Looking for Failure Matthew 8

Have you ever been hoodooed? If you're not from the mountains, that probably needs translating. Around here, being hoodooed means you've been bamboozled, flimflammed, shafted, shanghaied, or just plain outsmarted by somebody who knew exactly what they were doing while you were still trying to figure out which end was up. It ain't much fun, and I can tell you from experience it can make for a mighty long day.

Several years ago we loaded up before daylight and headed to a competition squirrel hunt about five hours from home. We were excited, swapping stories all the way there about dogs we'd owned, squirrels we'd missed, and naturally every dog in our truck had heard my quote before each cast “Today we become Champions”. I had old Tyge with me that day. Tyge was one of those dogs who could either hunt like the Lord Himself had whispered squirrel locations into his ear, or his crazy gene kick in something spook him and he'd forgotten why we came to the woods in the first place. There wasn't much middle ground. I was praying we'd get the good version of Tyge and not the one who occasionally acted like he needed puppy Prozac.

When we got to the hunt there was a good crowd, and I drew a three-dog cast. One fellow in my cast was serving as the guide because he was from the area and knew the hunting land. He was also handling a young dog for another gentleman, which wasn't unusual. Lots of folks let experienced handlers hunt their younger dogs to get them some competition experience. He told us we'd have to drive another twenty or thirty minutes to get to the woods. That sounded fine to us because we had no earthly idea where we were, so we simply fell in line behind his truck.

After winding around back roads for what seemed like forever, he hit his turn signal and eased into a little patch of woods. I looked out the window, then looked again. If there had ever been a squirrel living there, he'd either starved to death or packed his bags years earlier. It looked like the timber had been cut several years before, and the biggest tree standing probably wouldn't have made enough firewood to heat a pup tent. The guide jumped out smiling and said, "This is it, boys. It gets better farther back."

Now I've learned something over the years. Anytime somebody says, "It gets better farther back," your ears ought to perk up. If you're talking about Grandma's chocolate pie on the last table a church dinner, that's wonderful. If you're talking about squirrel woods, you might want to start asking questions.

Still, we trusted the local fellow. We unsnapped the dogs and turned them loose. Tyge and another dog blasted off like they had somewhere important to be, while the guide's young dog wandered off in another direction looking about as confused as the rest of us. We hunted for the next two hours, and I honestly don't remember ever hearing so much silence in the woods. We never treed a squirrel because there weren't any squirrels to bark at. We didn't see one running through the treetops, hear one cutting hickory nuts, or even spot a tail disappearing around a tree. There wasn't an acorn on the ground, no hickory trees worth mentioning, and about halfway through the hunt I started wondering if we'd accidentally crossed into the Mojave Desert.

By the time we dragged ourselves back to the trucks with sore feet and empty scorecards, I finally figured out what had happened. We'd been hoodooed. This wasn't an elimination hunt where you advanced to another round. One round hunter with most points took home the whole thing. The fellow who owned that young dog didn't need to beat us in the woods. He just needed to make sure we never had a chance. So he'd sent us to the squirrel desert with his young dog and his buddy, wasting our hunt while giving his dog a better opportunity somewhere else. Five hours of driving, miles of walking, and enough sweat to fill a birdbath, all because somebody came to that hunt hoping someone else would fail. I'll give him credit for one thing. It was a dirty trick, but it was well planned.

That hunt came back to my mind years later while I was standing with one of the finest bird dog trainers I've ever met. He was working someone else's dog, and I couldn't get over the confidence that dog had. He wasn't nervous or afraid of making a mistake. He trusted the man, he'd learned his handler wasn't trying to embarrass him. Curious, I asked the trainer if he ever intentionally tried to make a dog fail just to expose its weaknesses. He smiled and said something I'll never forget.

"I never try to make one fail. I just put him in real-life situations and watch what happens. If he needs correcting, we'll correct it. But I never set one up to fail."

That simple statement has rattled around in my head ever since because it revealed two completely different kinds of hearts. One man led us into the squirrel desert hoping we'd lose. The other spent his life helping dogs succeed. One was looking for failure. The other was looking for growth.

As I read Mark chapter 8 the other morning, those two men immediately came to mind. The Pharisees approached Jesus demanding another sign from heaven. At first glance that almost sounds reasonable until you remember everything they had already seen. Blind eyes had been opened. The lame were walking. Demons had been cast out. Thousands had been fed with a few loaves and fish. The evidence wasn't lacking. Their willingness to believe was. Mark tells us Jesus sighed deeply in His spirit before refusing their request because He already knew their hearts. They weren't sincerely searching for truth. They were hoping He would fail. No miracle would have satisfied them because they had already decided what they wanted to believe. They weren't looking for the Messiah. They were looking for a reason to reject Him.

Gideon also asked God for a sign, but his heart couldn't have been more different. Gideon wasn't trying to prove God wrong. He simply wanted to be certain he was following the Lord's will. That's the difference between seeking faith and doubting faith. Seeking faith says, "Lord, wherever the truth leads, that's where I'll go." Doubting faith says, "I've already made up my mind, and nothing You show me is going to change it."

Jesus said in Matthew 7:7, "Seek, and ye shall find." He never said, "Try to prove Me wrong." God has never been threatened by honest questions. Read the Psalms. Read Job. Read about Thomas after the resurrection. God welcomes people who sincerely seek Him. What He confronts is a heart that has already written the verdict before hearing the evidence.

I've noticed through the years that two people can sit in the same church, hear the same sermon, watch the same changed lives, and walk away with completely different conclusions. The difference usually isn't the evidence. It's what each person came looking for. One comes looking for Christ. The other comes looking for excuses or flaws. Just like when I walk through the store I walked right past something called almond milk that is supposed to be healthy because I was looking for butter pecan ice cream, when eyes are searching for something else, we usually find what we're looking for.

I still think about those two men from time to time. One took us to the squirrel desert hoping we'd fail. The other quietly smiled and said, "I never try to make one fail." Aren't you thankful our Heavenly Father is far more like the trainer than the guide? James reminds us that God tempts no one with evil. He isn't standing in heaven hoping we'll stumble. Instead, He patiently walks with us through the real woods of life, teaching us, correcting us, and shaping us into what He wants us to become.

So let me leave you with one question. When you open your Bible, when you bow your head to pray, and when you come to Jesus, what are you really looking for? Because if you seek Him, He promises you'll find Him.

"My help cometh from the LORD, which made heaven and earth." Psalm 121:2