Sabbath, or Fra Lupo Lupi

Today was a good Sabbath for me and the boys. Poor Melissa was back in the clinic. I had some things I guess I could have done, productive things, but it seemed important to take this time, and it was well-rewarded.

A nurse who is very fond of Melissa gave us some passes to Kentucky Kingdom, so we rode some kid rides in the morning. When we got home, the boys and I napped. Then Melissa came home and we sat in the garage (she can't be in the sun much) and talked to her. The boys played and then asked if we could go to the clay bank, where we have not been in a while. So we got into old clothes and headed down to the creek.

They know the way. You go past the dog-leg and turn at Joe-Joe's Drum. It's a big tank my brother-in-law scavenged so he can one day make a smoker out of it. We bang on it and it bellows all thru the woods. While we were down at the creek, Joe banged on it, and it really sounded like the natives were restless.

As we were fiddling with clay and finding more veins of it (if that's the right word), talk turned to theology. That's a rare commodity in my line of work. I mean, I guess we talk about it a lot, but so often it comes down to proving this or that point, or adopting this or that measure. It seems that you always have to be "on," as if there were some contest going on, or we're all scrutinizing each other. It is rarely unburdened from purpose to the point where it becomes a simple sharing of Christ and His life in us.

Joe I guess started it by talking about how all Adam and Eve had to do was not eat from "that one tree." "Why did that devil do that, daddy?" Joe asked. What do you say? "Is the devil mean?"

"Yes," I answered. "He wants people to hurt and kill each other, and he makes sickness and death."

"Why?"

"Because he wants to hurt God. He knows he can't win, so he tries to go after God's children. It's like this: I would rather die than anything happen to you boys." I was getting nervous. They were into the deep stuff, and I feared lest I say something that could warp future frames of reference. But they got it. John even going so far as to say, "The devil is the king of the people who killed Jesus." My, my; that is going to go deep one day. As Charles Wesley wrote, "Died He for me, who caused His pain? For me, who Him to death pursued?"

John had huge chunks of clay that he was molding to a rock. He kept saying he was making the Word of God. I wasn't sure what he meant. After some heavy rains recently, the ground above the creek bed had some nice mounds of new dirt, just wonderfully rich earth-smelling stuff. I told John about how in bottomlands, the dirt that is left behind is so rich; that's why there's such huge farms in Mississippi, a place they are fascinated with because they know it means so much to me.

Then John took some of the dirt. "I am going to dough this into my clay." He started sprinkling it all over the "sculpture" and then pressed it in.

"Why are you calling it the Word of God?" I asked.

"Because God made Adam and Eve from dirt. He didn't use tools or concreke [as he says]. He just said it." Man, now that is abstraction. I was not sure what to say except, "Praise the Lord."

The Little Seminary is in effect. But it takes lots of teachers. John and Joe have had and have some good ones who teach them all kinds of things. The talking about God is natural with them. And as we were leaving, John said, like the time we talked about clover, "I know a prayer we can pray:

Bless us O Lord, as we leave here,
wrap us in your loving care,
guide our footsteps, show the way,
keep us safe we pray."

I have on two occasions had the chance to preach to the animals. Once, about 3 years ago, a spike buck came down the hill, walked across the creek and came to me on the deck at the creek, all the while that I preached-- and many of you know how much I move around. I led him out of the woods and he ate from my hands.

Maybe two months ago a similar thing happened. But this time a squirrel and two chipmunks and two bucks listened. The squirrel and chipmunks darting around not two feet away and the bucks just coming slowly down the creek, grazing and drinking. The does ran away.

Perhaps it is too mystical for some to hear, but why should we be surprised that the animals know the Word that made them and the Spirit that sustains them? I long to hear it that way, to trust it beyond its difficulty.