Don’t Be a Tick

We recently got back from Acadia National Park, where one of the principal ways nature welcomes you is by warning you that something very small would like to attach itself to your body and drink your blood.

There were signs along the trails:

BE AWARE OF TICKS.

I was already aware of ticks.

I have been aware of ticks for most of my life.

Ticks are gross.

I realize this is not a particularly sophisticated theological statement. I also realize that God made all creatures great and small, and presumably this includes ticks. But I confess there are a handful of creatures that make me wonder whether somewhere in the creation process the devil got hold of a few blueprints.

Mosquitoes. Chiggers. Possibly wasps.

And ticks.

I have friends who have gotten Lyme disease from ticks, which certainly hasn’t improved their reputation. And when I was a little boy, I had a tick attach itself to the back of my head.

It was not one of your cute little freckle-sized ticks.

This thing was approximately the size of a dime. At least, that’s how I remember it.

Childhood memory is not always reliable when it comes to measurements, so it may have actually been smaller than a dime. But I am quite certain that, at the time, it seemed roughly the size of a Volkswagen.

My mother discovered it buried in my scalp, engorged with my blood, and I was informed that ticks could give you something called Rocky Mountain spotted fever which was not reassuring information for a little boy.

I assumed death was imminent.

I survived.

The tick did not.

And I developed a healthy suspicion of the entire species.

Years later, that suspicion was confirmed.

We were living in Missouri when we took Blue and Birdie for a walk in the woods. It was a beautiful walk. Trees. Leaves. Trails. The dogs bounding happily through the underbrush.

Creation in all its glory.

Then we got back to the car.

Ticks.

Everywhere.

The dogs were covered with them.

There are moments in life when concern and disgust arrive at exactly the same time, and this was one of those moments. We frantically began picking ticks off the dogs. And then finding more ticks. And then more.

Eventually, it became clear that the only reasonable course of action was drastic.

The dogs got haircuts.

Not stylish haircuts.

Buzz cuts.

By the time we finished, Blue and Birdie looked less like beloved family pets and more like two naked animals who had lost a bet.

But we got the ticks, and the dogs survived.

During that whole disgusting ordeal, I started thinking about ticks, because this is apparently what pastors do.

Other people remove parasites from their dogs and think, That was awful.

Pastors remove parasites from their dogs and think, There might be a sermon in this.

And there was.

Not long afterward, I stood in front of my congregation and announced the title of my sermon:

Don’t Be a Tick.

I don’t remember everything I said, but I remember the basic idea.

Ticks take.

That’s what they do. They attach themselves to something alive, bury themselves in it, and suck out whatever they can get. They don’t plant anything. They don’t build anything. They don’t give anything back.

They just suck.

And sometimes they leave disease behind—which, if we aren’t careful, can become a pretty good description of human beings.

We can move through this world asking one question:

What can I get from this?

What can I get from this person? This relationship? This church? This job? This land? This planet?

What can I get from God?

It would be comforting to think that the world is neatly divided between ticks and the rest of us. But if I’m honest, I recognize the question in myself.

I know what it is to enter a relationship thinking first about what I need. To approach a church as a consumer. To receive the beauty of creation without wondering what I owe it. Even to come before God carrying little more than a list of what I would like Him to do for me.

If we aren’t paying attention, we can spend our whole lives attached to something beautiful while slowly draining the life out of it.

A marriage. A friendship. A family. A church. A community. A forest.

Even a soul.

But Jesus moved through the world in exactly the opposite direction.

People came near Him and became more alive.

The blind saw. The hungry ate. The ashamed lifted their heads. The lonely found a table. The sick were touched. Children were welcomed. Sinners discovered that God had not forgotten their names.

He came to give.

Life. Grace. Bread. Forgiveness.

Himself.

Jesus said He came not to be served, but to serve and to give His life for others. And that is about as untick-like as a person can get.

I still don’t like ticks. I doubt I ever will.

If there are ticks in the new heavens and the new earth, I assume they will have undergone some fairly significant sanctification. Who knows? Maybe they’ll eat dandelions or knit sweaters.

I don’t know.

But perhaps ticks can do us one small favor.

They can remind us that there are two basic ways to move through this beautiful world.

We can attach ourselves to it and ask:

What can I take?

Or we can open our hands and ask:

What can I give?

One way leaves the world a little emptier.

The other leaves a little more life behind.

So check yourself after walking in the woods.

Check your dogs.

Check behind your ears.

And while you’re at it, maybe check your soul.

Don’t be a tick.