I do not own any pigs.
I have never had a herd or a flock or a gaggle or whatever it is you call an assembled body of swine.
But, despite my very pig-free life, I have a metaphorical collection of future bacon that would blow your mind.
I have things I want.
Things I need.
Things I try to protect.
And into that pasture comes a Savior.
I read the Bible and scoff in dismay at people who cared more about their pigs than the healing of two demon-possessed men. “How could they be so blind?” I cry at the black-and-white pages, all the while tightening my arms around my stuff.
I try to bend God’s will to mine.
Try to align his promises to my plans.
I focus on my requests, not my relationship, secretly hoping that a Savior who cares for people over pigs will not cross my horizon.
It’s easy to laugh at foolish people in the Bible, but if Christ said “I need your platform, possessions and everything to save someone you’ve never met’s life in a far off field,” the laughing would stop.
