WHAT TO DO WHEN YOU’VE KICKED YOUR DOG

An article I read about lowering graduation requirements made me think of a mentally deficient beagle I once owned and the night I lost my religion and became a hypocritical preacher. In my beginning years of preaching, when on the subject of sanctification (being made like Christ), I would name different things a person just won’t do if he really has the goods, is sanctified. Starting each declaration with “If you are sanctified, you won’t…., I would get on a rhetoric roll and state, “If you are sanctified, you won’t kick your dog.” Now, at that time, all my life I had beagles for hunting. I had gotten a new beagle that had absolutely no smarts. He loved to bark at night. Over and over, I’d have to get up in the night to quieten him. First, I would try opening the back door and yell-whisper, “Quit.” That only incited him to more barking. That left me to resort to the next step in dog discipline--the rolled-up newspaper. Before you judge me too harshly, that was almost 37 years ago when that was an accepted manner of disciplining a pet. Also, a loosely rolled paper, when applied, only startled and didn’t hurt the animal. You know it had to be a long time ago since there was a newspaper on hand. If you're contemplating reporting me, what I did is past the statute of limitations. Back to that night; around 2 a.m., I rolled my newspaper, and traipsed down the back stairs and across the backyard to where the dog was leashed to its house. I gave it a few swats with the rolled newspaper and, since the dog went silent, turned to go back into the house. I hadn’t taken but a step or two when the dog started yapping again. I whirled about and repeat the dose of discipline. The dog stopped. I turned and took a step. The dog started yapping again. This was repeated over and over. Many nights the dog finally would stop, but not this night. After numerous futile repeats of the procedure, something snapped in my sleep-deprived mind. I wheeled around back to the yapping dog and instead of engaging the newspaper, with my foot I caught the dog under its belly, lifted it, and launched it through the air. When it landed, it yelped and ran into its house. As I turned to walk away, relief that the dog finally went silent was only beginning to settle down on me when I heard the words of my preaching, “If you are sanctified, you will stop kicking your dog.” The conviction was heavy. I could have argued that I hadn’t actually kicked my dog. I had only catapulted him, but I knew the dog nor my conscience would appreciate the difference. So, what did I do? Fall down and cry out for forgiveness pledging never to kick my dog again? No. I simply determined to leave out that line, “…you won’t kick your dog” the next time I preached on sanctification. Not really. Feeling hypocritical, I never did preach that again. But I did use this story to illustrate a truth God taught me that night: When one’s experience falls short of his belief, it is easier to change his belief to accommodate the insufficiency of his experience than it is to get his experience back up to the level of his belief. It was easier to quit believing, if one is sanctified, he won’t kick his dog than to stop kicking the dog. How does the article on graduation requirements remind me of all this? Because the article reported the school officials’ intentions to lower the graduation requirements in order that more students might graduate. Lowering the standard was easier than getting the students to meet the requirements. So many Christians today have found their experience and walk fallen way below what they have professed to believe. Rather than endeavoring to get their experience back in line with what they believe, they simply alter their belief to coincide with their present experience. They lower the standard and deceive themselves into believing they are still graduating. So many examples of this could be given, but there is no space. There is only enough room left to tell you that, no, I never kicked my dog again. I just don't own a dog. --Pastor Clifford Hurst