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. 

Tattered clothes and grace

Anyone who’s forged through the formative years of life with a bowl haircut will tell you that it IS possible to grow into a fully normalized human adult without obsessing over one’s physical appearance.  It is, perhaps, a bit countercultural.  But there’s nothing wrong with that.  Please understand this context when I say that, for years, I really could care less about such things as hair gel and fashion and the fact that breakaway corduroy pants – while immensely practical in those unpredictable days of early fall – are not the sort of things that make the women swoon.  If there were a version of “Queer eye for the straight guy” that targeted Asian school kids in the late 80’s and early 90’s, I would have been their magnum opus.  It’s not that I was slovenly or smelly or utterly wretched to the eye – it was just that greater things occupied the forefront of my mind.  Math.  Science.  Music.  The X-men.  The important things in life.

By the time I realized that women were, in fact, not the source of the 1956 cootie outbreak of Bangladesh, and that it doesn’t hurt one to present himself as a decent and well-dressed bloke, much of the damage had already been done.  I already had my wardrobe of bland plaids and endless khaki pants.  At this point, though, I began to work towards a gradual redefinition of my image.  My fashion manifesto changed from “I’m a mathlete – why should I care?” to “Really, it’s not that bad is it?”  I derived little pleasure from retiring well-worn sneakers which sexily exposed my toes, but did so out of concern that a refusal to remedy my fashion crimes would eventually lead me down a road of transformation into “the man who dresses like crazy cat lady.”  It was fear that inspired my repentence.  But such changes are incomplete.  Fear can be a motivator of great force for a brief spell… but in the end it seems to lead either to madness or despair. 

Not long ago, on a morning not unlike this one, I woke with a sudden determination to buy new clothes.  Those familiar with my fondness for wearing my old high school gym shirt will know that this seems utterly inconsistent with my character.  Yet off I went, trying on new jeans, buying new shirts, getting shoes that had neither a Nike swoosh nor the New Balance trademark.  Blasphemy, I know.  But something fundamental had changed.  I had met someone.  And while she had not sought to change my appearance, my looks, my clothing, I was motivated to look nice because… well, I suppose I just wanted to look nice for her.  Odd, I know.  I’m still wrapping my mind around this one.  But what changed was not my innate character or my odd fashion quirks (I still cling to plaid like a safety blanket).  It was the motivator.  Fear of looking like the cat lady gave way to a desire to look presentable to someone I admired profoundly.  And, okay, half of my shirts still have left collars that are horribly disfigured from all that violin playing… but still it gives me pleasure to put my best foot forward. 

Those who read here often know that a parallel to faith is not lurking far.  And here it is.  Thinking about this has strangely shed remarkable light on my understanding of theology.  If we are given such grace and forgiveness by God, what should motivate us to pursue the holy life?  If His wrath towards all my indiscretion is poured out entirely on Christ, what drives me to repent?  What gives me reason to struggle and fight against the inertia that leads us to our old fallen nature?  God does.  Not the fear of God – though this should make us tremble.  Not the sacrifice of God – though this should make us humble.  But the love of God – which should drive in us a desire to honor Him.  Exposed to beauty, I no longer am content to bear tattered clothes.  Exposed to Christ, I – slowly, patiently – grow no longer content to wear the old rags of sin.    Can I get an Amen?

On screwing up

It’s that time of the year again – when blue jeans re-emerge from summer hiatus, leaves begin to change, and the second year med students at Wash U gear up for their notorious course on kidney diseases.  I’m proud to be a lecturer in the course and I like to think I do a good job.  But every now and again I do something really stupid.  And, for me, every now and again came last week.

After class one morning, I got two emails asking the same question and referencing the exact same phrase from the talk I had just given.  While it rang with perfect clarity in my head, I began to realize that the sentence could be taken in two very different ways.  It was like saying, “Charles had never made a snowman like Betty had.”  Does this mean that Charles had never made a snowman, or that he just never made one like Betty’s?  And why don’t I have an editor for everything that comes out of my mouth?  (Actually, as Oogway knows, my editor has left my brain and is currently galavanting about the coast of Italy). 

Herein lies the heart of this blog – man’s response to error.  I will confess, in all honesty, that my first instinct was to protect myself, to imagine that there was no hint of ambiguity.   I was defending my two year reign as lecturer of the year – surely I could not err like this!  But err I did.  It was, perhaps, neither intentional nor tragic.  It was, perhaps, not even noticed by the vast majority in the class.  But it would be dishonest to ignore it.  And the right thing to do, albeit the rather humbling thing to do, would be to put it forward and set the record straight at the next opportunity. 

What troubled me most was not that I said something that could be taken quite the wrong way.  It was the fact that I immediately hoped that no one would notice my error, or that it would all go away.  Man is so strange – we are such frail creatures, in mind and body, yet we crave strength.  We’re like shadows that want to believe that we are solid.  We desire to be infallible, yet – left to our own devices – we are tragically incapable of being anything but fallen.  And no one is above this.  If I could leave one pearl of wisdom for my students, it would be this – there is no use pretending you are perfect.  You will screw up.  Come to terms with that.  Great physicians are not immune to error.  Great athletes are not immune to impertinence.  Great musicians are not immune to addiction.  Great statesmen are not immune to indiscretion.  We have seen each of these play out in recent days.  But those who refuse to acknowledge the weak spots in their character are doomed to be consumed by them. 

It’s a concept that I see at play in my faith as well.  As a Christian, I see that sanctification and redemption cannot be gained apart from repentance and confession.  He who hides his illness cannot be cured.  I require help from Above to navigate me Home (which is a statement on man’s lostness and God’s mercy, and not a snide comment about the inability of most Asians to correctly identify their position on a map). Alas, the longer I travel on the road Home, the more I realize how lost I am without Him.  But how foolish it would be to pretend I knew true North without Him pointing the way…

firsts

There’s always something daunting about firsts.  The first day.  The first step.  The first game.  The first kiss.  Everything gets wrapped up in that singular moment of anxiety and hope and utter, terrifying uncertainty.  Time stands still.  We wait – a batter waiting for his pitch, a chord waiting to be resolved – held in the tension of the unknown.  Yet it’s almost never the mechanics of the task that we fear – we all know to put one foot before the next, left-right-left.   But whether we stumble or not – now there’s the rub.  The great unknown.  The darkness just beyond the door.  We all want to be Moses, stepping to the Red Sea to watch the waters part.  None of us want to be Peter, sinking before friends and Savior.   But firsts abound, in big ways and small, and the brave embrace it.  Waters never part until your feet get wet.  The maddening twists and turns of our nervous souls are part and parcel to the adventure that lies just beyond.  And so headlong we go – for the hope of joy, despite risk of sorrow. 

There are two things, as a Christian, in which I take great solace.  The first is that God goes with me.  The second, that God is good.  When the sun rises next, another adventure will begin and I, blind on this side of sovereignty, will pine to know just where this road will lead me.  And the only assurance I will receive to calm my anxious heart is to know that He who has worked in me though all days preceding, walks with me still in days yet to come.  My comfort, perhaps all the comfort I ought to need, is to know He smiles when I give to Him my desires and hopes, when I come rambling to Him with my fears, when I lay all at His feet.  Stubborn a clay as I am, He has made me, shaped me, formed me – though victories and heartbreaks, through trials, toils, and tears – for just a time as this.  With no guarantee that all will be as I dream.  With no assurance that I will not come away unscathed.    Only this: God is good, and God goes with me. 

So, friends and readers – whatever the task before you, whatever the unknown adventures that await you, go with grace.  Go with peace.  Go with confidence.  “Be strong and courageous; do not be frightened or dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.” – Joshua 1:9.

Something to consider:  I always forget how blessed I am to be in good health.  But not everyone is.  I gain so much encouragement, and so many lessons in courage, from friends who overcome physical disabilities.  I came across the following site while thinking about my friend’s radio-friendly voice.  Consider it if you are able, pray for it if you feel led:  http://www.rfbd.org/