Thirsty As A Moose

The stag at eve had drunk his fill
Where danced the moon on somebody’s rill
And deep his midnight lair had laid
In lone Glen someplace’s something shade…

I can’t remember that poem.

It’s something I read in an English Lit class way back in the dark ages. As best I can remember, dogs chased down the stag and killed it while hunters on horseback blew horns and followed the howling pack.

I have never seen a stag — although I often feel like the one in the poem.

I got to thinking about this poor beast yesterday following a conversation with my friend Wes. We’d been talking about religious revival, that is a manifestation of God among people with little, if any, human leadership.

On one hand, it’s something I long to see; on the other hand, I dread an encounter with such raw holiness.

After Wes went home, I realized what our conversation had been about.

That happens to me a lot, I often think of just what to say — an hour or two later.

While our conversation was going on, we were a bit at loggerheads because I was not making myself clear at all. In reviewing the conversation in my mind, I realized that I’d come across as demanding some kind of miracle from God.

A personal burning bush, a Red Sea parting, fire falling from Heaven, a ring-side seat to watch the stone roll away.

Wes assured me in the words of Jesus that it is an evil and adulterous generation that seeks a sign.

He reminded me of the dead rich man in Hell and the dead beggar in Abraham’s Bosom. The rich man, concerned for his brothers, wanted the beggar to go back to warn them. But Abraham said, that they have the Scriptures and that if they do not believe Moses and the Prophets, they would not believe even if one rose from the dead.

What that boils down to is I get no sign from Heaven and I’m forbidden to commit adultery on Earth.

Raw deal.

Rats!

Cain’t have no fun nowhere.

I kept saying I wish to see a supernatural element in my daily life.

Wes kept saying that believing the Scripture is sufficient for life and godliness.

I believe the Scripture, but I want to see God at work here and now, not there and then, in my daily life as an affirmation of what I already believe.

Wes assures me that I’m unlikely to see a miracle.

By their very nature, miracles are unusual.

Wes said the basis of our Christianity is the authority of the Word of God; if we trust subjective experiences then we tend to base our faith on personal experience rather that that sure foundation. Personal experience may reflect the state of our digestion rather than the state of our soul.

Wes explained my spiritual anguish as a case of imagining what an ideal god would be like, then being disappointed that such a god does not exist.

“And you’re right,” Wes said, “Such a god does not exist. It’s imaginary in the first place”.

He said our only sure knowledge of God comes from God’s revelation of Himself in the Bible.

After Wes went home, that bit of poetry about the stag began to run through my mind. Haven’t thought of that poem, whatever it is, since tenth grade. But my mind linked that line about the stag to a verse of Scripture in Psalms about a hart.

(A hart, like a stag, is a kind of deer. I’ve never seen one out loose.)

The Psalm says:

As the hart panteth after the water brooks,
So panteth my soul after Thee, O God.
My soul thirsteth for God,
For the living God.

That’s what I’d been trying to say all morning!

I do not yearn for miracles.

If I saw a burning bush, I’d grab a fire extinguisher. If I saw Saint Bambi’s image on my slice of pizza, I’d eat her up in a minute. (Ain’t sharing my pepperoni with anybody). I’d complain about having to gut, head and scale a miraculous draught of fishes.

I have no use for miracles.

What I long for, what I yearn for, what I desire most, what I pant after is the Living God in my life.

Nothing less will quench my thirst.

Nothing less will quite my heart.

Nothing less will satisfy my hunger.

As the hart panteth after the water brooks…

But I’m not finding any water brooks recently. I’ve never seen a stag, nor a hart either for that matter.

Saw a moose once — does that count?

The moose I saw was not nearly as impressive as the one in this photo taken by my e-friend Karen on her recent trip from England to Canada:

So, for me

No stag.

No hart.

No moose.

No Miracle.

I guess I’ll just have to keep believing the plain ol black and white print of the Bible. —— Lord, I believe; help Thou my unbelief…

As the hart panteth…

P.S. — Last night at a Neighborhood Crime Watch meeting, the group suddenly, unexpectedly, elected me as coordinator. We’ll see what happens.