Passion And Warfare

A light rain was falling this morning when I let Jinx out. I busied myself with my morning routine, and after a while I went to check and see if the spotted menace wanted back inside.

I opened the door and took a breath into my lungs, preparing to call his name. That’s when I saw what looked like a short, medium-sized dog trundle across the front yard, just outside of the reach of the porch light. Then it registered. Coon. A big one. I looked around to see if Jinx was in sight, and then I called with a thin and tentative voice.

“Jinx? Come on in, boy.”

I was hoping he would come to my voice and not sense the coon. My hopes were for naught. I heard Jinx’s growl before I saw him. He came out of the dark woods to my left and arrowed straight at the coon, who was, as my mother would say, pickin’ ’em up and puttin’ ’em down.

I ran to grab a weapon and a light and made it outside just as my dog slammed into the coon, who let go with a roaring squall. They tumbled into the hedgerow-like path of growth beneath a downed fir we call The Bird Tree, and I lost sight of them. The coon obviously got away, because Jinx came out of the brambles and circled towards me, then barked his hunting yelp and tore off in the direction of the pasture on the other side of The Bird Tree. There was little I could do since they were moving fast in the deep dark. I called to my dog a couple of times, shrugged, then went back inside to wait.

About a half-hour later, the spotted menace showed up, standing nonchalantly at the door. I let him in and seized him as soon as I closed the door behind him. I wrestled him to the floor and gave him a thorough look-see from stem to stern, and didn’t find a single wound, not a single mark, not a single drop of blood. I paid particular attention to his snout and face, but they were unmarked. All I could figure was that he had latched onto the coon’s neck or back, causing the cry from the varmint. Then Jinx must have lost purchase on the fur and the critter got away. I haven’t seen too many dogs tie up with an adult coon and come out completely unmarked.

“Well, Coon Dog, looks like you got him told,” I said to my dog.

***

Almost two score years ago today, I stood at attention in a ceremony in my company commander’s office. About two dozen of my buddies were there to see the skipper shake my hand and present me with my Honorable Discharge. Backs were slapped, good-natured insults were exchanged, and then I made my way outside to my car, a few of my best friends walking with me. I got in and tooted the horn, and drove away, waving at the Marines in my rear-view mirror.

At the main gate, I reached down to the floorboard and lifted a pair of battered combat boots by the laces. I slowed as I reached the gate. The two MPs, young acquaintances of mine, were busy waving vehicles aboard the base and checking passes and giving directions, and they didn’t see me at first. I honked, and when the two Marines turned and smiled at me, I tossed the boots at them. They laughed and called, “Semper Fi, Sergeant Orr!” I honked again and waved, and drove off the base, no longer a part of the active duty fraternity of arms.

***

Over at Ann Barnhardt’s blog, what she posted yesterday took up a good portion of my thoughts today. The post contains a physician’s clinical description of the Crucifixion. As I read the piece, I found my throat tightening, and by the time I was done, I had tears in my eyes.

Seventeen years ago, when I was still a Protestant, Mel Gibson’s The Passion of the Christ was released. My wife and I were the only members of our Presbyterian church who expressed interest in seeing the film. The rest of the membership expressed pious horror at the thought of the blatant violation of the Second Commandment, an position that has never made sense to me. The pastor even condemned the film from the pulpit. We went anyway.

I remember the experience as being one of the most wrenching things I had ever seen. I have seen The Passion several times since then, and will likely watch it again as the Easter season approaches. The movie has never lost its power for me. The sheer overwhelming wrongness of what was done to our Lord is what has stayed with me all this time.

And it strikes me that the reaction of the pastor and congregation about this film was very consistent with the atmosphere of that church and of almost all Presbyterian/Reformed congregations I’ve ever encountered. The P&R crowd are a very cerebral, very abstract bunch. They like their crosses empty, their communion wine decanted from a Welch’s bottle, their Jesus soft-voiced and clean-footed. Being forced to confront the graphic nature of what almost certainly happened during the last 24 hours of the life of Jesus of Nazareth would not be something they would do willingly.

I appreciated the doctor’s description of the horror of Golgotha at Miss Barnhardt’s blog very much. It reminded me of some things I should not allow myself to forget.

***

Clear, sunny, warmer skies are forecast for these mountains for the next three days, and we look forward to them. Perhaps our yard will begin to dry out. Perhaps the nicer weather will cause the local coons to gather over breakfast and discuss the demonic spotted wolf who now prowls these woods and fields, and perhaps they will decide to seek other pastures. Perhaps I will say more focused prayers tomorrow. And perhaps the sweet warmth in my heart will stay for just one more day.

~ S.K. Orr