A good dog inspires better sermons than a seminary education.

Neither years of practice nor shelves filled with books can lay the foundation for sermons as solid as a preacher's dog. I should know, for I am both an old preacher and a new dog owner. My dog is such a good preacher, that I sometimes am tempted to stay home Sunday mornings and send the dog into the pulpit!

As a sermon maker, my energetic Border Collie is both persuasive and inspiring. You might think his name, Saint Andrew, after the patron saint of his ancestral homeland, Scotland, has something to do with his homiletic gifts. Not so! Andy, as he prefers being called, has taught me that great sermons do not depend on pedigree nearly as much as awareness and sensitivity to ordinary circumstances.

Shortly after Andy's arrival in the parsonage, he quickly became comfortable in his new, sometimes piously bent, environment. Even as a pup, he showed signs of promise as a theologian. Noting St. Andrew's potential and thinking a little formal education would do no harm, I enrolled us in an obedience school. There I quickly discovered that I had more to learn than the dog. That, in itself, was not a bad sermon. How much closer I would be to sainthood if I were victorious over the temptation to think I know more than I really do.

If you don't count that ancillary sermon, Andy's first homily tackled that difficult, age-old question, "What is the value or purpose of discipline, chastisement, and pain in life?"

The introduction to the sermon came as Andy and I were waiting for class to begin. Within a few minutes of our arrival, several other students entered the building: a black Lab, a Dalmatian, and a low-slung Basset Hound. In the presence of those other dogs, Andy whined, pranced around, and demonstrated all kinds of non-spiritual behavior. The headmaster of the school heard the whining, walked over to us, and said to me, "Do you like that obnoxious whining?" Before I could answer, he continued, "The dog is anxious and under stress because he doesn't know who's in charge in this new situation. If you'll say No! and give him a stern, corrective yank on the leash, he'll calm down."

So I did just that. Immediately, Andy settled down and, in calm silence, watched the other dogs. To see if I got the point of this sermon, Saint Andrew looked directly at me and told me with his big brown eyes, "See, I like to know that my master is in charge and when I know that, I'm not afraid of the threats I imagine will hurt me. The stress of competition, waves of self-doubt, and anxiety about the unknown all fade away when I know my master is in charge. Sometimes I need a little 'yank' to return my attention to my master." Then silence.

In that silence, and under the watchful eye of this canine preacher, I heard another still small voice say, "Do you get it? Trust of your master will give you peace. If you forget it, expect a little 'yank' to remind you."

Sometimes Andy preaches outdoors, not needing the backdrop of a magnificent Gothic cathedral with stained glass windows and a pipe organ. On one of our daily walks around the neighborhood, Andy started preaching and soon was on a roll, preaching one sermon right after another. The first sermon came at a busy intersection. Andy froze in his tracks when I quietly commanded him to Stop! Like a statue, he waited for my Let's go! before stepping out in to the street. What a preacher!

Andy had been protected from the dangers of heavy traffic by his obedience to a simple No! His willingness to obey a negative command turned my mind in on itself. Hadn't I, too, been saved from hurt, tragedy, and unpleasantness by a simple prohibitive word? Wasn't a word from someone who knew better than I what was good and necessary for my welfare worthy of obedience? It didn't take me long to conclude that even though all those "Thou shall not" commands of the Almighty sometimes rob me of freedom, they also keep me out of trouble and harm's way. Does it seem strange to you that a dog can make me understand what God, Himself, couldn't make me understand?

A little farther down the street, Andy offered me a sequel to the sermon he had just preached at the corner. It began as I gathered in the long leash to keep him closer to me so he and I could better enjoy one another's company. Well, at least that's what I thought I was doing.

But the more firmly I held the leash, the more Andy pulled and tugged to get away from me. Finally, in exasperation if not exhaustion, I loosened my grip and let all fifteen feet of leash hit the ground. With that, Andy quickly moved fourteen feet in front of me. First to the left, then to the right, Andy explored both sides of the walkway. Sometimes ahead of me, sometimes a few steps behind me, Andy wagged his tail while his head and eyes darted from one scene to another. But no matter what he sniffed or saw, no matter if he was behind or ahead, to the left or to the right, the leash was slack. As long as I talked to him and the leash had plenty of slack, he never strained at the leash, but always stayed within about fourteen feet of me.

The rope of freedom is the only leash strong enough to assure a pleasant romp through life with a companion. I wish I had heard that sermon when my children were teenagers. My family would have enjoyed the adolescent pilgrimage more.

Just about the time I sensed another sermon coming, I decided I'd heard enough preaching for one day. So Saint Andrew and I returned home, where I put him in his crate. Even great preachers need to know that constant preaching is counterproductive.