I have had more conversations with strangers in the past week than I have had all year. Or at least, it feels like it. I’m looking after an unbearably cute puppy right now, and there’s something about him that lifts the heads and lightens up the eyes of even the most determined rushing commuter as they stride past the church. Of course, most of the interactions I’ve had so far, all the attention has been on Max, the teddy-bear-like German Shepherd, but occasionally the conversation strays and even deepens and a number of erstwhile strangers are suddenly opening up.
Some tell of memories of family pets past, others of companionship and loyalty, they ask about me, my work, my faith. I ask them the same. The conversation flows. A few tell me they might pop into church at some point soon. Max is a brilliant evangelist. Not by forcing it, or by barking on the street corner about heaven and hell, but simply by being himself, affectionate, welcoming, warm, and obediently loving.
Others do walk right past. Either they don’t notice Max, or they don’t realise how much love he has to give, or they’re actually just scared. He never gets tired of making new friends. But perhaps they’ve had bad experiences with dogs in the past, perhaps someone they know has, and actually the last thing they want is to stop and be with Max. I don’t force the introduction, but I never say no if someone asks.
As I approach my training for ordination, beginning this September, I wonder whether the clerical-dog-collar I will eventually wear will be as welcoming and endearing. Or rather, whether I, as the one wearing it, will be as abundantly loving, warm, and authentic. I certainly hope so. Maybe then people will experience a glimpse of God’s love through me, maybe those who are scared or hurt, might just stop for a moment and experience God’s love.
Jolley Gosnold
