Of Dogs and Men

We were in a remote Mexican village. I can't remember or pronounce the name of it. Early in the day we set up our medical supplies and opened our doors to the long line of patiently waiting villagers: a tiny elderly woman with a blanket-shawl wrapped around her shoulders and long, white braids hanging to her waist; a young mother with nursing infant slung around her chest in a shawl and two or three little ones hanging on her skirts and peering around her legs; several 20-something men staring at us cynically beneath their cream cowboy hats; an old man led by his daughter; a mother and her young children who had walked for 2 hours over the mountain to receive medical treatment. The crusade was in full swing quickly, and the buzz of the hair clippers from the beautician melded with the Spanish murmer of consulting doctors and the vibration of the dentists' drill. To one side of the room two evangelists sat with an eager family who, as they waited for their prescriptions to be filled, heard the gospel of Jesus Christ as they never had before. I stood taking down weights and blood pressures; scratching them on an information sheet to be given to the gynecologist or general practitioners.
Suddenly, a shrieking howl erupted from across the room. A small stray dog, one of many, had found his way to our little crusade and had been quietly wending his way through the crowd, tail between his legs, eyes downcast, hardly daring to look up into a human face but hoping, do doubt, to find a few crumbs where all these people had gathered. Finding none, he still stayed in the crowd: cowering in a corner, hiding behind a chair, crouching under a table. The poor thing had been spotted by a mischievous boy, who cornered it and refused to free it. Other boys joined the sport and, when they saw that the little dog was more terrified than hostile, they grew bolder and began to kick it. First in the ribs, then in the backside... then right in the face. Each dull thud of their shoes against the thin animal's bones made me gasp. The animal yelped in terror at first, then simply cringed and tried to huddle in a quiet little ball; hoping that his subservience would satisfy the boys and make them tire of the sport. Again and a gain they kicked him and though I expected the little dog to lunge at them, he never did. People in the crowd looked with mild amusement at the boys and their toy, but no one tried to stop them. I looked away, eventually, because I knew I wouldn't be able to watch without interfering and we had been told not to draw attention to ourselves as Americans. Finally the little dog stumbled on visibly shaking legs to a safe chair to hide behind; the chair of the evangelist sharing the gospel with a few villagers... and there he huddled until he fell asleep.
I was furious; I mean literally, shaking with indignation. Knowing that this was not my culture and I was already looked on with suspicion, I didn't say a word or lift a finger to stop the boys. But in my heart I was disgusted by their vicious teasing of an animal that was obviously gentle and helpless; weak and half-starved already. Oh I know that America is full of animal rights activists who will imprison a man for killing a kitten and spend thousands of dollars to save a beached whale. And part of me wondered if my anger was because I come from such an extreme culture where animals are placed almost on a pedestal with humans. But no; though I'm a self-professed animal lover, I don't give them a higher importance than they deserve. An animal is an animal, and man is a man. But hasn't God given men the charge of caring for and keeping the world, including the animals? And though not every stray in Mexico can (or should) find a home and be fed and cared for, don't the harmless, gentle ones at least deserve to be left alone in their miserable existence?
Another villager came to my table to have her blood pressure taken and her weight read. She smiled at me shyly and I realized that my lips were still pinched and my eyes were still angry. Consciously, I smiled broadly at her and tried a few of my Spanish phrases as I sat her down, put the cuff around her arm and began to pump. I studied her tiny frame and her calloused hands, her smooth brown skin and gentle dark eyes, and the filthy sandled feet that had probably walked for miles to receive medical care. Soon, she would probably hear the gospel for the first time. Suddenly a story seemed to pop into my mind; a story of Jesus from Luke 13:

Now he was teaching in one of the synagogues on the Sabbath. And there was a woman who had had a disabling spirit for eighteen years. She was bent over and could not fully straighten herself. When Jesus saw her, he called her over and said to her, “Woman, you are freed from your disability.” And he laid his hands on her, and immediately she was made straight, and she glorified God. But the ruler of the synagogue, indignant because Jesus had healed on the Sabbath, said to the people, “There are six days in which work ought to be done. Come on those days and be healed, and not on the Sabbath day.” Then the Lord answered him, “You hypocrites! Does not each of you on the Sabbath untie his ox or his donkey from the manger and lead it away to water it? 16 And ought not this woman, a daughter of Abraham whom Satan bound for eighteen years, be loosed from this bond on the Sabbath day?” As he said these things, all his adversaries were put to shame, and all the people rejoiced at all the glorious things that were done by him.

My eyesight was broadened as I thought of Jesus' analogy. Jesus' perspective, always so eternal. Mine, always so temporal. Oh, the compassion in His heart for the wounded woman in Israel! You can FEEL it in this story. A thirsty donkey that can not reach water insights pity from a good owner... how much more does a woman who can not access medical care or, even MORE, any woman or man who has no access to the freeing power of the gospel of Jesus!? Daily, God looks down at this fallen world and sees men and women tormented by Satan just for the sport of it. Satan makes their lives miserable and causes them to choose destructive lifestyles and paths that lead to ruin and torment on earth and in eternity. Just like those little boys, harming the dog for sport, Satan delights in destroying lives and damning souls for the sport of it. The sight of a mistreated animal aroused such indignation and anger in me? Suddenly, my eyes were opened and I saw the broader picture of what Jesus must feel when He sees the enemy tormenting His creation; treating His beautiful children like some toy to be destroyed for the sport of it. I multiplied my anger by thousandths and realized that the wrath of God towards sin must burn as fiercely as hell.
I lifted eyes to gaze at the people around me whose access to the gospel has been so restricted, and my heart bled with compassion for them... like sheep having no shepherd. Like a wounded dog tormented by the village boys. Like a thirsty beast of burden that cannot untie itself to find a drink.

Dr. Escamilla prays for a patient after giving medical care

When will our perspective become God's? Will we see the masses of humanity starving for the Bread of Life, thirsting for the Living Water, and shake ourselves from our apathy long enough to do something about it? Will we let our hearts burn with compassion as God's does? Will I burn with the same anger towards sin and Satan, tormenting souls and ruining lives, that I did towards the little village boys, tormenting and hurting a little dog? Will I give my life to see men free from the power of sin, glorifying God with their healed hearts and lives? The harvest is SO RIPE! Men are dying daily without ever having heard of the freedom and love of Jesus: what are YOU, what am I planning to do about it? What are we giving our lives for? When it's all said and done, how will the plans we are creating for ourselves matter in GOD'S EYES? What will we have to show for this brief instant, this great privilege of life that God has given us on earth?

The next morning, I saved a little bit of my corn tortilla from breakfast, and threw it to the little dog when I had a chance; when no one was looking. To me he was a symbol and my perspective had been broadened and deepened from the drama the day before. I prayed that just as the dog had a little nourishment from me that morning, the people would be fed with the living food that would nourish their souls.

Open my eyes, Jesus, to see as you see.