A Misunderstood Hunter's Tale!

I arrived at the estate long before the sun deigned to creep over the horizon. The headlights of the car had still required full beam right up to the point of turning the engine off. I made sure the interior lights didn't switch on as I opened the driver's door and prepared myself for the considerable physical task ahead of me. Deer stalking in the winter months often requires a determination that would keep most folks from ever trying it. Just getting out of bed at stupid o'clock, dashing silently around the house retrieving gear and unlocking the gun cabinet, before shivering your way to the iced-up car and chattering your way down the first few miles of bleary-eyed road are a string of hurdles that, let's face it, most of us could do without.

But like a moth to the proverbial flame, here I was again.

The physical task ahead of me, without the aid of a steaming brew of tea or a bite of breakfast, was the steep fell side that I had to climb before I started my approach to the woodland. It's not mountaineering by any stretch, but it is a long hike, with around 600ft of stiff ascent up grass, through bracken beds and often negotiating the odd tumbledown of boulders. Iced boulders that is, to go along with the slippery frosted tussocks of grass. All negotiated in the gloom of the pre-dawn, and most importantly, all surmounted silently! I was in pursuit of a red stag and those boys don't have great big ears for no reason. They can detect a human footfall at a truly stunning distance. The galling thing is that they can differentiate effortlessly between me crunching on the bracken stalks and a sheep doing the same. The woolly terrors (sentinels of the fells for all those who try to approach deer with them on patrol) bumble blindly on through the terrain without causing any distress to our cervine quarry, but one slight slip from me, one tiny error in foot placement, and all of my preparation, sleep deprivation and other sufferings will be in vain. The hills and woodlands will be bereft of deer. Guaranteed.

I ascended the hill in true ninja fashion; I swear I must have been floating. Upon arrival at the summit the grey of the dawn was allowing a view over the stunning heather moor and, looking back I could see the frosted Lakeland hills capping a vista that could only be England: patchwork fields, oak woodlands, a silver snake of the river Lune meandering past my village of birth and on to the sea. I was greeted by the "goback, goback, goback" cries of the grouse and a couple of cock pheasants rose out of the ground almost at my feet, giving my heart a lurch it really did not need after the recent exertion. But it was all wonderful. For me, this is fillet steak for my soul. It just cannot be beaten.

I knew where the reds had been lying up, and so I went to the edge of a plantation looking down the steep sides of the wood along a ride between the old forest and a newly planted fir tree section. I stood behind a wall and waited.

And waited.

I heard him before I saw him. A methodical crunch of feet in the frosted fallen oak leaves. But as usual he didn't appear where he was supposed to. The wily brute was adjacent to me rather than below. More importantly he was due south of me, at no more than 50 yards. The wind had been very gentle but consistent, from the north. This was trouble. One whiff of the vile stench of human and he would be off and away at the gallop.

I opened my mouth wide and exhaled slowly. The vapourised air drifted so slowly, but unmistakably, away from the beast. A shift in the wind to just a point west of south! Outstanding. The game, as Sherlock Holmes would say, is afoot!

Then just as suddenly as he appeared he was gone. He was slap bang in my vision not five seconds previously, and then, nothing. I was filled with admiration, not dismay, as an animal weighing at least 250lbs and standing a good 4ft to his shoulder, could blend so marvellously with his surroundings. I strained my eyes for a few moments, then risked raising the binoculars to see through the undergrowth. Nothing.

A minute later he reappeared nearly 80 yards away. Unbelievable. I just made out a movement of those great antlers and there he was in full view, and more importantly, completely unaware of my presence. As he disappeared over the crest of the hillock, I risked it all and climbed over the wall, straining enormously to lower my body silently onto the leaf strewn grass beneath me. I crept along the top of the wood using trees to mask my movement and hoping my floating technique stayed with me.

Ten minutes later I peered through the trees out on to the bracken bed marking the start of the open fell side. I thought I had lost him. I looked around the next spruce tree and bobbed my head up and down to see between the branches.

At 70 yards distant a huge, antler-dominated head stared accusingly back at me. Rumbled! Frozen to the spot I knew the game was up. Any second now he would be off in that superlatively powerful prance of the red stag, away over the horizon and gone forever. Magnificent, majestic, and missed!

But instead he pawed the ground and took two then three paces toward me. Unsure, but half challenging he advanced. Suddenly he was no longer silhouetted on the horizon but was descending the slope back toward the "safety" of the woodland.

This meant I now had a safe backstop for the bullet. On he came purposefully, standing tall and staring. For a second, perhaps two but not more, his view of me was masked by a large tree trunk as he advanced down the slope. It was time enough for me to throw the .30-06 to my shoulder and rest my hand against the same trunk. He appeared again and stood glowering at the unknown interloper.

The sound-moderated rifle gave a muffled bark which surprised him and he trotted a few paces. He stood and looked around. I had already reloaded but the small crimson drip on his shoulder showed a perfect strike. He looked away from me then back towards the woodland that had been his home for the rutting season at least, as if to take in one last view. Then he swayed, the front legs buckled and down he went. Most poignant of all was the plume of exhaled air vapour that shot up into the sky from behind the heather where I knew he lay. His last breath dissipated into the morning blue and he was done.

He looked so much better when he was alive. As a deer manager I am very clinical about how the rest of the story goes, but every time I touch the eye with my sticks (to confirm the beast is dead. It's called the blink test) I always feel a sense of regret. That blued eye, now lifeless, listless and merely  a carcass for the larder, had been so much more exciting as it had stared defiantly at me only moments earlier.

But I still love it. The whole adventure. Does that make me a hypocrite? Am I bloodthirsty? Am I immoral? Do I not care about the suffering of animals?

And what on earth has any of this to do with preaching the gospel of Jesus Christ?

Merely this, for what it's worth. I am passionate about what I do. I go to extraordinary lengths to be good at whatever I do and I do not mind suffering in order to get there. That is how God made me. My passion for the countryside, and for deer stalking in particular, is no more than (indeed it is less than) my passion for the One who died to set me free. If you claim Christ as your Lord and Saviour, allow me to ask you this: are you passionate about Him? Can you not help yourself from talking about Him, no matter who you are with? I don't mean forcing the conversation round to evangelism in a cringing affected sort of way. I mean, does your life and example lend itself to people asking you questions that naturally lead into conversations about who Jesus is in your own life? Moreover, do you spend time in prayer asking God to open up conversations about your faith wherever you go, especially if you are going to encounter non-believers? Or do you pray that no one will notice and hope you can keep your mouth shut.

Sorry friend, that ain't passion! I am not asking everyone to have the same level of passion as me, or to be passionate about the outdoors as I am. What I am asking is that our passion for Jesus should be more than our passion for anything else. If you get excited about football and talk about the game for hours each week, but never mention your faith except for a couple of whispered sentences with friends on a Sunday, then let me tell you friend, you have a problem; and it's a serious one!

Do you find my hunting stories a bit much, rather nasty and having a smell of blood lust to them? I am becoming accustomed to being misunderstood, both in the outdoors, and more usually, from when I have been behind the pulpit. If you are in a similar predicament let me tell you where I am up to on that front.

Are you right before God? Do you sense His pleasure with you? Do you keep short accounts of your sins? If so, then sleep well, and get on with life! I no longer explain myself to folks who want to have a pop at me about hunting, Christianity, or my theological stance on whatever issue, and unless God prompts me to offer explanations I tend to listen to the rant and then move on. The hard bit is being content to live life being misunderstood. The way I do that is to seek only the audience of One. That is not arrogance. It is the opposite, because I no longer see the need to defend myself.

I defend the faith I have in Him, I do not defend me. I often engage in debate, but it is about Him, and it is for His glory and for their salvation or sanctification. It's not about me winning an argument or feeling justified so I feel better about myself; that would be selfish and fleshly. If I am offended by being misunderstood then part of my old self, my flesh as the apostle Paul says, is still alive. The fact is, you cannot offend a dead man! I am beginning to learn that lesson. It still hurts sometimes, but I am gradually starting to enjoy it.

A bit like pushing through the pain of a freezing dawn in order to pursue a worthy goal, for all the right motives. Even if nobody else understands.

The steaks are in the fridge!

What's Your Obsession?

I read on a T-shirt recently, "Obsession is a word used by the lazy to describe those that are dedicated!" Brilliant. Our perspective often colours how we define what it is to be obsessed. For example, some people think I am obsessed because I work out at the gym three times a week. Those in the gym who go there every day might think me lazy. My dedication to deer stalking, when I set my alarm for 2.30 (that's 0230hrs, 2.30 am) could be perceived as obsessive to anyone who has not watched the Roebuck appear out of the half light of the pre-dawn, his foot falls through the dead bracken rendered mute by the resonance of the dawn chorus. My desire to be consistently leading extreme routes on the rock (not yet achieved) is the working of an obsessed mind to some, but to those who warm-up on much harder routes it may well seem tame and even lackadaisical.

So is obsession relative or is there an absolute obsession? And is it always a negative trait?

Now, this guy is a real obsessive, just plain bonkers at times:

At the time this was taken I could have been whistling The Grenadier Guards and dancing a Can-Can and he would not have twitched. You see, he had spotted what we were out looking for: a Roe deer, and nothing, absolutely nothing in the universe was as important as that. He's the same even now, with deer, pheasant or woodcock. The eyes give it all away; nothing else matters.

That's why they are called the "windows of our souls". Our eyes reveal what we really feel, what is really going on inside.

So how does this:

Become this:

I'm not talking about size, of course. I mean, how does that blank gaze into all that lovely new world become a focused stare at the chosen goal of life (look at the eyes of the last shot; even a side view can pick out the laser beam stare!)?

I get my lads to focus on what I teach them is important. I also discourage them from chasing the wrong goals in life. In Maximus's case this was rabbits, in Gunnar's, sheep. I do this because I know what they are bred for, what is latent in their very being, what they are designed to excel at. I also know what will be destructive for them, and what will be truly fulfilling for them.

And I purposefully make them obsessed with pursuing that goal.


Is it wrong of me to inculcate a desire to do one thing above all else, to spend every waking moment (and many of their sleeping ones if you watch them at night) in pursuit of one goal above everything else? Some say it is, forcing my dogs into being hunters when they should be allowed to simply run and play and dash around the fields.


At the risk of seeming opinionated and even blunt, I have to say that that is wrong. It is incorrect, erroneous, fatally flawed and in all, complete mumbo-jumbo. Taking a creature that is specifically bred for a purpose and then not allowing it to fulfil said purpose, indeed, frustrating its innate characteristics by not honing and perfecting their behaviour in order to fulfil its potential, is rather like taking an Aston Martin Vanquish  and using it to tootle down to the shops twice a week to collect groceries, never getting into 3rd gear and absolutely never exceeding the speed limit.

It would be just plain daft. When something is bred and designed for a purpose it should, nay, it must be allowed to realise that purpose, even to the point of seeming obsession.

What are we all designed for? What is our purpose?

As one who follows Jesus Christ, you must know my answer to that by now. We are designed to bring glory to God, to worship Him and Him alone, and to live lives that reflect the life of Jesus Christ to a lost world as He flows freely through each of us, by His Spirit

How are we pursuing that purpose? With total dedication? With absolute commitment? Here is the acid test for those who claim Christ: are those around you, especially those who are unsympathetic to your faith (and I hope there are some of those around you) calling you obsessed? Do they sneer and say you are taking all this Christianity stuff too far? I hope so.

Paul said, "for to me, to live is Christ, and to die is gain" (Philippians 1:21) I don't care how you fudge it, that was an obsessed man. What does it say in the great letter to the Hebrews? ...let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of faith..." (Hebrews 12:1-2). Those eyes must be locked in laser beam stares, just like my pup.

Obsession for a Christian is total dedication to the One who died to set you free. He endured the full wrath of a holy God against sin, and that demands a total commitment to Him. Nothing else matters. It really is as simple as that.

The world will certainly call you obsessed. Unfortunately, so will most of the church, may God forgive them. But the Lord will call you blessed. He will also call you home when you have fought your fight and run your race.

And finally, and I write this with tears, the angelic host will applaud you in to your eternal reward, and as Bunyan wrote in his great work, The Pilgrim's Progress, as Mr Valiant-for-Truth crossed over the river, "all the trumpets sounded on the other side". Great blasts and proclamations of congratulations, of celebration, and of absolute true, eternal joy and satisfaction.

I will teach my lads to be obsessed about what they are designed for. My Saviour will train me in being obsessed about what I am designed for, so that I can achieve all that He has set out for me to do while I am on this race on earth. He knows what is best for me, and I trust Him to fulfil all of that through me. My obsession with Him, is through His dedication to me, and only those on the same race will ever understand. Where do you fit into this?

Blockage Removal

Writer's block is a terrible thing. Those of you out there who have been following my recent ramblings will have probably guessed by now that I have been suffering from just such an episode. Every time I have sat at my desk to pen some pithy lines, describe my recent activities, or merely attempt to communicate a thing or two about my day, I have simply stared into space, or more frustratingly, I have typed a bunch of prose that was simply unworthy of reading. Most of it was barely intelligible and would have been a clear waste of minutes of your lives had any of you had the misfortune of logging on.

The worst of it was that I have been very busy with a whole range of jobs and distractions over the past few weeks. I have had groups out ghyll scrambling, abseiling, rock climbing and walking. I have been out looking for the wonderfully elusive Roebuck, and the young Gunnar has been dazzling me with his trainability and overall giftedness. In church life preaching to the faithful has been exciting and stimulating, and I have had a couple of bookings to talk about my recently published book. I am also going to be teaching for a week at Capernwray Hall at the end of the summer. You can see a preview of this event by clicking here.

So, how do I get over this writer's block? Paradoxically, by writing of course, which sounds glaringly obvious. Even if I write drivel and then delete it, it is important for me to carry on thrashing away at the keyboard. As I realised this, it began to dawn on me that the same is true of other aspects of my life:-

• When I cannot climb a certain grade or type of route I still keep climbing. Sometimes I go elsewhere and have a change of scene, but I still keep going out on the hill.
• When I go out every day for a week and do not see any deer I keep on going out, analysing what aspects of my hunting I may have become sloppy at in order to improve my technique and get back on to the beasts.
• When I swim for a couple of hundred yards in the lake and feel like my lungs are about to explode, I assess what I am doing wrong so that I can get back in to going for a few miles at a time, rather than quitting and going home to a log fire and a cup of tea. I get out there again and push through the problems until I come out of the other side, wiser, more able, and more confident.

In my Christian walk, I find I have seasons of great joy, great revelation and enormous productivity, both personally in my pursuit of holiness and being more Christ-like, and also corporately as I see those around me growing through the ministry of the church and the ministry of preaching that God has given me. At other times I do not see, feel, or experience any of that productivity. Indeed, there are times of great darkness and loneliness, dotted with feelings of isolation, misunderstanding; a sense of worthlessness and a complete lack of success, or so it appears. These are the times of my spiritual "writer's block" and it is important that I see them as such, and rather than give up and retreat to the log fire of my (usually self-pity filled) own little world, I push through this, seeing it as preparation for the next step of maturity in my Christian life.

I wonder if any of you are in such a season as a Christian? Or is it just me and I have just made the massive error of writing in cyberspace that as a minister I have difficult times (good grief Fralick, call yourself a pastor?) Perhaps you do not claim to be a Christian but you can relate to times of drudgery or low points. At least now you can understand that becoming a Christian does not preclude the possibility of having internal struggles and times of feeling deflated. The difference for me as one who follows Jesus, is that I can stand on many promises contained in the Bible. In difficult times, when inspiration has dried up, when trials are coming thick and fast and when my usual skills seem to be failing me or have temporarily left me, I can look at the book of Romans chapter 8 verse 28, which says,
"And we know that God causes all things to work together for good to those who love God, to those who are called according to His purpose." 
That means ALL things, the good, the bad and the ugly things of life. God knows all of our ways, all of our problems and all of our struggles. For those whom He has called He will make everything work out for good. Absolute good. His perfect design and purpose.

Sometimes I despair at my own frailties and failings. I dislike being poor at something that I want to be good at. I dislike intensely that I cannot climb very well, that my body movement is stiff and lacks flair. I am highly irritable when I cannot figure out how to find an elusive deer that I need to cull for the good of the rest of the herd. I become despondent when, as a person who claims to be a writer, I cannot pen a single cohesive sentence in weeks of effort.

And most of all, I am excruciatingly embarrassed as a pastor, when I seem to have little or no spiritual vibrancy or Christian zeal in my life, robbed of joy and even love for a time. However, all of that vibrancy, zeal and joy comes rushing back in when I stand on His word, and refuse to let go of the promises contained therein: "And we know..." It will all work out for good, not because of who I am and what I can or cannot do, but because of who He is and what He has already done! He has paid for all of my failures, wrong doings, sins, crimes or whatever other words you can call them, and He has set my path towards Glory...and He can keep me on that path until the day I see Him face to face and He says, "well done, good and faithful servant..."


That'll do for me. How about you?

Ah, life's not so bad after all, writer's block or not!

Parables of Maximus: Learning Obedience

I have spent a few minutes this morning in "The Pen" with Gunnar. It is the controlled environment from which there is no escape (for him that is) and where I do the nitty-gritty bits of his training. These include, but are not limited to, walking to heel off the lead, sitting at a distance from me (and remaining so until verbally released) and the all important "down" command (where his head must remain on the floor no matter where or how I move), until again, the verbal release command is given. The Pen allows training, unhindered by most external stimuli, and without my having to constantly monitor the area for potential distractions that could destroy all that he has just learned. It's a really good place of education, so long as I keep the sessions short, always watching him for signs of boredom or, more often, impatience. In The Pen he learns to focus on me rather than on the world around him. I become the centre of his world and that is just what I want!

Maximus never had a pen. In fact, the concept of a pen, a place where I was his world, never hit his radar screen for possibly even 18 months after I bought him. The centre of Maximus's world was almost invariably the white bobbing tail of a fleeing rabbit. His enormous natural talent at scenting, flushing and chasing anything from mice to rabbits to pheasants meant that this world was always available to him whenever we went on a walk. It meant that I, in effect, did not exist once that scent had revealed the temptation of the white tail. Maximus's "Pen" soon became the entire countryside, mile after mile of endless playpen; rabbits and pheasants galore! Oh, and a forlorn, leash-carrying owner running for mile after mile after him, trying to avoid the prospect of having to pay the dog warden (again) for the privilege of picking him up at the dog pound the following day (or the day after that). I was never angry of course. Not once. How could I be angry with this:

No, not angry. Livid, incensed, deranged with fury, but never merely angry.

But it was not just rage at disobedience. It was much more the frustration of seeing such a talented dog behave so badly. You see, he knew what I wanted him to do. We both knew that he knew! He would get on a scent, and his tail would suddenly accelerate its wag and his ears would prick up, squaring his already large Spaniel head. As soon as I saw these signals I would blast the "sit" command with the whistle and make towards him with all haste, hand raised with the visual "sit" instruction. All the while he was no more than 15 yards from me. But, alas, all too often came the momentary look, the brief pause as we made eye contact. He would look at me, almost longingly, but then the demons within had their wicked, spiteful way yet again; the demonic, hated (by me) white cotton tail would bounce into view, and that was that: an explosion in the bushes and another defeat for the intrepid gun dog trainer.

All rather stupid really. The solution is so simple. Keep the dog on a lead until you know he is steady. Let him off only occasionally when you are in full control, and where you can almost guarantee there are no fatal distractions. However, my point is not about how to train your dog. It's this (and I know there is a generous dose of anthropomorphising going on here, so humour me, okay?): he wanted to please me, he knew what to do, and he really wanted to do as he was told. His pitiful, apologetic crawls back to me after each indiscretion were most endearing, and for the main part secured my full and unconditional forgiveness. However, he just could not stop reverting to type when temptation reared its head. It was therefore my job, not his, to secure success.

I had to intervene to ensure he overcame his temptations and help him to make the right choice: Obey me. Obey that whistle and ignore what you want to do; that way you get to hunt every day with enormous freedom. Work for me, not for yourself. In fact, if you work for me you get far more game than you ever would if you were self-employed.  I had to see the picture he couldn't, for his long-term benefit. Otherwise we simply could not work together.

Maximus could not possibly understand that, but I knew what was best for him.  So he spent the next five months confined to a lead, in areas almost devoid of game, until I knew he could handle the pressure of his world and still hear my commands above the noise and smells of that deceptive world; the world that promised him chase, thrills and freedom, but only delivered empty promises, never ending further horizons, and utter spent exhaustion with little to show for it at the end.

So you can see where this is going. God will often constrain those who genuinely love Him in order to help them to overcome themselves. They really want to obey but keep failing. God often intervenes to ensure long-term success, even if in the short-term it seems very constraining and even painful. In retrospect, if we are honest, we always see it as a time of closeness, progress, and even joy knowing that His hand, however firm it is on us, is always full of love (my hand on Maximus was not, regrettably, always so loving). The Bible says that even Jesus had to learn obedience. In fact, Hebrews 5:8 says, "although He was a son he learned obedience through the things which He suffered". So even Jesus Christ had to endure suffering to learn obedience. That is theologically mind-blowing, but there it is!

However, there is the other side to all of this. There is a difference between getting it wrong, succumbing to temptation, and those that simply have no interest in obedience unless there is something in it for them. The difference between failing when wanting to please and not caring if you fail is enormous. In fact, it is devastating. The Bible says in Matthew 7 that on the final day there will be those who had a name as believers, who gave lip service to being "gundogs" but who actually never really belonged to the Master. They were never, in fact, real working dogs; never a part of the team. To them He says "Depart from me... I never knew you".  Those that enjoy the world and all it can offer, and who refuse to listen to the master's voice are totally different from those who get it wrong but keep coming back because in their hearts they really do want to serve Him.

Maximus really wanted to be on "my team".  After a good number of months under close restraint, I was able to give him more freedom and eventually, by the age of 2, I had a promising young working dog. By age 3 he had become the stuff of legend (though not all for good reasons: he still got it spectacularly wrong on occasion). Now, at almost 12, he has earned his retirement but his heart will always be to hunt. Like I said in another post, he will certainly finish well. It's who he is.

And part of that is because it is who we have both made him. Together.  And often in times of difficulty.

Do you work for Him?  Or do you work for Him because it suits you, because of what is in it for you, and only on your conditions? Do you refuse to do certain things because "God would never ask me to suffer hardship" or because "that's not the way He works", or because "a loving God never allows a Christian to suffer pain, discomfort, poverty, loneliness, isolation, illness, loss of job, loss of friends, loss of home etc" If you have used these excuses, look at Hebrews 5 and Matthew 7, and then ask yourself, "Does He really know me or am I in danger of being disowned on the final day?

That's a tough message. It needs to be aired out today, especially in the current climate of "me first" and the heresy of prosperity preaching. And if you are in "The Pen" with God at the minute, I have a word for you: Rejoice! It means He is taking the time to make you more like Himself and is preparing you for a truly astonishing adventure; to fulfill all of the potential that He has put within you. Embrace it. Work at it.  Learn to love that constraint, that discipline, even that suffering.

It's worth it!

Parables of Gunnar: Sticking to the Right Trail

Gunnar, my German Wirehaired Pointer has just turned 8 months old. He weighs in at around 25kg now (that's 55lbs to the rest of us) and is going to grow for another 4 months yet. So he's going to be a big strong boy when he's all grown up. Right now he is still all legs and malcoordination. Nevertheless, training has begun in earnest, albeit in very small doses.

His main role will be to track any deer that have been wounded, either by rifle or by road traffic accident, and follow the scent through whatever cover we come across until the animal can be located and dispatched. This avoids leaving wounded animals wandering around the countryside, and most importantly means that deer are not left to suffer and die slowly. I believe that every ethical hunter should either own, or at least have access to a trained deer-tracking dog.

I have been training Gunnar since almost the day he arrived with us, to walk to heel, sit, lie down and stay (stand). These basic commands help us to bond as a team, and if I make the training process a game, keeping sessions short and pleasant, it becomes a fun experience that both of us enjoy. He is doing pretty well with these commands and over time I will have him accompany me into the woods, walking to heel, then sitting and lying down a few yards behind me for increasingly long periods up to, I hope, 45 minutes at a time. This will simulate my deer stalking when I frequently sit and wait alongside an opening in the woods. Gunnar's ability to lie down quietly and not to respond to the report of the rifle will be crucial in the final stages of his training as a deer dog.

           

His most recent training sessions have been slightly different. I have been training him to follow the scent of a wounded deer. How is this replicated? I simply take two of the feet from a recently shot beast and "walk" them through the woods. At the end of the trail I leave one of the feet and the skin for Gunnar to find. Once I know he can follow a short trail, the challenge is then to set the trail over increasingly long distances, ensuring that it goes through the same areas where live, unwounded deer have been moving. Will Gunnar stick to the scent of the dead/wounded beast, or will he be tempted to go off on a trail of a live animal that has passed by earlier in the day? And how on earth can a dog smell the difference between an unwounded and a wounded beast?

The answer to the second question is pure alchemy; I have no idea how he does it, but the dog can follow a trail of a few hundred yards, made purely of hoof slots I have stuck in the ground earlier. I do not splash any blood anywhere; it's just the scent given off by those two hooves. The first question is much easier to explain. He follows the trail I have set because that is what we have practised from the beginning, starting with a 50 yard trail in my garden, accompanied by plenty of encouragement and reward for the right behaviour. Once this has been done a few times he gets the idea that he is meant to follow the trail of a wounded/dead beast and ignore the smell of a live/uninjured one. He also gets the reward of playing with the pelt and eating a foot at the end of it (yum!)

Playtime for Gunnar means a successful training session and a job well done!

So Mr. Preacher, what lessons do I glean from this little snippet? Here are a few:-

• I don't train Gunnar on what he should not follow. I teach him what he is meant to stick to. If I want to stick to the truth of the Bible, I study the Bible, not the errors that have arisen from false teaching.
• Put another way, Gunnar can smell what he is not meant to follow because he is sure of what he is meant to follow. In the same way, I can spot a fake by knowing what is the real, not by studying the false.
• Gunnar is rewarded for getting it right, not punished for getting it wrong. I simply preach the truth so that people can be built up and encouraged in their daily walk. Once I do this, I will hopefully see them spot a fake for themselves. I point out error but I don't spend my life shouting about it.
• Gunnar needs lots of practise so that eventually he will be able to follow a scent that is 48 hours old for distances of several miles. This is nothing short of outstanding, but it is worth pursuing this goal to maximise his potential and help him be all the dog he can be. As Christians we must exercise our minds, our faith and our commitment to God by spending enough time with Him each day so that we will mature in our faith, be able to stick to Him no matter what trials life may throw at us, and be unswerving in our sticking to the truth. We must, by practise, become effectively immune from falling into the traps of false teaching and from those who will preach "another gospel" to us or to those we love. 

I'm sure you get the message. If I train my pup well he will have many years of fun-filled adventures in the woods and hills with me. His reward will be to get to do a job he was bred for, a task that is in his very core. Our reward is to get to worship the One who died to set us free. He knows what is truly fulfilling for us now if we will stick close to Him, and when our time is done we will spend eternity in His presence, free from all sin, pain and grief. It's worth doing the training properly now, for the reward that is waiting for all those who finish well. Don't you think?

Planning for Easter

Variety, spice of life and all that, is the story of my past week. Following the euphoria of last week's royal visit I had to peel myself down from the dizzy heights of being in close proximity (globally speaking) to a royal camp fire and get on with my day-to-day. What I have found increasingly, is that my day-to-day is never quite so predictable as one might think for a country minister. This week I took a client deer stalking, hoping he would be able to take his first beast, then I was attending a course for those wishing to train dogs specifically for deer stalking purposes. After that I had to start planning for a couple of weeks hence when I will be taking a group hill walking for 3 days. Meanwhile, back at the homestead, my girls have started their Easter break from school, and so I have spent today fixing (finally) the zip wire across our garden, so that the landing zone is sufficiently long and high to stop little legs, before they smash into the birch tree that marks a boundary of our home. I thought it best I rectify that little issue before throwing my offspring off the other end of the line.

Ah yes, the Easter break. That should give me a clue as to what to preach about this week end. How do I concentrate on preparing for what is the most important time of the Christian calendar while trying to take care of clients, plan for future clients, get trained so I can provide the best service for said clients, take care of my family, oh and by the way, tend to the needs of my, albeit small, congregation?

To be honest, I have spent little time contemplating Easter this past week. Is that an awful admission for one who claims to be a minister? Should I not be pouring over my Bible, looking at every account of the crucifixion, scrutinising every commentary, so that I can bring something of real portent, a sermon of suitable gravitas to thrill, challenge, encourage and otherwise develop my flock (or should I say, the flock that has been entrusted to me)?

It was in the middle of this kind of mindset that I believe God burst in today and challenged me with a dose of reality. It went something like this:

"You will never exhaust the enormity of my death and resurrection, either on a global scale or on an individual level. Just preach Me, who I am, and those who have ears to hear will be amazed."

Now, that's not really a quote, but I hope you get what I mean. Put another way, as my friend and climbing instructor keeps telling me, "Don't forget, Russell, KISS. Keep it simple, stupid!"

I do not need to dazzle anyone with a new angle on the Easter story; it is simply stunning as it is. The fact that the God of all creation, the one true and living God, so condescended to lay aside all of His power and authority, to become a helpless human, and then to die on a cross to pay the price for the sins of the world, not only that, but far more incredible, He chose to endure the total wrath of Almighty God as full and final settlement of the debt that each and every member of the human race owes, is unfathomable as a concept, and unsearchable in its riches. And yet, this is the wonderful life work of every person who claims Christ. By preaching the simple facts of the Easter story and how it applies to the every day of every human being is a job that no preacher, no not one, could ever exhaust.

Unfortunately we try to "move on" from that all the time. We get "clever" theologically, we get "relevant" relationally, and we get "balanced" spiritually. Jesus never acted cleverly, in the sense that He never tried to outwit people; He never debated at length His theological stance on an issue. He never tried to fit in with those around Him. In fact He stuck out as an oddity wherever He went; He did not fit in  because His home was not here, He was always looking elsewhere to where He truly belonged. By the way, where is your heart's true home?As a great preacher once said, "Are you dead to the world tonight, or does it fascinate you?" And Jesus was perhaps the most unbalanced human being in the history of the world. Indeed the attributes of God rarely come across as balanced. For example, as Judge He will dole out wrath like we have never even dreamt of in our worst nightmares. At the same time He pours out love that says, "while we were yet sinners Christ died for us". That's not balanced; if He weren't God you would call Him insane. I love that my God, my Savour, my King is not balanced; He is reckless in His love, unbridled in His mercy, unfathomable in His grace, and wholly terrifying in His holiness and His hatred, yes His hatred, of evil. All at the same time.

There's a little snippet of the Easter story for you, as I see it at least. It's not refined, it's not clever, but I think it has a spark of life to it. It is also something I can marvel at even while I am out deer stalking, training my pup on a scent trail, fixing a zip wire, or planning tomorrow morning's service.

If you claim Christ today, ask a friend or a neighbour over to church, then invite them to lunch, and talk about how Jesus has changed you forever this year. If you do not claim Christ as the centre of your life, then read the Easter story in the books of Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, and ask God, if He is there, to show up and teach you something about all of this. But hold on to your hat; I have found He loves to respond to such conversations.

Preparing the Way

I am in possession of certain information that has shed light on some very strange activity on our little road these past couple of days.  There are those going about their daily business who are, I believe, completely ignorant of the portent of their activities. I am in fear of elucidating too much in case I am found in my shower a few days hence, having apparently killed myself with three shots to my head, all from different calibre bullets. Nevertheless I will let you in on a secret.

I live on a road of little significance. It is a single track affair for the main part, and merely serves to connect the dozen or so houses along its mile or so length, with the main road connecting two very small towns, more like villages actually. In the four plus years since we moved here I have seen only one council vehicle excepting the excellent weekly waste disposal operatives, (they used to be called dustbin men and I liked them). The one exception was the grit wagon which came for the first time a couple of months ago. It has not returned since.

However, both yesterday and today we have been treated to a visit by a road sweeper. I am not referring to a person armed with broom and bin, but to a large vehicle with scrubbers in front of the wheels, equipped to polish the edges of the road, removing every kind of weed, soil, litter, indeed all traces of detritus from our tiny little road. Why the sudden attention to a thoroughfare so little used, except by the few residents who live along it, plus the visitors to the nearby activity centre?

Because, and keep this to yourselves, we are expecting a visitor this week. Now I cannot divulge much more than this, and I can almost feel the Special Branch crosshairs fixed on me as I type, but I can say, one would need to address this person as, I believe, Your Royal Highness. Unfortunately they are not visiting me personally but I hope to be able to extend a jolly wave as they zip past in vehicle(s) unknown at time as yet also unknown.

But it’s all very hush hush. Only those being visited, myself, and my wife know about this.

Oh, and the BBC. But we know how that stellar organisation is the very soul of discretion.

I doubt very much the guys in the road sweeper have any idea who will be looking at the pristine fruit of their labours. I also doubt whether those viewing it have any idea that the road has been scrubbed just for their benefit. Only those of us in the know have the full picture of course. The way has been prepared for the royal visit. It is obvious to all of us who are expecting it.

Two thousand years ago a bunch of people in Jerusalem were expecting the arrival of royalty. It was their oft prophesied Messiah. When he entered Jerusalem, riding on the colt of a donkey, they all proclaimed, “Hosanna! Blessed is He who comes in the name of the LORD!” A week later the same crowd had Him crucified. Today, those “in the know” are looking for the return of this Messiah. It has been promised, and ever since the New Testament was written, the followers of Jesus Christ have been expecting Him to return imminently. My question is, are we “preparing the way” for His return? Are we behaving as if He might return today, and are we telling people why we are living the way we are living?  Are we trying to live lives pleasing to God each day, making the road clear and straight for His return?

If there is so much attention to detail going into this flying visit by our royalty, how much more detail are the saints of the King of Kings meant to put into preparing the way for His return? If we look at the life of the man who prepared the way for Jesus’ first coming, John the Baptist, he devoted every part of his life to preaching the message of the coming Messiah. He was utterly spent in His service, and immediately after he proclaimed the great line, “Behold the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world” he was taken into prison and beheaded. Talk about being spent for a cause!

Am I willing to be so spent preparing the way for His return? If it is worth polishing the road for the visit of one person, what is it worth doing for the return of the One who paid the ultimate price for all of my wrongdoing, and for “the sins of the world”?

I am looking forward to catching a glimpse of our royal visitor. I just hope the lads don’t mess up the road edges (if you know what I mean) right before someone arrives.I would hate to incur the wrath of the security services on that count.

Here they are at the end of our driveway. All they need are a couple of flags to wave.

So, are there any details in your own life, no matter how small, that need to be cleaned up before the King returns? Imagine for a moment it wasn't some time in the future. It was actually this week. Imagine you knew He was returning tomorrow. Would that change how you lived life today?

Parables of Maximus: Finishing Well

It is almost as if I am starting at the end rather than the beginning. Ever since I took ownership of my English Springer Spaniel I have been aware of myriad lessons that I have learnt from him. That is, lessons I have been taught through him and during my training of him. But as he nears his end (that sounds sad just typing it) I am still beholding to my old friend for yet more life lessons acquired by spending time with my first hunting dog.

Maximus is finally slowing down. A whirlwind from day one, he has been one of the hardest and most athletic working dogs I have ever seen. Even guys who had been on the shooting scene for decades longer than me would smile and shake their heads at his powerhouse approach to flushing birds and his absolute commitment to retrieving those birds which had been downed even in the most inaccessible places. I worked on one shoot where there had been basically a no-go area of incredibly thick cover (brambles, self-seeded saplings and general gnarliness) into which none of their dogs would go or were ever even sent. I asked quite innocently if the 2 birds that were lying dead in the middle of this area were going to be retrieved by someone. The response was a smile and a shrug accompanied by, "We don't send them in there. You can't get birds out of it". I raised my eyebrows and asked if they wanted them. By now the raised eyebrow competition was in full flow on both sides, so I just pointed with my left hand and almost whispered, "fetch it on, good lad!" The explosion that erupted from among the undergrowth was akin to the work of the velociraptors in Jurassic Park (if any of you can remember that unmemorable film). A minute later Maximus appeared, head riving from side to side to rip the brambles from his ears and presented the first of his two retrieves to my hand.

Suffice to say he became a legend in the space of a few minutes. His reputation grew over the following weeks and my serious pride issues were being gluttonously overfed. Fortunately one week he chased a squirrel down the entire beating line and I confess I was too hard on him with my reprimand. This calmed my ego and put a hole in my over-inflated chest. But he was nonetheless a bit of a star at times.

Now he has arthritis in both front legs, one of which still carries the plate and pins from a monstrous break a few years ago, and he is rapidly becoming stone deaf. Weight is falling off him and I fear something is wrong inside which may well be terminal. It's hard to write that about your best friend. So, what am I learning from him, as we go walking in the woods each day and as he tries to avoid the bombastic exuberance of his 6 month-old "little brother", Gunnar?

He is still the same dog, full of enthusiasm and hard-wired to hunting. The fact that he cannot do it anymore hasn't affected his zeal for the job. Every pheasant that calls, every woodcock that flutters off in front of him, and especially every cotton-tailed bunny that bolts out of the rushes, still ignites that inherent passion he has for the hunt. His tail beats a furious figure of eight pattern as his face gets stuffed into the spot where the quarry had just been hiding, deep snuffs and grunts accompanying the investigation into the recently departed game. Then up goes the head and he canters off, following the scent or the sight of the creature that he still knows belongs to him. He seems entirely unconcerned that he can no longer catch them, and with his deafness he cannot even hear the bark of the Roebuck as it signals alarm from as little as 70 or 80 yards away. Only the nose helps him, should the quarry be the right side of the wind. Maximus knows how to grow old. He doesn't regret not doing what he used to; he enjoys doing what he does. And his personality and make-up remain the same; the zeal is still very much intact.

That may sound a little like I am anthropomorphising here, and I probably am. But as I reflect on this, I am struck how we, as humans, and especially those who claim to be Christians, can learn from my old spaniel. One of the most frequently made comments I heard while I was at Bible college (as the oldest one there, by almost 20 years) was this:"how come you are still so full of zeal for God? I am already getting jaded and I am only in my twenties. And all the older guys (thanks a lot!) at my home church are tired and boring. They have lost any spark that they ever had years ago".

Maximus is as enthusiastic, as up for the hunt, as ever before because it is in his blood. It is inherent in his nature and that nature has also been trained on a daily basis for years. As Christians we are meant to be indwelt by the living Jesus Christ; by His very Spirit. Add to that the daily training of a believer, in reading His Word and in prayer, and we have absolutely no excuse to wear out or grow jaded. Of course trials come, of course things can get us down. But if my old spaniel can keep going, full of passion for the hunt, so should we keep pursuing the goal: the upward call of God in Christ Jesus. Broken bones, arthritis, other infirmities, even grief upon grief should not be able to overcome us.

I am not saying it is easy. I am saying it is the guarantee for those who are in Christ, to be able to finish well, no matter what the world, the flesh and the devil may throw at us. I know Maximus will finish well, whether he lives another 3 months or another 3 years. It is who he is. I know I can also finish my own race well, as I rest in the One who gave His life to set me free.

Are you hard-wired to His service, or have you allowed other things to disconnect you from the source that will enable you to finish well?