You, too, can rip off a devotion.

Tonight I need to provide a brief devotion before committees meet to work on their budgets. I know almost nothing about how the committees work in New Congregation, not to mention how the whole (apparently enormously complicated) budget process goes. But, given the assignment of Emmaus for this Sunday, and given the fact that the devotional reading needs to be pretty short (and then add the third fact that I don't have much time for this after today's marathon o' other meetings), I am doing the classic pastor move:

I am stealing someone else's devotion.

But I think this is such a brilliant piece of writing that I have no qualms about sharing it, being perfectly up-front that I have not written it. I found it here (you have to scroll down to the bottom to find it), but it was originally written by David Westerberg, and printed in Valparaiso's journal, The Cresset, in 1997. And thus having discharged my duties of properly crediting where credit is due (though the note about the title at the end is my addition), I bring you the following:

There is a fuzzy tract called "Footprints" that has been around since I can remember. One can get a copy of it at most Christian bookstores framed, postered, bookmarked or on a coffee mug. The message has always made me ill at ease. For those of you who have never read this little parable, the story goes like this: A person looks back on the beach that is his/her life and sees two sets of footprints most of the time; one is his/her own and one is God's. During rough times he/she only sees one set of footprints and moans that this is when God has abandoned him/her. "No, chides God, "that is when I carried you." If, as I do, you find this message off the mark, then maybe, this is your story.

In Texas, before the age of trucks and trailers, ranchers were continually faced with the problem of retrieving strays. Cattle would wander off and become too confused to find their herd. Horses spending the winter in pasture made themselves scarce when they got wind of the fact that spring had arrived and it was time to get back to work. And because the terrain was so vast and so rough, and the animals so stubborn, it wasn't practical to have a man on horseback spend two days helping just one animal to get home.

So, smart ranchers enlisted the help of a donkey or burro. A well-treated, well fed burro loves to be home. Taken from there to a lesser place, he will find a way to return, and nothing short of bullets can stop him. Burros are alarmingly smart, hopelessly single-minded, and brutally strong. I submit that if you can hold on to the rope in your hands when the burro on the other end of it decides to leave, he will drag you to where he wants to be. There is no debate. There is little concern for your fussing. A donkey on a mission is a beast obsessed. So, if you are a rancher with a few well-treated burros, your problems with stray animals are pretty much solved. You locate the stray, put a length of rope around its neck and attach the other end to a homeward bound donkey. It may take a few days. It won't be pretty. The larger animal will look a little haggard after the trip. But the donkey will come home, and the stray will be with him. Period.

It is this version of the story of life as a walk with God that I see. Ours is a rough trail, made grueling by our own resistance. We fuss and moan and kick and scream. We try to get away and give up. We seek distraction at every turn. We attempt to undermine the very ones who would help us. We want to be spared our troubles, to be carried by God, but God does not excuse and does not carry. We must walk our own way home, and stand to face our troubles as we go, never alone, but as one with God who is not impressed by obstacles, who will not let us turn away. And maybe there are some who see in their own lives a time of pain and trouble so traumatic that when they look back they see themselves then as helpless passengers in the arms of God. But the Amazing Grace that saves a wretch like me is the Relentless God who pulls and yanks and hauls and drags and wonders why on earth I resist progress so often and so vigorously. Mine is a donkey, bound fast to me, and with or without my enthusiasm, He is headed home.

Oh - and if you ever use this devotion, be sure to save the best part for last: the title of this piece.

The Leashed Among You.