I See?

My wife and I had been shopping endlessly for a home church since our move. We attended large churches and small churches, flamboyant churches and reserved churches, seeker sensitive churches and hearty meat churches. But for all of our toil, all of our searching, it seemed that we could never find the one that was home. Every time we thought a church might be a possibility, God always led us away.
It was for that reason we came here this Sunday. There was nothing overtly special about it on the outside. It was a normal looking church with normal looking people. As we took our seats near the back of the church, we wondered what was in store. Would we be eagerly greeted and accepted? Would we feel at home? Or would it once again end with the feeling of dissatisfaction?
My wife and I spent the next hour and a half taking in what this church had to offer. As the blessing was spoken by a deacon, I felt troubled that he seemed unsure of what to say and paused over several words while offering up his praise. As soon as he finished, the worship team took the stage and began to fill the air with what I felt was a poor offering. Their musicians were noticeably off-key, and the look of the singers was drab. But I cringed the most when I heard the noise that came forth. I suffered through a laundry list of classics that I knew was in no way worthy of the King of Kings. I only shuttered to think of what God himself felt after such a display.
But the best was yet to come. As the well dressed pastor took the pulpit, his appearance gave me hope. I was soon let down at the realization that his delivery did not match his look. His message was fine to be sure, in fact one of the best I had heard. It was biblically based, on target, and without reproach as to the truth. It fed a long time believer such as myself while encouraging those new to or just outside the faith. It was a masterpiece. But the pastor himself fell short. As his sermon went on, I found myself noting imperfections in his look. Slight wrinkles in his pants and shirt caught my eyes. The fact that his tie was a shade to light for the shirt he was wearing distracted me. And his speech was the worst of all. He had a distinct stuttering problem, and when that wasn't acting up he would speak to slowly for my taste. In all it was a disaster.
As the service moved forward, I would steal glances at my wife. She would look back at me, concern in her eyes, but with perseverance to see the service through. When it was mercifully over, I quickly gathered my belongings and stood up. But before I could make my way out of the church I was overwhelmed by greeters and well wishers. Members from across the aisles made their way to our seats to see who we were and if we enjoyed our time. I tried to speak to my wife about the need to leave quickly and never return, but before I could she was trapped by a question.
"Do you think you might come back?" an elderly lady asked my wife directly.
"Yes, of course," my wife blurted out without thinking. I glared at her with shock as we finished the round of pleasantries.
My wife and I headed to our car, and I plopped myself in the driver's seat. Before starting the car, I looked over at her. "I really hate that you had to lie to that old lady."
My wife turned to me. "It wasn't a lie. We should come back next week."
"Really," I said annoyed. "Were you not in the same service I was? It was a mess. An unmitigated disaster."
My wife began to nod her head in agreement. "I know, I know, it isn't what we might have liked. But we need to give it another chance. Didn't you hear the message? Didn't it speak to you?"
"I heard the message," I replied. "And I guess, yes, it was good. It was just the messenger I couldn't get past."
My wife just shook her head and we drove off. We didn't speak about it again until the next Sunday, and my wife insisted on going back to that church. I acquiesced, as I had no better ideas, and forced myself into the car.
We arrived and were again greeted warmly as we took our seats. I braced myself as the welcoming prayer began, and was not disappointed. The same problems existed that week that existed before, and I held my eyes tight in prayer that my suffering would not be long. I refused to look at my wife, as I blamed her for making us go through this again. I focused only on the singers and the preacher until it was almost over. Finally, I turned to my wife to give her one of my disapproving stares. I was disturbed by what I saw.
"When did you start wearing glasses?" I asked her. She simply smiled at me and put her finger to her mouth, indicating a need for silence until the service was officially over. When it was, I stood up to flee from this place, but this time the pastor came down to greet us. My wife politely rose to shake his hand, taking off her glasses and putting them in her purse. I shook his hand and let out a barely audible grunt, as I wanted nothing more to do with this church. As soon as I could I ushered my wife out of the sanctuary and towards our car.
"Now can we never come back?" I pleaded.
"Never come back?" she retorted indignantly. "Didn't you hear the message?"
"Yes, yes," I whined. "It was another wonderful sermon. But come on. I mean, does that make up for everything else?"
"Is there anything more important?" she asked me. "Besides, things were better this time.
I wondered how she could say that. Was she even paying attention? If anything, the service had devolved from the previous week. This time one of the soloists forgot an entire verse. She simply hummed along with the melody. We would come back. This was certainly going to be the last time I ever set foot in that building.
But my insistence held little sway. My wife insisted on going back, and more than once. Each time she gave the caveat that we would only try it "one more time". But each "one more time" seemed to strengthen her resolve. In fact, she was becoming rather involved in this church, and making quite a few friends. Meanwhile, I searched and searched to find another church that might tempt her away from this train wreck.
A month and a half passed since our first visit, and I was at the end of my wits. Each time I had to force myself to go, dragging my carcass out of my bed and to the church, painfully experiencing every moment with excruciating detail, but in the end always having to admit to my wife that the sermon was top notch. I was trapped, and as I did this for the seventh time I was through. I barked and complained at my wife the entire way to church, grumbling about how I could not take another week of off-key singing, out of harmony musicians and a stuttering preacher. We didn't speak a word to each other after exiting the car, and left a space in between ourselves when we sat down. There was a frigidness that existed between us, and it was going to take a miracle to unthaw.
The service started and I winced. I closed my eyes for the prayer and shook my head. Moments later, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to my right to see my wife poking me with her glasses.
"Put these on," she whispered.
"I don't need your glasses," I shot back and put my head back down. I soon felt the poking again, this time more painfully.
"Put them on!" she demanded.
"Fine," I said defiantly, yanking them from her hand. I scowled at her and mockingly put them on. "You happy?"
My wife nodded at me and smiled. But that made me even more furious. Not only were we in this place, but now I looked like an idiot wearing my wife's reading glasses. Pride welled up inside of me and I grew impatient. I was about to get up and walk out of the sanctuary. That's when the worship team stood up to sing.
I can't say that I hadn't heard such a beautiful sound before, but it was hard to recall a such a time. The voices that poured forth were no less than heavenly, and the music that accompanied hit every note with perfection. I soon became engrossed with what I heard, finding myself nearly brought to tears. As the music ended and the pastor stepped forward, I found myself locking in on his gate. For the first time I failed to find any imperfections in his dress. When he spoke it was like hearing the very voice of Jesus bellowing forth and bestowing heavenly knowledge. I was in shock and wonder that these people had made such a turnaround in such a short amount of time. I looked over at my wife with amazement, and she smiled and redirected my attention to the stage. I anxiously waited for the service to be over so I could ask the pastor what had happened.
As the service ended, I quickly took the glasses off, handed them to my wife and rushed to greet the pastor. He grasped my hand and smiled, and I blurted out the first thing in mind.
"How in the world did you do it?" I said excitedly, with no real reference to what I was talking about. The pastor looked at me with confusion. I felt my wife grab my hand from behind, and the preacher turned his attention to her.
"Good morning," he said.
"Good morning, pastor," my wife replied, then turned her attention to me. "Honey, we have to go."
I was still in a stupor, and found my mind racing as to the possibilities of the grand turnaround. But my wife led me out, all the while saying hello to her friends throughout the sanctuary. A smile was plastered on my face, one that did not soon fade. We found our way to the car, but before we got in I confronted my wife.
"You know something, don't you."
"I don't know what you mean," she said coyly.
"You know something," I insisted. "How in the world do you explain that," I said, pointing back at the church. "They were never this good before."
"Weren't they?" she retorted, waiting for me to respond. But I just stared back at her. "Fine," she said. "Those glasses I made you wear. They are special. You finally got to see everyone with God's eyes."
"God's eyes?" I asked. "What do you mean God's eyes?"
"When we first came here, I thought everything was as bad as you did. But I prayed about it, and God gave me the vision to see them as He sees them. Don't ask me how, but it came through those glasses."
"What are you talking about?" I asked. "God is sees everything perfectly. And he sees them for all their deficits."
"Yes, God sees their deficits. But when you look through His eyes, you see much more than that. You see the beauty, wisdom and potential in others. You see them as He meant them to be, not as the world sees them. To Him they are masterpieces, where to us they may seem like torn canvas. You have now seen them as God sees them, and you know how they really are. Your eyes have been fixed."
I pondered for a moment. "As God sees them," I muttered. "Of course. I looked for perfection in the imperfect. I should have been looking for perfection in Him." I paused for a moment. "But what about the glasses? We have only one pair. Who gets them?"
My wife smiled. "I don't think either of us needs the glasses any longer. God has done permanent work to our sight."

That Saved A Wretch Like Me

It was the same spiritual classic we had sung a myriad of times. I belted out the last few words as it's familiar chords reverberated in my brain. I loved God, and church was almost always a pleasure. But for some reason, on this particular Sunday in this particular church, I actually listened to the words I was singing. Certainly I had seen them in print before, but I had never actually heard them. That was not the case today.
The song ended not to long after noon and our congregation was dismissed as it had been each preceding Sunday. I gathered my belongings and made my way towards the door, greeting many familiar faces on the way and wishing them a good day. Yet as I journeyed, I felt a resentment welling up inside of me. I did not know from where this came, for normally I left this place feeling revived and full for the week ahead. But not this day.
I hopped in my car and made my way home. Throughout the journey, I tried to squelch the feeling of resentment and insult with which I had been struggling. I thought of upcoming activities, of duties I had to perform, and even of the splendor of the spring season that was soon upon us. But nothing I did made that uneasy feeling submit. I was being poked by it, at first ever so subtly, but soon with a certain pointedness that demanded attention.
I arrived home and went about my business. I changed out of my Sunday attire and into clothes that were much more comfortable and allowed my form to flow freely. I prepared myself a sandwich, all the while having my ire raised over that which I could still not grasp. I sat down for lunch and raised my sandwich to my mouth, at which point I could no longer take the prodding.
"Fine," I muttered to myself as I slammed the sandwich back onto the plate. I was finished trying to push it aside, and knew what I had to confront. It was that song, that infernal song at the end of the service. From the moment the final note died until now, I had been choked with the feeling that those words were directed at me. It felt as though they were being used to repeatedly slap me in the face. They were the source of my indignation.
I stood up and walked intentionally towards my bookshelf. I scanned the books lined there until I found the one that held my tormenter. I yanked it from its perch and threw it down on the table. It had been some time since I touched this particular book, as the word "Hymnal" on the cover was shrouded in a layer of dust. Ignoring the obvious need to wipe it, I flung open the book and searched out that particular song.
Moments later I found my target. In typical hymnal script, bordered by musical chords that nobody but the actual musicians needed to see, were the words to that ancient rhyme "Amazing Grace". Those words that for some reason had so bothered me in service earlier were now staring me in the face, mocking and taunting me to take them in again.
I sat back down and began to read. As I went along, I became more and more enraged. I now knew why it was that I had this feeling deep inside of me. It was those words. They prodded at me, insulted me, and mocked me all the while knowing nothing about me.
"I know how to fix this," I said as I scanned the room. Finding what I was looking for, I snatched up a pencil and brought it to the page. "There need to be some changes here."
I started with the first stanza: Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me, I once was lost, but now am found, was blind, but now I see.
I started scribbling in the book. Grace cannot make a sound, I thought. How silly is that. And as for being lost, I might have been, but I found my way, I was not found. And I hardly ever remember being blind, but maybe that's a bit too literal for me. But I know for sure the guy who wrote this wasn't blind.
I continued to the second stanza: 'Twas Grace that taught my heart to fear, and Grace my fears relieved, How precious did that Grace appear, the hour I first believed.
I debated in my head again. Now this is getting ridiculous. Grace is going to make me fear and then take it away? That doesn't even make sense. And I doubt that I am going to see something so paradoxical as precious when I first believe. If anything I would flee from it.
I stopped after the third stanza: Through many dangers, toils and snares, I have already come, 'Tis Grace that brought me safe thus far, and Grace will lead me home.
Well, I do agree that I have been through a lot, I thought. But I had to make it through a ton of that myself. Grace might lead me now, but it hardly has been there every time.
I scribbled and scribbled, crossing out certain words, underlining others, and circling still more. I engraved the paper with my thoughts, and when I was done I looked at my handiwork. There was a milieu of changes to that song that I had made, and I sat back, still unsatisfied.
That's when my eyes fixated on one word. On that word. The word that in my belly I knew was the crux of my pain. Wretch. I stared at it and it stared right back. It refused to relent, and insisted that it was right. But I knew better.
I was appalled. How dare they make us sing this in church? Are we all to acquiesce to the name calling that is in this simple song? Perhaps the author thought he was a wretch, and maybe everyone in my church considers themselves as such. For all I knew everyone who had ever sung this song looked at themselves in this light. But not me. I was many things, but I was not a wretch.
A wretch is an awful person. A miserable being. Contemptible. Hollow. Despicable. Enslaved to that which would corrupt the most wholesome soul. I would not call anyone this epithet, nor would I allow myself to be called the same. That was the point of my contention. That was the word I had finally heard after all those years of singing that song that brought my stomach into knots and unleashed a fury inside of me with which I was unfamiliar. If I was to be called such a thing from a centuries old jingle, then I was going to defend myself. I was going to defend myself with extreme prejudice.
I circled that word over and over again, digging deeper into the paper as I went. I began to think about the type of person that would call himself a wretch in a song, a song that unintentionally became one of the most famous in the Christian faith. What kind of person would insist himself such a monstrosity, then give all the credit for his change to the faceless duality of Grace?
I grabbed for my laptop and punched in the name of the author emblazoned under the song title. "John Newton," I whispered as I typed. As I read the entries on him, I found that this was most certainly not the guy who had an apple fall on his head.
As I perused the biographical data on this man I found that indeed he had times in his life where he could be considered an ultimately contemptible individual. He was engrossed in profanity, gambling, drinking, and most egregiously the slave trade.
But as I read further I found the seed of his conversion. In the middle of the night while on board a merchant ship off the coast of Ireland in the late 18th century, John Newton awoke to a horrific storm that ripped a hole open in the side of the ship. Water began to furiously pour in, and Newton was beside himself with fear. He was so overcome that he cried out to God to save him and the ship. Soon after, in what seemed to Newton to be a miracle, cargo within the ship found its way towards the hole and stuck there, plugging the gouge and allowing the ship to limp back to Britain. Newton attributed this to God - to Grace - and began earnestly studying and seeking the same.
"Luck," I blurted out as I closed the laptop. This Newton had based his entire conversion on a series of coincidental events. I was happy for him that he had come to God, but I realized this whole song, including the overuse of Grace and insistence on his own vileness, was based on a lucky break.
I finally took my pencil and drew a giant X through that contemptible word. I was going to have to find a replacement for it at a later time. It was imperative that I get my revisions to the pastor. If we were ever going to sing this song again, I was going to be heard on why it needed to be changed.
I stood up and walked to my office, searching out the pastor's email address. For the sake of the knot in my stomach, this could not wait any longer. I fumbled through some papers and notebooks, looking for that slip of paper where it was written. Finally I came across the church directory, and realized that I could find it in there. Relieved, I flipped open the book. But what I found was more than I could have expected.
On the inside cover, staring me back in the face, was a picture. It was a picture I had not seen in a long time, and how it got inside my church directory I do not know. The subject of the picture I knew well, and what it specifically captured is not important. Looking at it brought me great joy. But it also brought great pain. It was the epitome of paradoxical, showing me a time in my life of contentment and happiness but also reminding me of sorrow and pain.
But the picture was much more than a single remembrance. For as I gazed at it, my mind went wild. Within me was triggered a rush of memories, all seemingly insignificant or coincidental to the passing eye, but so much more than that. For in those memories, in those little things of life and major changes and adjustments, I saw a work there. In those things that guide us and make our path, I saw the Master's hand cultivating the road in front of me, even though many times I found myself in the midst of hardships, of toils, and of snares. As the film in my mind played, I saw that moment when I knew the power of God and trembled at the thought of how I was but an insignificant microbe to be squashed by His powerful hand, only to then realize that it was the same hand that would carry and comfort me the rest of my days. I saw in those moments of life how blind and lost I was, and how it was through the miracle of miracles that I had been found and made whole to see. And as the memories began to fade, I finally recognized that one day, happily, mercifully, this wretch would be led home.
Grace had made it's point. It was never my will that got me through the difficulties of life. It was His. I dropped the directory, and made my way back to the table. I sat down, pulled in the chair, and lifted my pencil once again. But this time I flipped it around, and brought the power of the eraser to bear on the page. Slowly I erased each blemish I had made, drinking in the unfettered words that now smiled at me across time. The knot in my stomach and the choke of anger were gone.
"This is just fine," I said to nobody in particular.

Oh Where, Oh Where Has My Little Dog Gone?

I assure you that it was the most glorious day you had seen! With nothing in particular that needed to be done this day, I decided to take my four year old spaniel out for a walk. It wasn't the most pleasurable of chores that I had, but on this day it felt like less of a burden.
So I hitched the collar around my dog's neck, latched up the leash and out we headed. We strolled from our home to the main street where cars whizzed by left and right as people passed us lost in their thoughts of the day. I watched as my spaniel scampered here and there, sniffing each tree and post with reckless abandon. I became concerned as he attacked each station with flared nostrils, sucking in the odors that lay in wait and exhaling the same pleasing fragrances, his brain twitching and twirling with instinctual instructions. Though nobody seemed to care, I put my head down and shook it, sure that everyone was aghast at the ferocity at which my dog greeted each vertical object.
"You are embarrassing me," I murmured as I covered my eyes and the dog pulled me forward. Before I had a chance to look up, I felt myself slam into what seemed like a brick wall. I stumbled backwards and fell to the sidewalk, letting go of the leash and instantly fearing that my dog would become crushed amid the racing cars of the street. I opened my eyes only to find his snout pushed in my face, tongue at the ready to lick off my shame.
"Are you ok?" I heard a burly voice ask kindly. A behemoth of a man stared down at me and offered me his hand. "You must watch where you are going. God knows I've learned that lesson many times."
I fumbled for my dog's leash then reached out and grabbed the man's hand. "I am so sorry," I said as he helped me to my feet. "And thank you." I paused for a moment to make sure I was in one piece. I brought my dog in close to me to ensure he was not a nuisance to this stranger. "Of course God knows I have to learn that same lesson, and hopefully He does not have to teach me too many times. He has shown me the error of my ways before!"
The man looked quizzically at me. "Oh," he said, looking me up and down. "When I said 'God knows', it was really just a figure of speech. I didn't mean God literally knows. That would be foolish."
"Foolish?" I questioned. "I hardly think that. God knows everything, so why is it foolish to think he wouldn't know that you need to watch where you are going?"
The man waited a few moments before answering. "I see," he stated condemningly. "You are one of those."
"One of what?" I asked.
"One of those that believe that there is actually a God and he sees everything you do and actually cares about any of it."
"And you don't?" I asked
"Seriously?" he said as he stared back. "Of course not. It's not that I mind if you believe those things, it's just that I have gotten beyond that kind of thinking. I simply don't believe that God sees and knows everything. In fact, I don't believe in God at all."
I felt my jaw drop and the tight reign I had on the leash loosen. My dog leapt towards the man and jumped on him, his paws reaching just above the man's thigh. My dog was trying to lick him, and it took me a few seconds to recognize what had happened. I reeled my dog back in and calmed him down. I then looked back at the man.
"You can do that?" I asked. "I mean, simply not believe in God?" People were passing us left and right, but I was fixated on the man's face.
"Sure," he said, smiling at me.
"And it works?"
"It has so far," he said chuckling. "And I have no reason to doubt that it won't continue to be true for me."
I stood gazing at the man, dumbstruck by the definitive way he lived his faith. He continued to smile at me, then patted me on the shoulder and walked away. I turned around and watched him grow distant, seemingly as content as any man I had ever encountered.
I finished walking my dog and headed home. All the while, I was transfixed on the fact that the man seemed to be so at ease dismissing God. He went so far as to make God non-existent, something I had never even dreamed. I arrived home and walked inside, letting my dog run free as I fell into the couch.
I started to rationalize. If that man so easily dismissed God and was able to live happily, then would it be just as easy for me? In fact, was God something I had simply decided to make up in order to bring everything into easier understanding and focus? And if that was the case, could I just as easily stop believing in Him, and He would no longer exist? It had seemed to work for that man. Maybe he was on to something.
My mind raced with the possibilities. Perhaps all my life I had lived with this power and had never exercised it! If that was the case, it was about time that I started harnessing that which I possessed. But I could not start with something so grand as God. As I rationalized, I figured that this man must have worked his way up to God. He must have started small, and that is where I had to start. I had to find something that I wished to be rid of, and simply stop believing in it. If that worked, then the possibilities were endless. My heart raced at the thought of the power I held.
I looked around my house for something to stop believing in. I looked at my computer, but I really liked it and decided it should stay. I glanced at my cactus plant and thought about the care it needed, but realized that I did hardly anything and it thrived, so it was hardly a nuisance. I looked at my new flat screen television that hung silently on the wall, and decided that not only did I like it, but it took up practically no space. Then my dog bolted into the room and started pawing at my feet.
"Please stop," I said sternly. That's when it hit me. The dog was nice to have, as he did keep me company at times. And on cold nights it was pleasant to have something so warm in the bed. But recently he had become more trouble than he was worth. He demanded a lot of attention, and was costing me more money in food and vet bills than I had originally thought. He was a good dog by all accounts, but I reasoned that indeed my life would be better off without him. My dog was going to be my test!
I quickly called for him and he jumped into my lap. I gathered him up and excitedly jumped to my feet. "Oh, you are going to make me so happy!" I exclaimed. "Now, it is nothing personal, but I'm just going to have to stop believing that you exist. We've had a good run, but it's time to be over."
I walked around the house contemplating how this needed to be done. I saw the back door which lead to my fenced yard, and decided that would be the place. I sat him outside the back door, looked him in the eyes and shrugged my shoulders.
"Well, this is goodbye," I said as I closed the door. I ran back to the couch and held my eyes shut as hard as I could, reciting to myself that I no longer believed in that particular spaniel. This went on for about a minute until I opened my eyes and shut my mouth. I listened intently for any noise that might have come from that dog, and heard nothing. I became tentatively excited as I stood up . But I had to make certain. I walked slowly across the house to the back door where I listened once again. I heard nothing, and with my heart in my throat I gripped the handle and swung the door open.
"Oh my," I exclaimed as I stared down at an empty slab of concrete. There was no dog, and no sign that he had ever been there. "It worked!"
I was overwhelmed with shock. I peered around the yard and found no trace of the dog. I slammed the door shut and practically floated over the carpet back to the couch. I had done it! It was possible to wish something away, and the power that seemed so foreign mere hours earlier was now mine. My mind began to race with the possibilities as I looked for more things of which to dispose. As I looked around, I saw the remnants of the spaniel's life in my house. Dog bowls, beds and toys littered the area. These were the next things that had to go. God would come soon after.
I started to gather up all of my dog's belongings. I found leashes, toys, the bed and bowls, and little clothing I had bought for him. All of it I wanted gone, and all of it I would soon stop believing in. My arms were overflowing with stuff, stretching all the way to my chin. I struggled towards the back door, and with the smallest portion of exposed digits I fiddled with the doorknob and popped the door open. I thrust the pile onto the ground below, and watched as it splattered into a heap. I smiled and slammed the door closed, running back to my couch. I sat down dutifully and closed my eyes.
This was significantly more than just a simple dog, so I reasoned that I was going to need to concentrate harder and for longer in order that it might no longer exist. I sat there, grabbed my knees with my hands and started to concentrate. I concentrated keenly on the fact that no longer did I believe in the dog's things, and in turn they would no longer exist. I sat there for much longer than I had with the dog, but for how long I couldn't tell. Finally, my eyes burst open, and I felt assured that all of those smelly, hairy things were no longer of my reality. I crept towards the back door and opened it slowly, only to find once again a blank slab of concrete staring me in the face.
I was giddy, and ran back into my house. I had discovered the truth, and no longer would I have to be tied down by inconvenient realities or difficult situations. The stranger I had run into on the street was my ticket to an entirely new world. I was going to be the master of my reality, and it was going to be exactly as I demanded!
Like a child with a bagful of candy, I was grinning from ear to ear. I began to imagine all the possibilities. My mind went wild with what my new reality would exist of. But the longer I thought, the more I became uneasy. I was becoming invaded with fear from what my newfound power actually meant. If indeed I could control that which existed or didn't exist, then I had to be careful with that power. I had become stronger than anything I had ever known before. I had become God.
I stood dumbfounded by my revelation. But before I could ponder any further what had happened, I heard a loud banging on my front door. The noise awoke me from my stupor and I cautiously made my way to the front of the house. The banging continued, and I heard a familiar voice calling my name. I quickly opened the door. I was overcome with terror and confusion as in front of me stood my neighbor with a leash attached to my dog in one hand and a clear plastic bag of my dog's belongings in the other.
I stumbled backwards. I had to catch myself on the wall to avoid falling to the ground. Concern crossed my neighbor's face as he entered the house, placing the bag at my doorway and releasing my dog. It bounded towards me, jumping on my legs and sniffing furiously about.
"Are you ok?" my neighbor asked. "You look like you've see a ghost."
"How is this possible?" I responded. "These things no longer exist!"
My neighbor looked confused and stared blankly at me. The dog continued to bounce around the house as I regained my composure. My neighbor ignored my confusing words. "Your side gate was open, and your dog ran into my yard. I brought him back around, but saw all his stuff on your porch. I thought I might as well pick it all up and bring it back in one trip." He paused while looking at the concern on my face. "Are you alright?"
I wasn't sure what to say. It seemed impossible to me that the dog and all his things would be here now, as they no longer existed. But my neighbor seemed definitive, so I decided to tell him what happened.
"A man I met today said all he had to do was not believe in God, and it was so. I figured all I had to do was not believe in whatever I didn't want, and it too would be gone. And I thought it had worked!"
My neighbor gave me a look of pity, then smiled. "If something exists, my friend," he started, "if it is real, then nothing you or I do can make that thing cease to exist. What's real is real, and if you choose to think otherwise, you are only lying to yourself. It will continue to exist no matter what your mind decides."
At that moment I knew he was right. For all my wishing, all my intent, there was nothing that I could do to make that which was true and real go away. I had been a fool to believe that simply by wishing I could make my dog go away. And I was a bigger fool to think that saying God does not exist would make Him any less sovereign over the whole of creation.
I fell to my knees and began to cry. My spaniel ran over to me and thrust his snout to my face. I held him tightly as tears poured forth. But I knew my tears would soon be dried, for the God I thought I could erase would be there to comfort me. And that was real power.