Men Are Deer

Are We Hunted By God?

Photo provided by Author

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One spring morning as my father was hunting for morels deep inside the forest, he came across a small thicket to find he wasn’t alone. There, watching him intently was a newborn fawn curled in a manger of grass, tilting its small head curiously in my father’s direction.

This yearling was too new to the world to know fear; instinct hadn’t even claimed its heart quite yet.

My father looked upon the sweet babe as if he’d just unearthed a beloved treasure. He hurriedly descended the mountainside and rushed home to tell us about it. My mother and I were fascinated, our hearts already spilling over with love for something we hadn’t even seen yet. We grabbed our jackets, slipped on our boots, and trekked back to the spot like three wise men on a mission.

We wanted to see the miracle.

When we returned, the baby was still nestled there all alone, its mother no doubt foraging.

I was just a child, maybe 11 or 12 years old at the time, and without hesitation, ran over and scooped the baby into my arms. My father reprimanded me and said I shouldn’t have moved the little one, but I was in tears, wanting to take it home. Tenderly, he pried the baby loose from my hugs and explained that its mother would return.

He gently placed the fawn back into the manger where it passively tucked its head under its hind legs and went back to sleep.

Leaving that sweet creature behind was hard for me to absorb. I cried coming down off the mountain and struggled with the thought that other hunters, including my father, might someday want to kill it.

Truth be told, deer meat had fed our family for many generations.

The food chain was a hard concept for me to grasp once upon a time, but I came to understand that this was the order of things. Men were born to be hunters and fishers, and my father was doing his part by providing nourishment for his family.

I recall the time I cupped a warm, dead squirrel in my hands. I had just gotten my hunting license, and my parents had taken me into the woods, where I sat trying to be quiet until we spotted movement in the trees. Under my parents’ instruction, I aimed the rifle at the small rodent, but something happened to me in that instant.

My heart wouldn’t allow me to pull the trigger. Instead, my mother shot the squirrel, and I ran to retrieve it. I held the dead body and petted it, knowing it was too late for compassion. Yet, later that evening, I helped my father skin and clean it so we could eat supper.

I was conflicted by the love I felt for animals and how I needed their flesh to fill my belly. Seeing my parents’ compassion for the fawn that day only further embellished that confusion.

It wasn’t until many years later that I learned my confusion had a name: the “meat paradox.” Apparently, humans can have selective affection for some animals, hence why we spared the innocent fawn and put her back while we hunted grown stags and does to keep us fed through winter.

I might have been just a child, but I took note of how susceptible that little creature was to the dangers lurking around it. Standing there among the trees that morning in my nightgown and boots, I eerily felt my own vulnerability creeping up on me.

What if a bear were to approach? Or a wild bobcat?

We’d be totally defenseless. My father had been hunting mushrooms. He didn’t have so much as a pocketknife on him, so we would be easy prey.

Immediately, I was overcome by a sweeping fear as I considered my own mortality and who controls our fate. A question formed in my mind.

Are we hunted by God?

I started to compare myself to the innocent fawn and all the deer in the forest for that matter. For a brief moment, I pictured my family as the gods who quite literally called the shots. We allowed the fawn to live, even gave it our blessing as we patted it back into its cozy little bed, with the knowledge that hunters would someday seek to claim its life when it grew bigger.

Is God a great hunter seeking us for His harvest, toting a trumpet that is designed to take us to our final destination? Could it be that we are the deer struggling to find our way through thickets deep in the forest, given only glimpses of someone mightier than us who quietly watches?

We are powerless compared to that Great Hunter, so the only thing to do is respect Him in our own way until He decides to return and carry us home.

I think back to that day so many years ago and the little manger that now lies empty. A newborn creature was placed there with an exquisite opportunity to explore a vast new world teeming with creation: acorns that grow into mighty oaks, caterpillars that morph into angelic-winged butterflies, water that cycles from rain to pond only to evaporate and return to rain again.

A babe found strength and stood on its own legs, trembling and wobbly, before going on to live a long life. The arms of Man that once cradled it have likely become such a distant memory that the fawn wonders if it was ever really touched at all.

The deer strives to believe that Man exists, while others claim to have met Him along the way. It goes through its daily routines mostly satisfied, but always somewhat wary with the nagging sense that something is eventually coming for it.

Some say God once walked among us, and perhaps He still does.

If so, He’s sure to know our every thought as He quietly pursues us, tracking and observing with intent. The best we can do is learn to respect and fear His presence.

It is the beginning of wisdom.

Photo provided by Author; the fawn goes back to sleep