of presidents and huge stuffed dogs

My soul, wait thou only upon God, for my expectation is from him….
Surely men of low degree are vanity, and men of high degree are a lie: to be laid in the balance, they are altogether lighter than vanity. Psalm 62:5,9

When I was six, there was a huge stuffed dog I wanted. I thought that huge stuffed dog perched next to my bed would keep all the nightmares and all the boogey men at bay. I thought having that huge stuffed dog perched next to my bed would give me courage in the morning to walk to school and face off the big kids who always chased and attacked me; that huge stuffed dog would keep Baron, the neighbor’s German shepherd, from chasing me. I could walk in the woods across from our house without fear of the big kids that haunted the pollywog pond, who would threaten to kill the little kids. That huge stuffed dog exuded power over all the traumas of a normal healthy inner-city childhood.

But I never got the huge stuffed dog.

Then, one snowy evening just before Christmas, there he was, downtown, in Barney’s Department Store window. I don’t remember, but cars had to have screeched to a halt as I dropped my mother’s hand and ran for the window across busy Union Street. I don’t remember hitting the window, apparently being knocked out, falling. But somehow we got home, it was determined that all the blood was from my having bitten my lip, and it was decided that I was to take ballet before my clumsiness killed me. (Evidently impulsiveness was not a recognized factor in those days.) But I never got the huge stuffed dog.

The huge stuffed dog, incidentally, cost over $130 at a time when an average house cost about $6,000. The huge stuffed dog today, given an average house cost of $400,000, would cost $8,000.

I am very glad I did not get the huge stuffed dog. I probably would have ascribed talismanic powers to it when I outgrew the nightmares, and when the big kids left me alone because I had a protector among them who was impressed I could spell “xylophone.”

The huge stuffed dog remains a symbol of the false reliance, confidence, and hope that I could easily err in placing in some man of the hour during an election. I’d be running at the window all over again.

A Christian’s citizenship is, presently as well as ultimately, heavenly. The Lord reigns over willing and unwilling subjects alike. But we live also in a particular earthly province of the realm: in my case, the United States. A president is commissioned to oversee this province. I think it is appropriate to take an interest in who this is, and in whether he carries out his commission according to God’s moral law. But it is running at windows to think the president is going to effect the healing of the land from sin and strife. This God alone can do.

Until Ron Paul announced his possible candidacy, I had resigned myself to abstaining from voting in the next presidential election. Unless Ron Paul suddenly betrays the principles he has always upheld, I will be able to vote concionably for him. But I will not ascribe larger-than-life attributes to him, powers and abilities far beyond those of mortal men, or anything else that would make him effective window dressing, as opposed to a defender of the Constitution and our national borders.

It is not a good thing to have a chief executive who governs like a hireling; but nor is it a good thing to have one who believes in a childish delusion that he is larger than life and Lord Protector of the Planet.

I’m clumsy, spiritually as well as physically. My feet slip all the time. But I know who my Savior is and I know who men are, and I know which side I’m on. Pastor Lyon always says important things, and last Sunday he said something to be gripped and held always: “Skill is not sequestered in the domain of grace.” Maybe I changed a word or two, but the idea is intact. We don’t require a Christian president any more than I require a Christian dentist or Christian musicians and composers streaming through internet radio and uplifting my wintry countenance. We require competence and an attitude of service that goes beyond that of a hireling. But not too far beyond.

I do not require of myself detachment from the political process, but discernment and moderation as with everything else. I take my cues of conscience from the Word of God, not from famous authors propounding Christian correctness, not from helpful brethren, though I do consider their opinions. The Puritans were champions of Christian liberty.

I think all of this comes down to the subject of our exaltation: do we exalt men for their extraordinary gifts, or do we exalt the Creator, the triune God, for benefiting his people through these skills that he indeed does not reserve to the domain of grace? A Christian can answer this question without hesitation.