Just two weeks ago, I got myself a job. Working at a place with horses, which I love. Cleaning out stalls, which I love . . . a little less, you might say. Eleven hours a day. Three days a week. But let me tell you, those three days have given me a whole new perspective on the meaning of words like “tired,” “slave,” and, “Ew!”
In the evenings, when my groaning muscles are finally allowed to rest, I’ve taken to reading Jack London’s book, The Sea Wolf. If you’ve read it, you’re probably laughing right now. If you haven’t, well, let’s say it’s not the most light-hearted of stories. The general gist of the tale begins with a rather wimpy American gentlemen finding himself adrift in fog after a shipwreck and getting rescued by none other than the most heartlessly captained seal hunting ship in all the seven seas. Our rather unfortunate gentlemen does not even know how to swim and finds himself without much of a choice other than working for several months on this boat. I’ve found it a bit ironic, reading the descriptions in the book of physical exhaustion, hard labor, and the like, then comparing them with my own experiences at my job. One night I found myself literally unable to lift even a finger without my entire body screaming in protest.
But God taught me something quite unexpected in the midst of all this. He taught me about sensitivity. One notable conversation in The Sea Wolf between our sad American and the fiercely powerful captain runs as follows:
“And you are also,” I (the American) continued, “a man one could not trust in the least thing where it was possible for a selfish interest to intervene?”
“Now you’re beginning to understand,” he (the captain) said, brightening.
“You are a man utterly without what the world calls morals?”
“That’s it.”
“A man of whom to be always afraid-”
“That’s the way to put it.”
“As one is afraid of a snake, or a tiger, or a shark?”
“Now you know me,” he said. “And you know me as I am generally known. Other men call me Wolf.”
Two things struck me in this. One, that this Wolf character held such indisputable power over all those on the ship. In both physical strength and mental intellect, no one could stand up against him. He regarded them with the same detached curiosity with which scientists regard mice in a lab. In this way, the captain’s power reminded me of the power of God.
The second point was what shocked me. For in comparing the character Wolf with the God I know, I was also obliged to contrast them. And while I found the untouchable nature of their strength to be alike, I found their characters wholly different. While Wolf used his power as a rod with which to distance himself from weaker humanity, the God I know uses His strength for just the opposite purpose. In the power of His glory and the potency of His might, God does not draw away. Instead, He chooses to draw near and woo us closer to Him. He uses the strength of His arms to shield us. He uses the mightiness of His name to build a protecting hedge around us. He uses the almighty nature of His character to encircle us with His presence. I’d never thought of the word “sensitive” in terms of God before. But what word could better fit to describe this God Who, in all His raw, irrefutable power, yet delights in singing over us . . . in carrying us in His arms . . . in leading us Home.
All this from shoveling horse manure and reading a book.
