“Beware of dogs…” (Philippians 3:2)
In the time of our Lord and the apostles, dogs were savage, vicious beasts that prowled about in packs, feeding in garbage dumps and attacking defenseless animals. We honor the noble Sanhedrin members Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus for having given our Lord Jesus a decent burial; it was usual for crucified criminals to be left at the sites of their death to be eaten by roaming dogs. St. Paul was followed by fellow Jews and Jewish Christians who tried to upset his gospel preaching by attacking his insistence that Christians need not follow the Hebrew Law and circumcise males. The apostle called them dogs, probably because they never stopped hounding him. St. Paul uses the term for the Jewish teachers at work to suppress the gospel of the Lord, those calling themselves Christians who insist on circumcision and the Law even for Gentiles, those whom Paul insists are liberated from Judaism.
Not by accident does Paul call them “dogs,” which may appear rude and lacking in kindness; but as he was well aware, the Jewish teacher referred to all Gentiles as dogs. He is throwing their own words back at them.
Times change, and with them attitudes to the canine species. I’ve always enjoyed having dogs as pets. When I conjure up memories of my school years, I find it easier to mark the years if I remember what dog I had as a pet at the time. Trying not to appear overly sentimental [but I am], I say what every dog owner knows and cherishes: Your dog is always ready to go for a walk or just sit nearby, or on your lap, if allowed. He will play “fetch” as long as you will throw the object, wait for you to return, ride with you, sense your sadness, or jump and wag his tail when you are happy. Nothing can replace the companionship of a dog.
It happened that I was honored to deliver the eulogy of a cherished friend who happened to be Arab and a bishop. At the requiem there were many from his ethnic background. My theme it seemed to me was appropriate, in that he was a bishop who was both respected and a friend to his clergy, one who was a spiritual leader comfortable enough in his position that he had no need to emphasize his rank and privileges. Big people are like that. It’s the little people who are so insecure that they feel the need to insist on being called by their title, expecting all to rise when they enter and leave a room, and act the role of an oriental potentate. Archbishop Gibran was not like that; in fact, by demanding simple friendship and expressions of equality—shaking hands, hugs, what is taken as normal person-to-person exchanges in the 21st century—he received even more respect than those who play the role in all ways.
I felt it appropriate to equate the relationship between this bishop and his priests with the Biblical analogy of the Good Shepherd who knows His sheep. Beyond the Middle East, shepherds are aided by trained sheep dogs that are skilled at keeping the sheep together, chasing after the strays and leading them back to the flock, and in every way helping the shepherd perform his tasks. But upon drawing that comparison, there was a change in the listeners. I’ve been preaching and teaching for half a century, ample time to sense when I’ve hit on a point acceptable to the audience or on the other hand, as in this case, feel the chill of alienation. I kept going to the end of my presentation, but it was only later on the drive home that it came to me how I had not taken into account the vast difference between the American culture and the Middle East. Who would imagine that the wonderful canines could be thought of in the Biblical sense, as in the above quotation? Nevertheless, that’s just what happened. Regrettably, too late to make amends.