My dog, Loki, ran from me again today. It’s a regular occurrence in my home. When I walk in the door, she will immediately get up from where she is laying and retreat to another room, usually the kitchen, and gaze droopy-eyed at me until I demonstrate to her satisfaction that I am not going to attempt to come any closer to her. She tends to eye me with suspicion, even in the best of times. I promise, I’ve never hurt or abused her in any way. But someone has. At least that’s what we assume. Somewhere in her life some man was mean to this dog, and her instincts have a developed a natural aversion to all men as a result.
There is an exception to this behavior. Whenever I have food that she thinks she might enjoy, her appetite overrules her fear and she risks being close, just in case some delicacy should fall “accidentally” from the table (or my hand). It has been really interesting to watch her competing natural instincts collide as she has to decide between her sense of personal safety and her desire for gastronomically rewarding morsels. I used to think—hope, even—that if I fed her enough treats she would eventually get over her skittishness and warm up to me. So far, no good. It’s been a couple of years now and, although she has calmed down some around me, she still makes it clear that my presence is only tolerated, at best.
The truth is, I should understand this whole instinct thing. I am myself governed by instinct more than I’d care to admit. We all are, I suspect. That pint of ice cream to self-medicate? The quick-tempered tongue lashing directed to someone who offended? The curse word muttered (or, let’s be honest, shouted) after being cut off in traffic? That secret place on the computer know one knows about? The driving desire to be right? Or noticed? These are all automatic responses—either instinctual or baked in over years of repeated practice so that they’ve become the next thing to instinct. Either way, they seem, they are, inescapable. Oh, I don’t mean behaviors can’t change. They can. They do. Even Loki, with enough time and patience and skill, can be trained out of her skittishness. But all that does is replace one instinctual or trained behavior with another. It’s not organic. It’s not a product of free will, of independent, undirected, choice.
For Loki, it can never be otherwise, and for many of us it never becomes otherwise either. But it could, you know. We could be set free to choose. We could escape the cycle of provocation and reaction. In fact, getting us out of that endless cycle is what Christ came to do.
“I have come that they might have life, and that they might have it more abundantly” (John 10:10).
“Whom the Son sets free is free indeed” (John 8:36).
“See, I have set before you life and death . . . Choose life so you and your children may live.” (Deuteronomy 30:19).
When I taught high school bible classes, I would sometimes ask my students this thought question: Why are the Ten Commandments made up almost exclusively of “thou shalt nots”? Why aren’t the commands more positive in nature? You know, thou shalt this and thou shalt that. After a few minutes of discussion, with some really intriguing ideas shared by the students, I would offer my own idea. After stressing to the students that this was just my thought and not to be considered doctrinal in any way, I offered this observation:
When we are born, we are selfish. We have to be. With no way to care for ourselves, we have to depend on others to meet our basic needs. To do that, we have to let our needs be known. Our communications are almost exclusively about ourselves and our needs—I’m wet, I’m hungry, I’m sleepy, I’m hungry again. We are, to begin with, incapable of caring about anyone else and their needs. In fact, we have to be trained out of that behavior by parents, caregivers, teachers, and even society. But even when that training takes place, and even when it is effective, it doesn’t change the heart, only the behavior. We stop grabbing others’ toys, not because we do not want them but because we will be scorned by society and punished if we do.
Christ came to change all that, to “set us free, indeed”. He came to make it possible for us to actually choose life. To choose him. Freely. Not just because we were trained into it, like a circus elephant or dog doing tricks, but because we want to choose that way, we want to love fully. For the person set free from the chains of the sinful nature, from instinctive and cultivated sin, the sky really is the limit. There is no end to the possibilities of that kind of freedom. No set of commands, no list of “do this” or “do that” could begin to cover the infinite possibilities available to those the Son has set free. On the other hand, the opportunities available to those trapped in sin, slaves to their birth nature, are extremely limited. There are only a handful of ways one can serve self. Gluttony, lust, greed, selfishness, indulging bitterness, fear and anger—these few things just about cover it. A short list of a few forbidden behaviors is sufficient to cover all of the ground available to those still in chains to self.
That’s what I told my students. Maybe they understood. Maybe not. Even as I shared the concept, I confess my understanding was lacking. But day by day, and with each passing moment, I’m learning more and more what it means to be free. I’m learning how to exercise my freedom to choose well. I’m learning to love, not just the food that falls to me from the master’s table, but the master whose hand makes sure those blessings keep falling down. I’m learning, in short, what it means to be alive.
