recaps

keys, ninjas, Tiger, redemption - the Christmas Story Retold

Of the many ways to spend a Saturday morning, standing in a parking lot wondering where your car keys are is not one I would suggest.  And yet, on this first morning snow of the winter, I found myself in a parking lot 30 miles from home, violin in tow, without a clue as to where my car keys were.  In situations like this, a man can follow one of two paths.  He can panic, soil himself, and then cry like a child, or he can reach deep down for his inner McGuyver.  On this particular occasion, I realized that it was simply too cold to soil myself, so I quickly donned my best Canadian accent and put my Boys Scout tracking skills to use.  Tracking car keys is particularly difficult.  They leave no tracks.  They have no scent.  They produce no scat.  But, thank God for a set of keen eyes, I eventually found them on the asphalt… a good fifty feet from my car.  How the… I don’t even want to know.  I’m just grateful to be home. 

The entire incident made me revisit that ancient question asked first by sages of old and pondered for generations since by all men:  Do ninjas ever lose their keys?  Keys to their Honda.  Keys to the hideout.  Keys to the hidden weapons locker of Shintoshimamura?  (I just made up that last one, but it sounds about right, eh?)  While it seems impossible that an entity that can catch arrows with its bare hands and blend in and out of shadows would do something as stupid as lose a set of keys, are they immune to those silly mistakes that are part and parcel to everyday life?  Are they not, beneath it all, still human?  Didn’t Beethoven pass gas and Einstein have morning breath?

When news came out about Tiger Woods’ growing list of indiscretions, my first instinct was to wave the sassy finger and moan a tragic, “Oh no you di’int, Tiger.  Oh.  No.  You.  Di’int.”  First Josh Hamilton.  Then David Letterman.  Et tu, Tiger?  Like ninjas, these people are not, well, ordinary.  Josh Hamilton can send a 95 mph fastball 500 feet with a bat.  In fact, he did that 28 times in a single round of the Home Run Derby in 2008.  David Letterman, who always looks like he just woke up, can somehow make anyone (anything?) laugh.  And Tiger?  No need to wax poetic.  The press has already named him the decade’s most dominant athlete.   And yet… really?  One was tripped up on his road to redemption with a single beer – the first he had in nearly 5 years.  Another made the late night crowd sit still and listen to his on-air confession.  And Tiger, well the media hounds dragged this out of him, but there it was. 

I guess the lesson is that even our heroes screw up.  Even the extraordinary face the same character trials of you and I.  I’m not making excuses for these guys – they messed up, they’ve been unfaithful, and they’re suffering the consequences.  But maybe we, at least maybe I, ought to stop shaking my head and lamenting yet another tragic downfall… and take from this a lesson in humility.  The moment we think we’re better than them is the moment we fail to recognize our own humanity.  Faithfulness is a task of incessant vigilance.  But by the grace of God we go.

Which leads me to, well, Christmas.  I may not (and with God’s help, will not) ever have a spectacular failure of Tiger magnitude, but I would be a fool to believe that I am any different from those that do.  We are all flesh and blood, none immune to temptation, none strong enough to weather the storms alone.  A look at the news is enough to remind us that, in the right mix of desperation and weakness, there is a terrifying side of humanity.  All humanity.  At our best, in ways we each have known, we have echoed something real and solid from heaven, in laughter and joy, in giving and accepting, in love, a touch, a smile, a gift, a sacrifice.  But at our worst, in ways we each have known, we have wrought hell upon one another.  We hurl stones, we hoard, we mock, we take, we covet, we desecrate, we lie.  What in the world can save us from this?  What can change the human heart?  What can pay its debt to justice?  What can love it, mold it, forgive it a million times over and give it ever and always a second chance? 

"Wicked man that I am, who will save me from this body of death?  Thanks be to God – it is Jesus Christ, our Lord.  In Him there is no longer condemnation… for God has done for us what we could not."

"Surely He has borne our infirmities and carried our disease.  He was wounded for our transgressions, and crushed for our iniquities… by His bruises we are healed."

"And there were shepherds living in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.  And an angel of the Lord came before them… Do not be afraid, for see – I bring you good news of great joy for all people.  To you is born this day a Savior, the Messiah, the Lord.”

Merry Christmas everyone!

fishman

every year, my department asks for our CV and a list of accomplishments from the past year to justify our existence (and by "existence" i actually mean "spot on the payroll.")  i was putting mine together and realized that i've been a physician now for 9 years.  9!  3 years of residency, 2 years of fellowship, and this is now my 4th year as faculty.  it's been a marathon.  i started as a wide-eyed intern getting pimped, and now i'm the pimp daddy [note from the editor: pimping, in medical jargon, has nothing to do with indecent, salacious solicitations.  it refers to the age old tradition of senior physicians asking pointed questions to younger colleagues who are expected to answer on the spot, often under duress.]  training a physician is a lot like throwing a normal human into the ocean and expecting him to become a fish.  you get thrown in with all the wild salmon, hoping and praying that you develop gills in time to save yourself and those in your care.  you get used to being wet.  you get used to the algae.  you get used to oxygen deprivation (or sleep deprivation) and the rampant disregard of personal needs (i cannot remember ever taking a dump during the residency years).  and you learn to convert all the book smarts about the perfect breast-stroke into a life of perpetual swim.  swim swim swim.  i have spent 9 years of my life becoming a fish. 

i am thankful for a list of accomplishments that makes me feel relatively secure about my job.  there's nothing like a CV to convince a man that he has finally become a fish.  and after nine years, i look like a fish.  i smell like a fish.  i swim like a fish.  (ok peanut gallery, hold the snide comments).  but here's the thing... the greatest asset for a physician is his humanity.  not his fish-manity. 

a friend of mine recently blogged about how hard it's been to see someone she loves fall seriously ill with cancer.  reading her entries always makes me stop for a second and think about those i love, and how grateful i am for each day of health and well being.  it makes me remember that life can be frail, that even in the care-free exuberance of youth we are still just flesh and bones.  it makes me remember that life on this side of eternity is still finite and fragile.  i can't imagine that she wants a fish taking care of her loved one.  yes, we desire someone well trained and someone who knows the literature inside and out.  competence is mandatory.  but, were it my mother or my father or any one of my dearest kin, i would want to know that my doctor had a heart, that he felt the tension between knowledge and compassion, that he cared and wanted the best for me and my family.  there is no spot on a CV for such things, but it's what seperates the men from the fish. 

i'm challenged, as i am nearly every few days, to resurface from a life of endless swimming, and take a deep breath of air.  i'm challenged to remember every encounter as significant, every result as meaningful, every word as something more than a cold piece of data.  i'm reminded that being thrown underwater during training ought to inspire an appreciation of life under the sea (or in a hospital, as the analogy might go) and a responsibility to make it as beautiful as possible.  otherwise, all this swimming... it really is just chasing after the wind. 

take a moment today to step back from the herd.  break away from the school of fish and remember what and why and who... and Who.  find meaning in why you're doing things - as a parent, as a child, as an artist, a student, a thinker, a worker - and just remember.  we spend enough time training to swim like fish.  sometimes, we need to wake up and remember that we're human.

for your consideration:  ironic, i know, but consider the following.  http://www.mcsuk.org/

On Service

Recently I’ve been thinking a lot about service.  Not service, as in the 120 mph flash that initiates a point in tennis, nor service as a structured program (or church service, for example) but service – as in the act of serving another.  My pastor gave a beautiful sermon yesterday from 1 John, challenging the congregation to get out of the pews and to start living out what we preach, which is the dangerous call to lay down our comforts, our preferences, our lives and serve those around us.  Afterwards, my friend and I, cynics both, sadly predicted that the throngs of churchgoers who sign up today for our various service projects will likely dissipate when they will be asked to do something that interrupts their regularly scheduled television programming.  I know this, because I once had zero attendance at a health ministry meeting held at the same hour as American Idol.  People want to help.  But nobody wants their lives interrupted.

Which brings me back to service.   Service is not what I thought it would be.  Some say service is its own reward, and I think that’s true, but not in the sense that most believe it.  Sure, a good “Thank You” can give me an altruism buzz that I’ll ride for hours, but a commitment to service is something different.  I once thought a life of service meant that you would immediately get an interview with Time or Newsweek, which would feature black and white photos of you (a la Mother Teresa) in a simple but elegant outfit while reaching out to hold the hand of a person illuminated by your radiance.  While this may be true in the land of My Little Pony, this is not what planet earth is like.  At least the planet earth that I inhabit.  On my earth, friends call for help when I’d most like to ignore them – when I’m counting sheep in bed, when I’m busy at work, when that perfect steak is inches from my mouth.  It’s easy to feel the good karma when a friend leans on my shoulder at lunch break, but to commit to bearing that same burden at 3 AM is distinctly unrewarding in the immediate sense.  On my earth, I have brought food to a homeless man only to have him spit a mouthful of gnarled tobacco at me.  On my earth, I have been asked to please keel over and f*** myself by the drug dealer whose life I am saving.  On my earth, sometimes my best efforts to serve just don’t gain enough momentum, sometimes fellow servers leave me high and dry, and sometimes even the church seems content to leave me stranded.  I’m not reliving my worst service memories to just binge on bitterness.  I’ve had all these things happen to me, and, honestly, some still hurt like hell – but they’ve all actually taught me something terribly important about service:  No one said serving was going to be easy. 

Service permits no frequent flyer miles for the ego.  Service is not about helping only those who you deem worthy of help.  Service doesn’t care how you thought things would go, because needs are not made to your convenience.  No, needs exist whether you are in bed or on the field.  Hurt requires fixing whether the patient is kin or klans-man.  Poverty persists whether your plan worked out or not.  In His mission to rescue the human condition, Jesus modeled a servant’s life, and, considering that He was mocked, tortured, betrayed, and crucified, it’s safe to say that His reward was neither comfort nor gratitude.  At least in the immediate sense.  Love – the thick-skinned sort of love that we are called to have – sees God somewhere in the ungrateful patient, in the impenitent man, in the midst of pestilence, in the middle of the night.  Love – the outrageous, scandalous type that God displayed for us – feeds and clothes and nurtures and cares because the object of service is made in the image of God, not because it can reciprocate.  If we were looking for a quick shot to enliven our esteem, let me suggest a game of wii tennis, not a life of service.  If our egos, our comforts, our time, our projects, our ways cannot endure some heavy bruising, perhaps we have misunderstood service entirely.   No one said it was going to be easy.  There is no room for sissies in the service of God. 

For your consideration:  Visit, ponder, pray, and, if possible, contribute.    Here are those hurt most cruelly in the service of protecting us.  http://www.woundedwarriorproject.org/

Old Testament Origami

Fold, fold, fold

I’m currently spending my mornings re-reading the Old Testament.  After a diet of New Testament epistles day in and day out, it’s actually nice to go back to the long narratives and outlandishly beautiful poetry of the Old Testament.  But it’s easy to get lost in the details – to lose the forest for the trees.  So today’s blog is almost more for me than for you… a chance for me to reflect and remember how the Beginning fits in with the End.

As a Christian, I believe that God stepped into time and space in the person of Jesus Christ, which, in effect, means that God knows all about origami.  He must.  How else could He have folded His expansive presence into one small container of human flesh?  Origami.  Fold, fold, fold, fold…crease, crease… fold.  The thing about origami is that it is deceptive.  Complexity is disguised in simplicity.  I know this because I stink at origami.  Sure, I can make a lopsided stand for my disposable chopsticks from its paper wrapper, but a crane?  A caterpillar?  Are you kidding me? 

Things are more complex than they often seem.  We like to label people and things to simplify the world, but few things really are one-dimensional.  Even sitcoms have a little drama.  Like origami, we are folded, folded, folded with layers and bends and creases and facets that would make a diamond blush ruby red.  Yes, we each have flaws that we bear right up on the exposed surfaces.  But we lose an appreciation for many a diamond in the rough by dismissing them as glitter in the mud.   Even the Biblical heroes required a little patience to blossom.  Abraham tried to pass his wife off as his sister to save his own hide, but God still saw in him the goods to be the father of nations.  Jacob was a scam artist, but God pinned him down – both literally and figuratively – to a better future.  Discernment and perception have their place, but so too does a healthy respect for what goes on beneath the skin.  Jesus warned us not to make rash decisions based on outward appearances.  And I guess He would know since He was there folding each of us into existence when we were just particles of dust.

God, too, must not be misjudged.  That sounds fairly ridiculous, I know, and I don’t mean judged as in “ruled right or wrong” since He defines such things, but judged as in “gauged” or “perceived.”  As Christians, we look to the figure of Christ as the apex of mercy and compassion, the emblem of grace.  And rightly so!  But so often we forget the bigness of the God folded into this body.  You cannot possibly realize the utter scandal of the cross without standing in awe of the magnitude of His glory, His hand in creation, His repulsion at sin.  You cannot possibly understand the absurdity of the incarnation – what with God folding eternity into… a child?  - without at least straining to see the One who caused many a prophet to fall flat on their faces and lament that they have seen a glimpse of the Holy One.  This, this is our God.  The Old Testament is rife with the admonition to “Fear God.”  And even though this seems like ancient jargon to our 21^st century ears, the admonition stands.  Fear God.  Bow in the presence of something so close yet so, so much greater than we.  Remember who it is who gave you the morning and the night, your existence, your life.  Tremble at the holiness of One who will not be bought by your rituals or your gold, whose appetite for perfect justice begins with the Law and ends with Sacrifice.  Let us not lose an appreciation of His splendor simply because He has folded it into His compassion.