Don't Take the Bait.

One thing I have seen about training dogs, is it definitely has to do with teaching them to stay or come. But also when training it has a lot to do with realizing that a dog is constantly reading the person holding the lead. Long before they respond to your commands, they're paying attention to your attitude. They notice when you're calm, sense when you're nervous, and can tell when you're frustrated, anxious, or angry, often before you've spoken more than a few words. You may think you're hiding what's going on inside, but a dog usually knows better. I've often wondered if that's because dogs aren't nearly as distracted by words as we are. They pay attention to body language, tension, and all the little things that reveal what's really going on beneath the surface.

The truth is, people aren't all that different. We may hide our feelings behind a smile, but eventually our hearts find a way to speak. Whatever fills us on the inside eventually shows up in our words, our actions, and the way we treat other people. That's especially true when we allow offense to settle into our hearts. Offense changes the way we see people, the way we receive correction, and even the way we walk with God.

I was reminded of that one night coon hunting with my grandfather. He drove an old green Ford 70 something model, two-wheel-drive pickup with three-speed on the column and a camper top over the bed. Riding in the back were three hounds, all eager to get to the woods. We hadn't gone very far when old Sam, a Walker hound, decided every mailbox, every passing light, and probably every cricket deserved a warning bark. My grandfather rolled the window down and, in that universal language every dog handler knows, simply said, "You better hush it up."

Sam didn't.

The truck eased over onto the shoulder, and as a little boy my heart sank because I knew exactly what was about to happen. In the Shrader family, it had been my experience that when a vehicle pulls over after you've already been warned, the talking is over. Granddad stepped out, cut a quick switch, opened the camper top, and gave Sam a couple of firm reminders. It wasn't abusive or cruel. It was simply enough to remind him who was in charge.

About forty-five minutes later we reached the hunting spot. The other two hounds hit the ground like they'd been launched from a slingshot, disappearing into the darkness in search of a track. Sam, however, walked about ten yards up the hill, turned around, sat down, and stared at my grandfather. Granddad called him, but Sam never moved. Every time Granddad started toward him, Sam would walk another ten yards, sit back down, and continue staring as if he were making some grand statement. Finally, Granddad got flustered, threw up his hands, and said, "Let's just go. If he wants to stay there and pout, let him pout."

For the next couple of hours, Sam held what may have been the world's first official union strike for coonhounds. While the other dogs were doing exactly what they were supposed to do, Sam spent the entire evening proving a point that nobody but Sam cared about. When we finally returned to the truck, there he sat exactly where we'd left him. He hadn't hunted, hadn't enjoyed the woods, and hadn't accomplished a single thing. He had simply spent the whole night offended. My granddad opened the tailgate and he came right down and hopped in.

As funny as that story is now, it reminds me of how many Christians live exactly like old Sam. Someone hurts us. Someone overlooks us. Someone corrects us. Someone says something they shouldn't have, or perhaps they fail to say something we think they should have. Before long, we aren't just wounded. We're offended.

One of the greatest insights from the book "The Bait of Satan" is found right in its title. A trap only works if there's bait. Satan rarely has to drag someone into bitterness. He simply places offense in front of us and waits to see if we'll pick it up. The frightening part is that offense almost always feels justified. We replay the conversation, rehearse the hurt, build our case, and even look for others to validate our feelings. All the while, the person trapped isn't the one who offended us. It's us.

The book of Esther gives us one of Scripture's clearest pictures of this truth. Haman was the most powerful man in the kingdom next to the king. He had wealth, influence, prestige, and authority that most people could only dream about. Yet one man, Mordecai, refused to bow before him. That single offense became the seed that consumed Haman's heart.

Instead of enjoying the blessings God had allowed him to have, Haman obsessed over the one person who wouldn't honor him. In Esther 5:13 he confessed, "Yet all this is worth nothing to me, so long as I see Mordecai the Jew sitting at the king's gate." Think about that. One offense robbed him of the joy of everything else. His wounded pride turned into bitterness, bitterness grew into hatred, and hatred became a plot not only to kill Mordecai but to destroy an entire nation of innocent people. In the end, Haman was hanged on the very gallows he had built for someone else. The Persians didn't destroy Haman. His offense did.

That's the pattern of the enemy. He rarely destroys a life overnight. He plants a seed of offense, waters it with pride, feeds it with isolation, and patiently waits for it to produce fruit God never intended.

The saddest part is that the person we're offended with often goes on living life while we're the ones sitting on the hillside refusing to hunt. Old Sam probably thought he was punishing my grandfather, but he wasn't. He missed the hunt. He missed the excitement. He missed the chase. Most importantly, he missed doing what he had been created to do. That's exactly what offense does. It convinces us we're making someone else pay, while all along we're the ones missing the joy, peace, and purpose Christ intends for us.

That's why Paul wrote, "Be angry and do not sin; do not let the sun go down on your anger, and give no opportunity to the devil" (Ephesians 4:26-27, ESV). Unforgiveness and offense give the enemy an opportunity, a foothold, an open door into our lives, not because Satan is stronger than God, but because we've chosen to cling to something Christ has called us to surrender.

Peter reminds believers, "Above all, keep loving one another earnestly, since love covers a multitude of sins" (1 Peter 4:8, ESV). Proverbs 19:11 adds, "Good sense makes one slow to anger, and it is his glory to overlook an offense." Overlooking an offense doesn't mean pretending sin never happened. It means refusing to let someone else's actions become the steering wheel of your heart.

I've often wondered if Sam looked back on that hunt and thought he'd won. I know one thing for certain. He never treed a coon sitting on that hillside. Neither will we ever experience the freedom Christ purchased while sitting on the hillside of offense.

Sometimes the greatest victory isn't proving you're right. It's laying the bait on the ground, refusing to step into the trap, extending forgiveness, and following the Master back into the hunt.