You’re Gonna Need Them Hides

Some stories, you know the fellow personally. Other stories, you know a fellow who knows a fellow.

This is one of those.

A buddy told me about an older gentleman who had coon hunted when he was younger and had always wanted to get back into it. Eventually, the kids grew up, work slowed down a little, and he decided it was time to buy himself a dog.

Now, this gentleman was careful with his money.

And by “careful,” I mean he could stretch a dollar bill until you could put fitted corners on it and cover a king-size mattress.

He wanted a good coon dog. He just wanted one priced like a dog that had never heard of a coon. After looking around, he finally found something within his budget. On the outside, that hound looked the part. Good ears, good build, and the kind of face that belonged on the side of a hunting magazine.

The first night in the woods, that hound wouldn’t get out from under his feet. Everywhere the old man stepped, there stood the dog.

He hadn’t bought a coon dog. He’d bought a house slipper with ears.

Thinking maybe the dog needed a little encouragement, he got hold of a caged coon and brought it around. That hound looked at the coon like a man looking at a church workday announcement—hoping somebody else would handle it.

No barking. No excitement. No interest whatsoever. The old man realized he had gotten exactly what he paid for.

But remember, this fellow wasn’t about to lose money if there was any possible way around it.

So he told some hunting buddies he would give them a dollar apiece for any coons they brought him. Before long, he had collected twelve.

He skinned them, stretched the hides on boards, and hung them on an old building right beside that dog’s house.

A few days later, a fellow drove by, slowed down, then backed up.

“Those all this year’s coons?”

“Yes, sir,” the old man answered.

The fellow looked at the hides, then looked at the dog.

“Mighty fine dog you’ve got there.”

The old man shrugged.

“I’ve had better when I was younger.”

Well, that really got the visitor interested. If this wasn’t his best dog, he figured the man must have owned some that could tree a coon during Sunday school and be back before preaching.

“Is he for sale?”

“All my dogs are for sale.”

They talked a while, settled on a price, and before long, that old man had made himself a hundred-dollar profit.

As the buyer loaded his newly purchased hound, the old man started gathering those stretched hides and putting them in the back of the buyer’s truck.

“What are you doing?” the fellow asked.

The old man looked him square in the eye.

“Trust me. You’re gonna need them.”

Now, that’s funny—unless you’re the fellow holding the leash.

But it also raises a question that gets a little closer to home:

Have we ever hung something on the outside to make people believe something that wasn’t true on the inside?

That old dog never claimed to tree a single coon. The deception came from the man who arranged the evidence and let somebody draw the conclusion he wanted.

And before we get too hard on him, we ought to look around our own porch.

We can hang up church attendance, religious language, a Bible on the dashboard, and a few well-placed “Amens,” hoping people will assume our hearts are right with God.

Those things ought to reflect a real walk with Christ. But they can also become decorations covering up a life we don’t want anybody to examine.

In Acts 5, Ananias and Sapphira sold a possession, kept back part of the money, and presented the rest as though it were the full amount.

Their sin wasn’t that they failed to give every penny.

Peter made that clear: “Whiles it remained, was it not thine own? and after it was sold, was it not in thine own power?” —Acts 5:4, KJV

They had control over the property and the proceeds. They could have honestly said, “We sold this, and here is the portion we want to give.”

Instead, they wanted the reputation of complete generosity while secretly keeping something back.

Peter told Ananias: “Thou hast not lied unto men, but unto God.” —Acts 5:4, KJV

Their deaths made the seriousness of that deception unmistakable. God was not fooled by the impression they created.

They were hanging hides beside the doghouse.

And that is the danger of hypocrisy: we become more concerned with looking faithful than being faithful.

Jesus warned about that in Matthew 23:28: “Even so ye also outwardly appear righteous unto men, but within ye are full of hypocrisy and iniquity.”

Now, struggling with sin doesn’t automatically make you a hypocrite. Every Christian has battles, failures, and places where we need to grow.

Hypocrisy takes hold when we protect the image, hide the sin, and pretend we have no need to repent.

An honest believer says, “Lord, I’m struggling. Forgive me and help me change.”

A hypocrite says, “Make sure nobody finds out.”

I don’t need to work harder at convincing people I’m a better Christian than I am. I need to surrender the actual man I am to Jesus.

That means telling the truth when a lie would make me look better. Admitting wrong without dressing it up. Asking forgiveness from the people who know what I’m like after the church clothes come off.

David prayed: “Create in me a clean heart, O God; and renew a right spirit within me.” —Psalm 51:10, KJV

That’s a good prayer for the woods, the church pew, and everywhere in between.

Because sooner or later, somebody’s going to take that dog to the woods.

And all the hides in the world won’t make him hunt.