Advent musing

If was I really, really smart, then I would have deliberately journeyed through a proper Advent exercise. Which I failed to do again, this year (thank goodness that God is so gracious and forgiving!).
However, on the cusp of yet another Christmas Day, there is a mix of feelings about it. I think (though it's a completely artificial separation) that there are separate feelings between the secular and the sacred this time around. Certainly, due to the circumstances, the secular has taken particular predominance over the past two weeks, and though there has been much merit - in anticipation, in joy and contentment there, it makes me wonder how that has (or has not) transferred over to the sacred side of things.
Do I look with wonder and anticipation of the birth of Christ? Am I joyful and content at His promised coming? Am I more concerned about the gatherings, and the family, and the food, than I am over our humble, bastardized, refugee Arab Christ-King? Even now, would I know Him? Would I recognize Him in His lowly estate and bow to worship Him? Would I even obey the angel to hasten to the manger? Would I even want to muddy my party shoes to step inside to look at the Babe?
I think some of these questions probe at deeper aspects of my faith and devotion. What, exactly, am I devoted to? Am I devoted to the holiday? To the idea of the holiday? (For we know, of course, that Jesus was more likely born in the springtime, and that December 25th is simply a Roman machination to stamp out pagan festivals) How does one measure the amount of ardour and devotion to the Christ-King if one is not particularly interested in Christmas? Should I even be interested or concerned about the supposed sacred aspects of Christmas at all?
I'm not sure. Indeed, I love the dark, crisp nights, the hot chocolate, the eating together, the carols, the lights - the whole shebang. However, it makes me question how much I love the reason for the season, rather than the season itself...

Needing a good editor...

What is one of the interesting mental tug-of-wars that I have with myself is the meta-meaning of narrative. (Yup, that's the kind of stuff I think about). What I mean is this: In the work that I do, evidence, science, data - these are the things by which decision trees, management guidelines and the like are created. Clinically, in many ways, it doesn't matter about the 'lived experience' as much as the 5-yr survival curve, the PPV, the percentages of side effects, the timeline of prognosis. All very numeric, qualitative and statistically significant.
Not to say it's not important: It is. It's critically important in making key decisions and deciding how to proceed with disease management.
However, the other end of the spectrum is how personally important the post-modern sense of narrative is to draw meaning. Our bodies may be made of amino acids and molecules, but our lives are constructed of stories. And stories hold great power in describing meaning.
At any rate, it basically comes down to: stories are how our lives are made. Stories are how we transmit who we are to others. That amazes me, really. It amazes me in considering how, in many ways, it is the stories that are the critical touchstones to help decision making.
I think I'm blathering a bit, but it is still quite something... this is definitely not well-written as a story, that's for sure...

Sounding the foghorn through the gloom....

Still here, but still foggy, so haven't had much to think about or say. Will try to be interesting soon.

Grace through suffering

I notice that quite a few of my posts are things that I've observed, and learned, from patients. I remember being told when I was a student that one of the beauties of practice is the ability to develop these long-term relationships with people.
Recently, a friend made me question just how funny/humourous I was anymore. I remember being funny once, and I'd like to think that I still am, but ever since then, I've been watching and waiting to see if any of my patients will do anything hilarious. Which they don't. It's too bad, as I now think my job inherently has the capability to swallow and hold a whole lot of suffering (as noted by the last essay that I had posted), and though there is much joy in walking alongside patients through their valleys, it's not exactly laughsville.
One patient re-taught me a lesson that I think is easy to forget. This patient has a spouse (who is also my patient) who is dying, slowly, ever so excruciatingly slowly, and so very young. They have a tiny child at home, and in the course of dying, which will likely take years, the disease will gradually take their mind and their body. In fact, it already has, and the increasing lack of control over their emotions, their rationality, their paranoia, and the volume and tone of their voice is taking a toll on the well spouse, trying to ask them to shush in front of the toddler, trying to get them to calm down to not scare the child. In the days where they are more lucid, they can actually have a conversation, but mostly, day after day, my patient arrives home from work to a barrage of baseless accusations, and screaming, and a great dread of coming home to their spouse. My patient hasn't really told many people at work; it'd be too hard for them to understand exactly what this dying process is like. They also have no other family; it is just the three of them. So, they spend their days, going to work, coming home, caring for the child, dealing with the spouse, and then collapsing, exhausted until it starts again. They dread the weekends. There is no one else to take the child for weekends, no siblings, parents, cousins, aunts who can share the burden of care. It is a situation that leaves me worrying for this patient, how they will make it through the next few years without being broken and burnt out.
And yet, they are still able to teach me lessons. They pointed out, how it has made them appreciate that, when interacting with others, that they don't really know the depths of suffering or sadness that the other may be dealing with, in the dark, in the private spaces, and has helped them demonstrate, shall we call it "grace"? to others and treat them gently. And that, I found stunning. That even in this hellish home, ravaged by this illness, my patient can still find grace for others. I don't think they would call it that, I don't think that they would even recognize the word, but, despite all their suffering, it is humbling for me to be reminded of their ability to remember that others may also be walking similar paths...

Need to rant on a few pet peeves

I've realized there are two things that bother me a lot: Tardiness and ambiguity.
Tardiness: I think it has to do with a "let your 'yes' be 'yes' and your 'no' be 'no'" business, or I'm just an incredibly uptight, anal-retentive Westerner that is more concerned about the clock than the time, but, I think because I tend to be on time (or early) to a fault, it irks me all the more. I think if someone tells you that they will be at X by such-and-such a time, and then are consistently late, it only communicates (to me) that my time is less valuable than theirs. It, in fact, makes me feel that they don't value my life and ways that I use it.
Ambiguity: See above. I think being unsure and wary of people's motivations or inclinations becomes exhausting. I wish people were a little bit more up front about how they really felt about things, or would not try to be nice for the sake of harmony.
That's it. Just needed to rant a bit.

One year later

It's already been about a year ago now that the global Church came together and discussed, debated and deliberated about critical issues of our day. I can't believe it's been that long already. Certainly, we've gotten emails, FB posts and twitter feeds reminding us of where we've come from and where we are at today. Certainly, it is equally amazing (some movements of God around the world, including the Arab Spring, have been awe-inspiring), and equally tragic (several delegates present in South Africa have subsequently been martyred) as to what happens in a year. Incidentally, in larger society, many other things have also occurred - a quirky example of that was how the world was apparently supposed to end -twice!- over the past year.
It's a funny place to look back. I think, had I known that this is where I'd be at this point, I think I would have been incredibly reluctant to go. I think I would not have been totally thrilled with the description, in the mindset that I was in, of what I'd be doing, thinking, feeling, being by this point.
On the other hand, having had to go through it anyways, it's been stretching. I think the enlargement of the territory that God has demonstrated His sovereignty over, despite my biases and prejudices, has been good. I think it's still a journey of watching how my biases limit God. I think it's been good to be with people, that likely with all the brainwashing, that even a few years ago I would have been uncomfortable sitting in the same room with. I think it has been good to be reminded, and not just to 'talk' about it theoretically, but to actually 'be', with the many of those who will be called to the wedding banquet table, when those who were "expected" to be there will disinvite themselves, or be cast out. I think it's been good to remember to try to stay humble, to poke at my blindspots, to remind myself that I am not God and I am not the only one privy to His thoughts. I am thankful for those who have been walking with me along the journey, for those who have walked partway along the way, for those who stand by the roadside and point out directions, for the 'innkeepers' who have invited me in for refreshment, for those journeymen and women who have been joining the path this past year. It is good to be reminded that His people are all over and they are more and do more than I could ask or imagine...

FFT

Vicarious Wounds

"Maybe no one had thought of it," he said. "Or maybe they had, but didn't want to say it. Whatever the reason, no one warned me about the pain medicine inflicts." he reflected.
It had crept up on him over time, this sadness. The product of his compassion; this despondency oppressed his every day.
"I thought I'd save lives and help people; that I'd feel great about my work," he lamented.
Instead, his patients' sadness, their despair, their suffering and their remorse lived within him. Concentrated in his soul. Poisoned his spirit.
Empathy can be a double-edged sword.
"Talk to someone, they say..." he snickered with irony.
"Useless solution," he answered himself with disdain.
"How can anyone understand what I feel?" he cried.
"Can you really describe to anyone the silence in the room, as a woman, exhausted, pushes to deliver what she knows is a dead baby? Or the sorrow in her eyes when she sees his macerated skin? How do I convey the apprehension I felt when I closed the door after I wheeled a toddler into a fridge for the night? Will anyone stay awake like I did, thinking of his mother imagining her baby; alone, cold and in the dark, without his blankie? How do you describe your shock, at the unnatural coldness of a body at autopsy? Can anyone even imagine trying to work, distracted by visions of your own child, cut from neck to pubis under the glare of police flashes? Can you imagine my unease, knowing that beneath that pretty dress, her organs are unceremoniously stuffed inside a garbage bag and hidden in her chest; sewn with cotton string? Can someone really feel the gruesome shock I felt when I took off the stiff collar on that little boy whose broken neck gave way under the weight of his head, spilling a mouthful of blood onto my shoes?"
So much resentment. So much grief. A litany of examples. I listened.
"That's not what I signed up," he whispered, pressing his hands to his temples, as if to prevent his head from bursting.
"Can anyone understand the dryness of my mouth the first time I had to tell someone their husband had died? Can someone ever be as nauseous as I am every time I hear the music that played in that child's room the evening he died? Can anybody understand what it means to be unable to erase the skeletal face of the boy I watched take two agonizing weeks to die after we stopped his fluids? And what would that mother say, serene in her gift of vision, if she saw how corneas are actually harvested? Shame on me for jumping on the learning experience!"
I didn't tell him, but he was sharing. Finally, after years of amassing pain, he was sharing; paving the way to his own recovery.
Medicine provides a privileged glimpse into the most tragic hours of humanity. Quietly, stealthily, we accumulate hundreds of lives' worth of sorrow into our own; seeing, hearing, smelling and feeling death like no other. Indeed, no one can understand or experience death like we do.
Perhaps, it is the pound of flesh we owe for the privilege of sharing a father's joy as he cuts his newborn's umbilical cord.
Perhaps it is the price of the tearful gratitude of the mother whose child you resuscitated.
Perhaps it is what we must bear in exchange for the satisfaction of having relieved an old man's pain.
Vicariously, we suffer. But perhaps, just perhaps, it is what distinguishes the healers from the doctors.

-Dr. Steven Bellemare

I could make a bad pun here

I've been feeling fuzzy in the head for months now, and the clarity that is usually there is slightly out of focus. It's been a bit annoying.
Part of it is bias and experience, of course, contributed by the last few months. Usually, being able to see Kingdom with a clear eye and being able to declare it is supposed to be my gifting. That being said, the gifting is kind of not a big deal. People of our sort are simply saying what is true, what has been said before, and what people will continue to ignore. That's it.
I sometimes kind of wish it would be the determining the lottery numbers kind of thing instead. Then, I imagine, I would gradually win, over and over again, and give it all away to people in need and that's what I would do for a living. On the other hand, like most people, perhaps a feeling of avarice, fear and selfishness would take over and I'd buy ten iPads or something.
At any rate, I had to confess to a few people that I haven't been able to see as clearly for the last little while. Understandable. It's been distracting, maddening and heart-breaking all at the same time for the last little while. And, rarely are there baskets of figs, valleys of dry bones or overturned pots to look at. Sigh.

Epicness

Honestly, I don't think it would necessarily rate as 'epic' if it wasn't for all the ways that God showed His face, but 'epic' is what I will call this weekend. I'm tired as heck, but I think it has been well worthwhile.
One thing I realize is that, as a quote from CS Lewis, "The next best thing to being wise oneself is to live in a circle of those who are"... and I realize the more that I try to keep certain linkages, the more unwise I am being, and it brings up exasperation and prophetic despair at how terrible those linkages are, like chains that drag you deeper into the abyss, rather than freeing God to work....
At any rate, spent a good chunk of Saturday with a diverse group of Christians, all working to demonstrate the full gospel (like, really, the full gospel, not the 'four spiritual laws', not 'atonement theory', not 'justification'), in word and deed, here to those that we would generally not associate (or 'be') with. To struggle to figure out how we can speak to the Church about getting out of an 'us/them', serve the poor mentality, but to something greater than this. To see how God has worked in so many different nations, to see the world reflected in the faces around the room, for us to share our giftings in being strategic for the Kingdom - exciting! God demonstrated His face in the faces all around me.
To see a good friend do a kick-ass job at guiding us through prophetic visions of Isaiah, and having even myself gleaning more out of passages that I thought I was quite familiar with - that was exciting to watch her discipling and teaching us and truly being released to use her gifting to bless the Church! God working through her to demonstrate His voice and calling on our lives!
Wandered through Nuit Blanche, and totally blissed out by the creativity that this city holds. How much artists demonstrate and envision for us what our city could be, weaving dreams and potentials, if only we would see them.... God demonstrating the extent of His gift of creativity, of His gift of transformation and vision!
Worshipping alongside a very old friend (a kindergarten friend!), and then having lunch with a pastor, who wanted to know about how I saw how evangelism and mission could be transformed in the church today to make radical inroads into society.
Headed to the Slow Food Picnic, and reconnected with chefs and farmers that I had not seen for a while - it was good to talk about collaboration, and transformation and advocacy with them. It was exciting to develop new relationships with chefs that I totally admire for their vision and passion about making food an issue about justice, and talking about how justice drives what we do. To see how God works here, even if they themselves cannot name Him, at least not yet.
Headed to a international health and politics dinner, filled with frigging brilliant minds who are all visioning for a better world. Sat down with one guy, and we talked about God. He wondered what was up with all these missionaries coming to the developing world, and what was up with them. Explained both the incredibly bad way that we 'do' missions and the attitudes that we bring, and explained why, a lot of the time, this doesn't jive with the God who loves us through our brokenness, to the God who transforms the human heart, to the God who loves the littlest, the least, the last and the lost, to the Jesus-God-man who broke through and calls us to following Him into the Kingdom. Explained our issues in the Church, our very-hard-to-see motivations, and completely transformed his viewpoint of Christianity. Had spent much time overseas working and, with all of his encounters with Christian missionaries, had never had the gospel explained to him like that. Had never seen what we should be (though fail a lot at) like, and could see how God could work in the world in this way. Transformed his mind, though not his heart, and can only pray for him to reconsider Christ. That so blessed me out. God is here. Emmanuel. Praise be to Him through whom the whole world holds together, waiting with baited breath for His full glory...

FFT

‎I think it's important to be able to laugh at oneself, but I also think it's important to not be armed with an overwhelming amount of material.
- Vic Lee

Tourist in 'yer own city

It's funny how you can live in a place almost your entire life, and know it only partly.
This week has been funny in how many places I've been that I have rarely, or never been to before, in my life. I made it out to the Beach, which I have been to probably once or twice before, and walked a bit on the Boardwalk. I'm sure I've been there before, and I have been 'around' the Beach area, in other neighbourhoods a lot, like Leslieville, but that was novel. In a way. I realized some of the reasons that I'd rarely been was because many of the same shops and services out there are pretty similar to what I grew up with, and friends I knew from the Beach growing up would meet me half-way, downtown, at the Eaton Centre.
I also managed to get all real urban hipster by finally getting to Nuit Regular's restaurant and catching a show a Yuk Yuk's, other things that I had, for whatever reason, also never been to.
Whoo. You'd think I was becoming a tourist in my own town at this rate... :P

Harry Potter and the smack upside the head

I know I keep mentioning that I'm over a decade late to the party, but I finally tore through the entire Harry Potter series - it's awfully helpful if you have a bunch of semi-busy ER shifts all together, nearby a friend's farm who happens to own the whole series. So ripped right through them, even Order of the Phoenix, as honestly folks, it's a children's series. Not too hard to read.
So? Was I scandalized (as was the evangelical church was) with the sorcery and witchcraft, worried that children all over the place would get the Imperius curse upon them, and follow the dark lord? Did I think it was the best cultural phenomenon of this century?
Um, no and no. To be honest, I found the writing poorly done; as one critic put it, "There is no adverb that JK Rowling doesn't like." The quality of the writing headed further downhill the further into the series one went. That's understandable; there was an enormous amount of pressure to keep pounding out those tomes as quickly as possible.
In addition, Harry's annoying. Yes, I know he's an adolescent, and certainly he acts like one. Yes, I know he lost his parents when he was a baby and was raised in a semi-abusive home. But in comparison to all of his other friends (Ron, Hermione, Neville, Luna and the rest), he's a smug, stupid boy with an attitude. Snape is right in his assessment of the boy, and really, at some point, Dumbledore should've smacked him upside the head.
I've kind of characterized it as Danielle Steele or John Grisham for children; massively popular on a societal scale, not incredibly challenging reading, definitely has a plot that keeps moving and one interested in what's going on, but definitely not classic, nor grand, literature. Sorry, folks, I know Harry has a rabid fan base, but this is not Tolkien, Dickens, L'engel, Alcott nor Hodgson Burnett.

FFT

The Garden

Ol' man Simon, planted a diamond.
Grew hisself a garden the likes of none.
Sprouts all grown', comin' up glowin',
Fruit of jewels all shinin' in the sun.
Colors of the rainbow,
See the sun and rain grow
Sapphires and rubies on ivory vines,
Grapes of jade, just ripenin' in the shade, just
Ready for the squeezin' into green jade wine.
Pure gold corn there,
Blowin' in the warm air,
Ol' crow nibblin' on the amnythyst seeds.
In between the diamonds, ol' man Simon
Crawls about pullin' out platinum weeds.
Pink pearl berries,
All you can carry,
Put 'em in a bushel and
Haul 'em into town.
Up in the tree there's
Opal nuts and gold pears -
Hurry quick, grab a stick
And shake some down.
Take a silver tater,
Emerald tomater,
Fresh plump coral melons
Hangin' in reach.
Ol' man Simon,
Diggin' in his diamonds,
Stops and rests and dreams about
One...real...peach.

Flesh is made of fibres...

What strikes me, every once in a while, is the generally sad state of marriage. I mean, I do marriage counseling routinely as part of my practice, that's pretty par for the course. That alone is enough to make people really skeptical about the potential beauty and utility of a good, solid marriage. The craziness that goes on in the privacy of people's homes sometimes downright amazes me.
However, I rationalize, those are PATIENTS - they're coming to see me because their lives are so nuts and they hope that I am able to apply some healing balm to the brokenness of their homes. Sometimes it helps, sometimes it doesn't, and sometimes there's a lot of debris left over afterwards, in the form of children, finances, homes, relationship, all broken. And for those that survive the shock and trauma, sometimes the scars and wounds that are left run deep, even if, for all intents and purposes, the 'face' of the household looks like it's back together. Sometimes those scars continue to dog the marriage long after they've decided to keep at it.
What breaks my heart even more is when friends tell me, in confidence, of the state of their marriages. I've noticed it tends to be Christian men who are more honest to me about the state of their marriages. I'm not entirely sure if, for women, there's too much at stake, that they've invested too much in being the princess to their Prince Charming that they cannot admit (and certainly not to a woman who is unmarried, though, honestly, I've seen enough in this world to develop an ennui of 'just how bad it could be') that there is something up. Perhaps the admission that they are not happy, because, as women, we invest so much of ourselves and our identity in our relationships, it is an admission that there is something wrong with us.
At any rate, the stories come: Good, solid Christian men who come to me to tell me not all is right at home. That they struggle often with staying in the home. That they're not sure how to navigate the brokenness of their wives. That they're reluctant to bring children into the world for this reason. That the relentless push for a husband to 'be the spiritual head' is oppressive, and their mistaking that as to have to bear the totality of the blame and the shame in the couple. Of the fights. Of the disappointment and eventual acceptance that this is all the satisfaction that they will get in this life. Of the loss of the passion and light in their lives. Of their second guessing their lives, wondering how they'd ended up with this person for the rest of their lives. It saddens me when they unburden themselves of these terrible secrets. Why me? Probably because partially I do this for a living, partially because I'll never speak of their situations to anyone, partially... who knows?
But I pray. And I pray. And I do see, when I look around the pews, those who are unhappy, but will not admit it either. And I wonder, how can we support those who need help, if they cannot ask? All I can really do is pray for these friends, pray for them, I'm sometimes not even really sure how, and pray that they can make right decisions...

If you could only see yourself in the mirror

It's sometimes the strangest things that re-ignite one's compassion for other people. I think it's awfully easy to wander most of the time with a rather apathetic attitude towards most people one encounters. Indifferent, at best, apathy, most likely.
Last night, a young girl came in, after injecting some junk into her veins that she had been told was meth, but was evidently not once it got in her. She started developing an anaphylactic reaction, which being scary enough, she then got dumped off at the doors of the ER while her "friends" drove away, leaving her on the pavement. She had to get her way to the doors of the emergency room before anyone saw she was there. She was understandably frantic, and we went about our routine work to get her to settle down, which she thankfully did, and then we ultimately transferred her to a more appropriate hospital for care.
However, the poor thing was clearly ravaged by years of drug abuse - you could tell that without the drugs, she could've been a great beauty, but her haggard face and body made her look twice her age. In between her crying episodes and declarations she was going to get off (noble, but unlikely: meth is the worst for most drugs for addictive potential, killing most of its lovers), she said she started when she was only 14, and that her boyfriend was her dealer (so who knows how that relationship benefits her). A sad life, as she lay, half-clothed on our gurney, with her poorly-applied mascara streaming unattractively across her face, an obvious meth mouth where there should've been a set of beautiful young teeth...

Spurious causes and effects

It's funny how superstitious medical personnel get. Re-certifying in my ACLS qualifications a week ago now has us all on tenterhooks here this weekend, waiting for someone to come in complete cardiac arrest. Of course, being the MD here would make me in charge of bringing this hypothetical dead person back to life. This only makes sense, of course, because I'm at my optimal in being able to manage one of those, coming straight out of the classroom, hence, why it should inevitably happen.
We all know this - if someone mentions how the floor, or the ER, is awfully 'quiet', people quickly 'shush' them, thinking that disaster will befall shortly thereafter.
I myself noted that one of the (thankfully) few obstetrical crises I've had to deal with came the day after reading a fictional short story about the very same phenomenon. I kicked myself for reading that book the night before.
And so, I'm studiously avoiding reviewing the algorithms, just in case...

Whoosh! Up in flames!

What I find rather curious is how some have used people's musings on issues on their blogs in order to flame and defame them, and then turn around to then soak the blogger's supporters with petroleum as well.
This has been particularly noted in several postings that I've put up, written by other authors, on Facebook, and then seeing the bloodthirsty battles that then ensue - I suppose I should be thankful that I am able to have a diversity of friends from all over the spectrum of Christendom who can comment on aspects and practices of faith from VERY different viewpoints - but sometimes the aspersions that some make about others, who they don't know and haven't met, are astounding.
Today, even, one friend had posted something on his wall, and in my commenting, had some other guy who I've never met tell me (wow, again, not like I haven't heard this before) that clearly, I'm not a believer and maybe I should read the Bible and authors X, Y and Z (what a big surprise that you would suggest those ones, and not authors A, B and C - probably because you think they're going to hell).
At any rate, in combination with people making assumptions about me by reading this blog, it's amazing what people will do in the relative anonymity of cyberspace. What I find particularly galling is how there are some who have read this page, and, without ever bothering to call or speak to me about it (living in the same city and time zone and all), cast aspersions, create gossip, and make baseless accusations. As if I wouldn't know. Or hoping that I wouldn't know.
For Pete's sake, for a people who are supposed to be easily identifiable by the unity (in diversity) and the love and respect with which we treat one another, I am surprised that there aren't even more people running from the church, screaming and screaming and screaming...

Protect the poor and the vulnerable

Well, it was rather discouraging in seeing how fragile our mental health system actually is. Last evening, en route to a friend's house, from Chinatown, a lady was casually lounging on the street in front of First Baptist, as if she was casually sunning herself. Loretta was her name. Asking if I had some time hang around and to pray for her (Why, of course I have time for those who ask!), she then proceeding to ask me for money, and also to call her family members.
Loretta was clearly mentally ill. Thinking she must be homeless, and needing some connection to get to a shelter, I'm calling around, finally reaching her sister-in-law that asked her to come home to them. Loretta refused, saying she wanted to stay downtown. Sister-in-law confesses on the phone (to a complete stranger!) that it's hard, she runs away often, and since they live in Scarborough and are trying to make ends meet, they can't be running around Toronto trying to find her. All they can do is ensure that she knows how to get home and how to contact them, but after that, they cannot do anything more.
The longer I'm talking to her, the more agitated Loretta gets, telling me I need to stop talking to her sister-in-law, that she doesn't want me to talk to her anymore. Offering a call to 411 also refused.
So, I unfortunately left Loretta on the sidewalk, somewhat assured that she had a family and a home, unsure how to make her move somewhere safer and protected. A bit of a tension in allowing freedom, and yet wanting to force safety.
This, combined with my bloody 'adventure' on the TTC last week with a gentleman with a medical emergency, who clearly could also use a family and a home as well, makes me wonder just how easy it is for us to let people just fall through the cracks. I wonder how to mobilize the Church to love the unlovely. My own experience demonstrates how easy it is for those in the Church to shun and marginalize those who are different in any way. We are called to better than that. The proof in our call to protect the poor and the vulnerable was also manifest in Washington as well, watching our neighbours calling upon their politicians for a circle of protection around the vulnerable...

Washington DC I

I must say that the Americans are fascinating people. I'm already back from there, as it was a jam-packed few days in their nation's capital, but there was much to learn. I realized I was more culture shocked from being in the USA than I was while I was in Turkey, to be honest.
I am convinced that the Americans can indeed still be a force for good, but in talking with many at the conference, it seems that there is a sense that their nation has lost their way. I fear also, for many aspects of their mythology that prevent them from being truly great, including that sense of American exceptionalism, and some of the assumptions of their worldview.
It was encouraging to speak to many these last few days who see what their nation could be and what holds it back. It's encouraging to know that there are still many brave and wonderful Americans. It moves one to pray for that nation as it teeters on, yet again, figuring out who defines what is American, and what aspects of its faith it will choose to suppress and show to the rest of the world...

Turkey V

I think there is something to be said about the self-indulgentness of vacationing. I understand that I happen to live in a country that allows a ridiculous amount of freedom to travel without restrictions, that I happen to be in circumstances that allow me to have the time and the money to travel, and that there are many of millions of people that will never stray far from their place of birth. I wonder if I may have passed some sort of threshold to 'see the world'.
This is doubtful. What I suspect is more likely is the 'purposefulness' of travel. It has been a very long time since I have travelled solely for the purpose of traveling alone. Not for conferences, or for edification of the saints, or for visiting friends who work in far-flung areas doing Very Important Work, or for participating in real, tangible work to help people - those have been the only reasons for my traveling over the past decade overseas to exotic locales.
And so, for 'just' traveling, I find it paradoxically not very satisfying. Ending up on the carousel of the tourist track, of going where everyone else is going, and seeing what everyone else is seeing, seems like a never-ending self-indulgent funfest. Spending so much time within the tourist infrastructure is stifling - you don't have a chance to develop culture shock, because you don't see many people who aren't other tourists, or nationals working for the tourism industry. You move within bubbles of ex-pats, all moving like sheep to the same destinations to gawk at the same things.
The only tangential interaction was staying with some Kurdish couchsurfers, and talking to them about their experiences of being Kurdish in Turkey. Having to struggle to understand their reality and their history was the only mentally challenging and demanding thing that I had to do the whole time. But with that came a slightly deeper understanding of the makeup of this country, of where it will go. It gave me context for the PKK bomb that went off in Istanbul, a few days after we left that city. It helps form what I understand of their upcoming elections next week. No tour guide, nor Lonely Planet, nor tourism travel board can ever give a glimpse of that side of a country's face...

Turkey IV

I have a very difficult time sleeping, as most of you know. It probably relates to my inability to truly relax. However, we have just arrived somewhere, that were it not for the fact we are just staying overnight, I might have actually been able to truly rest. I found myself, lying on a hammock under grapevines and orange trees, just barely, tinily, infintesimally, creepingly so, to begin to not think, not fret about the world, not ponder, not wonder about the church and her problems, not consider God's concern for the world, not do anything. I didn't even have the motivation to leave to see a bit of the regular tourist attractions.
However, a thunderstorm soon broke both of those choices anyways - had to scramble out of that hammock and head for dry docks.... perhaps one day I could try that again...

Turkey III

There are tons of "biblical" sites here, that I'm sure any Bible history junkie could get their fix here. Tarsus and Antioch. The seven churches of Revelation. Paul, John and multiple others have travelled through, or have come from, this region. It simply seeps with the history of the church, thanks to the Byzantine empire (even though it has been obscured, and sometimes a bit hidden from view, after both the Seljuk and Ottoman empires have been through).
Not that we're doing much in the 'bible tourist' category, but we have seen where St. John is said to have retired and written his gospel, and where he brought Mary to spend the rest of her days after he was commanded to take care of her. We have visited the city of Ephesus, and stood where Paul stood when he spoke to the Ephesians (and then got the silversmiths of Artemis really, really mad). We have seen the church where St. John is said to have been buried. We have stood where Constantine has been, creating the Holy Roman Empire in his time. We have been where Richard the Lion-Hearted has been (though sadly, it was because of the Crusades that he came through here). We have seen where the ancient church built entire cities and centres of worship, deep in the mountains and under the hills. We have seen how the Byzantine empire maintained the practice and memory of the church while Europe was in its Dark Ages.
Incidentally, I think we fail to give the Byzantine church (and for that matter, the ancient Celtic church) enough credit in the Protestant tradition for their holding fast to the faith - without them, Protestants/evangelicals/fundamentalists wouldn't even have had a faith legacy to be able to now look at those churches and call them heretical...
To consider the weight of history and to consider that our footsteps actually mirror, two thousand years later, the same places where others have stood and spoken, is quite a wonder.

Turkey II

The one fact about Turkey that I find fascinating is that it is a completely food sovereign nation. That is to say, Turkey is completely capable of feeding itself, and still have leftover for export. That is incredible. There is very little that Turkey actually requires to import for its own survival. Most of the items that it imports, it could surely survive without, if need be, such as coffee and bananas. Otherwise, it is able to produce all of its grain, meat, fruit and vegetables and dairy needs on its own. It even has its own capacity for growing tea and sugar, its own nuts and legumes and its own fishing industry to round out all of its dining needs.
Incredible. In addition, the food itself is incredible. Plenty of vegetables and fresh bread, completely delicious all the time. I have been hard pressed to find a bad meal here, even in the smallest of büfe shops.
Part of it, I think, is how they have been very focussed on using agricultural land. Very few yards or private greenspace lacks fruit or olive trees. Most vacant areas between buildings in smaller towns have greenhouses upon them. Efficient usage of terraces, stacked with greenhouses are noted, even by the sides of main thoroughfares, in order to ensure production of food. Simply amazing. Not knowing too much of their food industry, nor its ethics or economics, I still have to tip my hat to their ability to feed their own people.

Turkey I

So here we are in Istanbul - a city with a long, vibrant history, where two continents collide, the birthplace of Christianity and Sufism. Mosque and cathedral (and back again, as they were all converted to mosques during the Ottoman empire), both rising majestically along the skyline. Saw a few of the 'must see' sites here including the Blue Mosque. Now, not having seen an extensive number of famous mosques around the world, I do believe this is one of the 'famouser' ones. This is also quite evident just based on the throngs of people coming to see it. Also, as in all mosques, you are requested to remove your shoes before entering - the Blue Mosque is the first that I have seen that even has a dispenser roll of plastic bags at the visitors' entrance to put your shoes in (also an indication of just how popular this site is)!
Problem is, the first thing that you notice upon stepping into the Blue Mosque is the distinctive smell of feet. Not the burning incense of cathedrals, not the mustiness of old parchments, but of feet. Before you even notice the soaring dome, the intricacy of the tiling, the majesty of the building and its design, you smell feet. It is disconcerting, to say the least. Furthermore, I think the solemnity and majesty of the building is taken away by the numbers of children running wild in the male area of the mosque (the larger section of the ground space, and the more spacious, as fewer people are allowed in that area, causing great crushes of people in the unisex/visitors' area, which explains why so many children choose to run around the male prayer area). Of course, this could be rectified somewhat if all people, irrespective of their gender, were free to 'come before God', not having some being relegated to small areas in the posterior part of the building. It could, however, also just encourage more tourists, which wouldn't be a good thing either.

Calgary I

Sometimes one's impressions of a city are somewhat not entirely without merit. Calgary, to me, still represents unfettered greed and wealth at the expense of the environment and what is actually good for people. It still represents to me unending sprawl and abhorrent history of poor planning in the past. And yet, there is a mayor there who is the mayor Toronto should have had. There is currently a Calgary regional plan that makes sense within the parameters that it currently finds itself in. There is deep thought going into thinking about what kind of future that they see for themselves. These are all very encouraging things.
However, they are still left fighting against an overwhelming sense of a libertarian paranoia, of stalwarts who still want to do things for profit, raping the earth and refusing to think of future generations, those from some weird "Christian" point of view who say they are not moving with progress (though more likely, not moving with their own personal forms of gain). It's depressing that the stereotypical redneck avarice of the region may very well spell its own demise...

Musing on the muses

I was browsing through the paper today, and noted a collection of photographs being taken at the Cannes Film Festival that's currently taking place. I noted how beautiful all the women were, with their dresses and beautiful coiffed hair. Certainly, they were all dressed impeccably, and so very beautiful. And with very sore feet - I don't think any of them did not arrive on the red carpet without stilettos.
In stark contrast were the photographs taken of the men: Antonio Banderas in an untucked shirt, boat shoes and jeans. DeNiro wearing sneakers (sneakers!) with his tuxedo. Jack Black showing up in a T-shirt and sneakers. The lucky ducks. The men get to show up in clothing they can comfortably wear on the French Riviera, lounging around and even having the belt room to spare for some extra frites before the show starts, and yet the women, the women...
Bound in tiny pieces of footwear. Encased in tight dresses. Forcing their bosoms to heave with the corsets and stays in their tops. It is still the relentless expectations and subjugation of women that force these women, as stunningly beautiful as they are, to be dressed no less oppressively than those of their burqa-covered sisters under the Taliban, or the chanzu of the Han Chinese, or the corseted courtesans in European courts. The irony of the freedom afforded to Western women seems a bit lost when perusing these beauties...

FFT

John of Kronstadt was a nineteenth-century Russian Orthodox priest at a time when alcohol abuse was rampant. Few of the priests ventured out of their churches to help the people. They waited for the people to come to them.
John, compelled by love, went out into the streets. People said he would lift the hungover, foul-smelling drunks from the gutter, cradle them in his arms, and say to them, “This is beneath your dignity. You were meant to house the fullness of God.”
Like John of Kronstadt, we can say to the broken, “Your brokenness does not define you. You are one in whom Christ dwells. You were meant to house the fullness of God.” We welcome them like the Prodigal Son, restoring them to their true birthright, even if they have trouble accepting it.

-James Bryan Smith.

FFT

…Don’t the prophets strike you as kind of cranky? … no wonder those of us who preach often avoid them. Our listeners don’t always like it. We don’t like it.
We like happy books. In most of our churches, it is easier to preach comfort rather than judgment, mercy rather than justice, because by the standards of God’s justice, who can ever measure up?
On the other hand, these passages are in the Bible. In fact, the prophets directly account for 250 of the 1189 chapters in the Bible. Can you really be a biblical preacher and not address what the prophets have to say?
More than that, there is a reason why we need to preach on justice. There is a reason for the anger of the prophets, and why we need to submit ourselves to the discipline of regularly sitting under and preaching their words…
...We read the prophets and think: What’s the big deal? What are they getting all heated up about?
To us, the world is not so bad. Most of us are pretty happy. Things are going okay - at least for me.
I know there’s violence in the world. It’s regrettable, but as long as it doesn’t touch my life, I would prefer not to think much about it. Certainly that’s not connected to my anger, self-centredness, lack of love.
Cheating goes on everyday in business. Somebody shades the truth a little for profit - that’s just the way things are.
Some 8000 children are born with or infected with HIV everyday in sub-saharan Afica, and it’s now the leading cause of death.
A few miles from my church, from any church, children are born in poverty, living in ghettos or slums; they will grow up without access to decent education, housing.
But they’re not my children. Maybe their parents did something to deserve it. So what if in ancient Israel the poor often got the shaft? Where is it any different? Why go off the deep end?
The prophets act like the world is falling apart.
What’s the big deal?
The prophets have been given the crushing burden of looking at our world and seeing what God sees; rich people trying to get richer and looking the other way while poor people die. And thinking God is really pretty pleased with their lives. And that the world is going pretty well.
We tend to avoid preaching about justice because we don’t really want to know the truth about what sin has done to our world and to us. Because that would make us uncomfortable.
As Micah 2:11 put it: “If a liar and a deceiver comes and says: ‘I will prophesy for you plenty of wine and beer,’ he would be just the prophet for this people.”
We prefer preaching that tastes great and is less filling….
…. Events that horrified the prophets go on every day in our world, but we just get used to it - like you get used to wearing your watch. After a while - we don’t notice any more.
The prophets noticed. The prophets never got desensitized to sin. Injustice is sin. Justice is central to shalom. We omit justice from our preaching at peril of our calling, and of our congregation’s health and ability to see the reality around them…
…Concern for justice must also be rooted in Jesus and tied to Scripture. Historian Mark Noll noted that one shortcoming of the abolition movement was a failure to do the exegetical and theological work needed to base abolitionism in the authority of Scripture. As a result, reform movements after the Civil War (from women’s rights to temperance to child labour) became increasingly detached from Scripture, and they became increasingly separated from the concerns of the church…
…When we ask people to involve themselves in justice issues, we are not adding a burden on to their busy lives, or asking them to do the church a favour. Ultimately, what matters most is… Which person is more like God?...
…In some churches, where many attenders are well off, we may have to remind ourselves of how badly injustice stings… we hate it when someone treats us unfairly - at work, in family. The call of Jesus is to get as energized about someone else’s being the victim of injustice as you are when it’s you. In particular, be concerned about injustice to those you might be inclined to overlook.
This is another concrete story, from a woman quoted in Miraslov Volf’s wonderful book Exclusion and Embrace: “I am Muslim, and I am 35 years old. To my second son, I gave the name Jihad so he would not forget the testament of his mother - revenge. The first time I put my baby at my breast I told him, ‘May this milk choke you if you forget.’ So be it. The Serbs taught me to hate. [She describes her work as a teacher and how the very people she taught and cared for became her enemies.] My student Zoran, the only son of my neighbour, urinated into my mouth. As the bearded hooligans standing around laughed, he told me: ‘ You are good for nothing else, you stinking Muslim woman.’”
Jesus often surprised his followers by being concerned for those whom others were inclined to overlook….
… So we are to remind people that it is in Jesus that justice prevails. The cross was the scene of the most monstrous injustice in history, where the one truly innocent person in history was visited with the sum total of human sin.
It is on a cross we see most clearly God’s hatred of injustice. It is an empty tomb that proclaims most loudly justice’s final victory.
And so Jesus’ people are called to form a community where shalom prevails. I love the translation Eugene Peterson gives in Acts 2 of the way the world looking on the early church “and in general, liked what they saw” (Acts 2:47, The Message).
May it happen again.

-John Ortberg.

Summertime, and the living ain't easy...

Well, now that the school year is over (part I of IV to V), I can now get back to... the normal amount of busy-ness. I find it's interesting how it tends to come in waves, rather than in a steady stream. I think it'd be easier that way, if it came at a regular trickle, rather than a mini-tsunami monthly.
Currently enjoying having a new roommate come to live with me, until she gets her life direction all figured out. It's interesting, not having had a (permanent) roommate for a couple of years now and having to renegotiate life with one. It's good and nice to have someone else around the house.
However, I'm regularly intruding on her space so I can access my computer to work on a talk I'm giving on Easter Sunday. Prophetic, it's expected to be. Challenging, too. Yipes. Calling people out of the self-centredness of their own forgiveness, and to broaden their horizons to the reconciliation and transformation of all of life through Christ is where they're being pushed to go. Hopefully impactful; we shall see. The heart is notoriously self-centred and selfish, I know. I can barely break out of my own selfish desires to tend to those around me; the cords of selfishness bind all of us quite firmly.
I'm almost grateful I'm not going to be in the country for another conference that had asked if I'd come to be their plenary speaker (for pity's sake! Can you imagine how some people's teeth would gnash? They would probably wear down their entire enamel that such an infidel as I would be allowed to speak publicly.) this year. Though it would have, indeed, been a fine opportunity to continue to call God's people to envision the wide and lavish love of Christ and His purposes and plans for all of His creation...

Lenten thoughts

though they really aren't, as I was wracking my brain for a few weeks prior to Lent, trying to think of something meaningful to give up, but by the time Fat Tuesday came around, the one thing I had thought of was actually going to be difficult to implement, so now I didn't actually give anything up for Lent.
However, I'll do it next year. I had thought of giving up eating out for the whole season of Lent. The only reason why I didn't was because I had some dinner and lunch meetings booked in the upcoming weeks that I couldn't break, so I had already trespassed against Lent before it began!
Admittedly, with a significant amount of disposable income and living in a city with a significant wealth and diversity of cuisines, it's very difficult to give up the idea of restaurants and food services. However, I think I, like many of my peers, spend an inordinate amount of money on food outside the home. For me, I find that even more profoundly ironic with my fruit and veg box and my commitment to local producers and vendors. It's certainly not a cost thing: certainly, I likely spend close to the same amount in restaurants monthly as I do on food consumed in the home, but, as opposed to the majority of Torontonians, this doesn't affect my own food security.
It is, however, a justice thing. When we are called as people to temper our appetites (of all sorts), to snuff out greed and selfishness, then I find the over-abundant expenditures on food outside the home fairly unjustifiable. It's a tough balance: many chefs I know are talented, hard-working people, who deserve the accolades and fair compensation for what they do. However, it still remains a luxury for most of the people in our city. And so that's where I remain: You would think it would be easy to give up restaurant food for 47 days, but it's not as pragmatically easy as one realizes...

FFT

Our Greatest Threat

Much as I hate to admit it, I do reconnaissance at the Department of Motor Vehicles before choosing my seat. The place is a collision of diversity. Logically, I shouldn't feel so uneasy. No one's going to pull a knife on me. But within this diversity there are certain people groups that I view with suspicion. I'm not proud of it, but I believe certain people groups have an unusual capacity for doing evil.
Are certain people really more prone to doing evil than others? Yes. I've found that history points to a single people group who do the most evil. I know it sounds terribly intolerant to label a single people group as the enemy, but this is what history shows.
So who is this great enemy of ours? Three historical vignettes will answer that question. We begin in the 5th century with an answer offered by Symeon Stylites. A Christian ascetic, Symeon sought to free himself from the corrosion of the world by building a 60-foot pillar and standing atop it for 37 years. He started a trend and soon a forest of pillars grew up around him, each topped with a man who similarly believed that the problem was something "down there." Who's the enemy, according to Symeon? The swamp of depraved souls below.
A second story offers a different answer. A journalist once approached Mother Teresa, notepad in hand. Apparently thinking he'd stump her, he asked pointedly, "Where is God when a child dies alone in the slums of Calcutta?" It's not an uncommon question. A God who claims to be both powerful and loving should be taken to task for such an atrocity. The implication, of course, is that God is the perpetrator of evil.
A third answer comes from Flannery O'Connor. As a novelist and essayist, she's not exactly writing history, but her vision is sharp enough to blur the line between fiction and reality. In a doctor's waiting room, Mrs. Turpin sits and reflects on her good nature, thankful that Jesus "had not made her a nigger or white-trash or ugly." Then for no apparent reason, a snarlingly ugly girl hurls a book at her from across the room, followed by an insult, "Go back to hell where you came from, you old warthog." Having collected herself, dusting off her pride Mrs. Turpin notes silently of the insult, "There was trash in the room to whom it might justly have been applied." Who's the enemy, according to Mrs. Turpin? Others who don't know good folk when they see 'em.
So far, our three stories don't agree on a common enemy, except to say not me. But the stories go on. Mrs. Turpin left the doctor's office baffled by the ugly girl's ignorance. Later that night, however, she couldn't shake the girl's words. They echoed in her mind, speaking the truth by stripping bare her self-righteous soul: "Go back to hell, you old warthog." Mrs. Turpin is the real enemy.
Mother Teresa took the journalist's question in stride. But her answer cut short any further ridicule. "Where was God when a child dies alone in Calcutta?" She responded patiently: "Where were you?" The journalist is the real enemy.
Symeon Stylites eventually became a saint. But in his effort to escape the corrosive world below, his foot produced a terrible ulcer. The pus that continually seeped out is documented in graphic detail. Corrosion, it seems, also comes from within. Symeon is the real enemy.
Which is the people group most prone to do evil? History tries to dodge the question, but the answer is inevitable: it's not them; it's me. I am our greatest enemy.
May God save us from ourselves.

- Brandon Gaide.

Being transformed by the renewing of your mind (not)

One theme that has repeated itself over and over again over the past week or so has been that of entertainment. Some of the main stories that have been running through the newspapers and radios have been commenting on (in various degrees): Charlie Sheen, the NHL (and issues around head concussions, and comparing it to NFL and UFC injuries), whether Lady Gaga does or does not like the idea of breast milk ice cream, people lining up for the iPad launch, who did and did not sing for Gadhafi's family, what has happened to Justin Bieber's hair, etc etc. And, despite news of the rebels fighting Gadhafi's forces, yet another earthquake devastating Japan, and the undemocratic processes that are happening in our own City Hall, we spend an inordinate amount of time paying attention to diversions, to fluffy entertainment. I personally find it embarrassing that I do have a better sense as to what the Bieb's new haircut looks like than I do about Libyan history.
What drives us to be more concerned about the newest Hollywood blockbuster, the newest celebrity gossip, than what concerns life-or-death situations for thousands, if not millions, of people, every day? Why do we tweet about what we think about starlet X's dress that she wore to the Oscars, but think less about those who are dying and fighting over less than what that Oscar gown was worth? Why do we do that?
What I cannot stand is when God's people stand around, at churches and fellowships and potlucks, and talk about this kind of drivel. If this is the content of our minds, then where lies the direction of our hearts? And if our hearts are inclined in a certain direction, then how will it lead how we choose to live our lives? It's all very depressing.

A City Covenant

You know what I love? Well, many things, really. But one thing that really inspires me is other people who look through a glass, darkly, but can also see beyond it and dream big dreams, and when synergies can come together and cause those dreams to happen.
I'm currently in discussions with one of those dreamers. The initiative is so exciting, and visionary, and possible, holding the potential to change our city for the better, if not the whole country. It actually deeply impresses me when people have huge vision for how Kingdom can come, here and now, and as well as thinking ahead to when it shall come to fulfillment.
At any rate, I've been asked to take part, and help found this initiative. I am embarrassed to think that they think I can actually contribute something useful. What an opportunity to make a tangible difference for this city, however.
More details later (unless, of course, you're one of those people who are in this 'divine conspiracy' as well), but certainly, I am also daunted, not only by my lack of skill, but also with the tasks that still remain, and how to find balance, but also with considering how to give 'all out' for the Kingdom, each and every day...

Never much longer than 500 words. Maybe 140 characters or less.

I've realized I have a really hard time paying attention for hours at a time, sitting, immobile, at a desk. I've been endeavouring to finish a paper for school, and it's been super-ADD in trying to do so. I sit for about 30 minutes, write one or two sentences, then check Facebook or email, get up, make a cup of tea, think it's probably a good idea to clean the bathroom, and then realize an hour later that I should get back to work. It's been painful.
I'm not sure how much of this is culturally imposed, in this culture of Twitter, status updates and Sesame Street commercial length episodes. I'm not sure how much of this is because, up to this point, brevity and conciseness are virtues in my career. However, it's killing me to talk, at length, about a topic that I find fascinating, but can only say so much before I start repeating myself. To ask me to do a powerpoint presentation, bullet-style, with the three major points to be made, is great. I could orate for hours on a topic, but to ask me to transcribe it all on paper? Bah!

Bing! goes the lightbulb

Wow! It's been a while since I've posted! Mainly because I don't really have much new to say, actually.
A few weekends ago was a launch of a 'salon' for a group of people who generally have not been pushed, nor encouraged, to think deeply and profoundly about the assumptions that they bring to the understanding of their faith. I think some of them still didn't really get it.
However, it was greatly encouraging to see people thinking, almost physically seeing the lightbulbs going off in their heads to think and engage critically with their cultural blinders, and their biases and judgements. Not sure where that will go, or if some will eventually tire of thinking, and want to simply consume blindly.
Blind, witless consumption results in being prepared like a pig for slaughter; so engorged and sated with lulling platitudes, that one cannot and does not recognize or engage with the culture as it is....

FFT

"When I give food to the poor, they call me a saint. When I ask why the poor have no food, they call me a communist." - Dom Helder Camara

FFT

I live in North America. I'm fortunate. Some would even say I'm blessed. But when I look around our great country, I see disturbing contrasts. Some are rich, others poor. Some are powerful, others neglected. There are those who are healthy, those who are sick. My travels take me to countries where there appear to be no blessings. I see dirt floors, glassless windows, rag mattresses and short life expectancies, things that I would consider trials, perhaps even tribulations. Yet when I listen to the Christians living there speak about their God, I know they have seen and experienced God in a reality I can only read about. Sometimes I wonder whether their experiences allow them to know God in ways I never will.
Some say the blessings I have are from God, but it makes me wonder why God would give me financial security when that doesn't lead me to a stronger faith. Why does He protect me from pain when my pleasure only keeps me distracted from the important things in life? Ravi Zacharias in his book "Jesus among other gods" states that:
"Meaninglessness does not come from being weary of pain but from being weary of pleasure. It is not pain that has driven the west into emptiness; it has been the drowning of meaning in the oceans of our pleasure."
I remember the patient dying of cancer that I had told would not live out the weekend. He didn't believe me and weakly joked about my attempt to predict the future; "Are you God?" he asked gently. When I returned after my weekend off he smiled, took my hand, motioned me closer to his face and whispered that I must not be a very good doctor as he was still alive! We both knew what he meant, and we both knew that God was waiting for him; he was ready to die but he needed to wait a little longer and even in his suffering, that was okay.
We can also recall those patients who make us feel uncomfortable in their lively exuberance as they speak about the blessings of God. They are too often speaking from a life of pleasure. Safety, security, affluence and overindulgence often define our understanding of God's blessing. Is it possible that when one travels the easy road in life, one becomes spiritually soft? Is suffering a form of spiritual exercise? Are Christians in the West suffering from spiritual obesity, fed to excess on the best things in life at the table of our local "pigs-are-us" buffet?
Meaning in life becomes clearer when we go through tough times. Suffering brings out many emotions in us. Some cry out for help, others rail against the foes. But it still hurts. Is there a lesson for us in suffering? Or is this just required of the few? The Bible gives us some indication when Paul writes in Roman 5:3,4 "...we also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope."
I can only conclude that North American "blessings" are not necessarily God's "blessings". There is something out there of more value. John Steinbeck, in his book "The Pearl" had it right when he told his story about the error of sacrificing all for something that was valuable but not priceless. We need to look for and find the "pearl of great price" that Christ refers to in His parable.
This issue leaves me with a bit of sanguine melancholy. Christ has not given me my affluence as a blessing to horde, but as a tool to serve. And I need to go through suffering to mature. Isn't there another way?
-Dr. Roger Gingerich

Haiti Part II Episode II

I have many, many, many blindspots and biases, but I think I try very hard to keep an open, non-judgmental mind in viewing and weighing the values of the 'other'. However, the breathless confidence that some hold about how they are the sole keepers of truth and they are the only, privileged ones who have been given the mandate to bring it to those poor, black people gives me the creeps. I've written before of those who wore shirts that said, "God is now coming to Haiti" - presumptuous. Thinking that God has never been there previously. Thinking that they are the repositories of God. Thinking that the Church does not exist here, or does absolutely nothing.
It continues: the denigration of local pastors who spend long hours loving and praying for their countrymen. The assurance that parroting back the "sinner's prayer" allows them to tick off another "saved soul". The sheer arrogance in asserting that Haitians have never known love before, which is why we are so privileged to bring it to them (WHAT??). The worldview that assures itself that Haiti is a land of Satan that needs to suffer conquest and victory over it. All of it, heinous.
I think another friend, in another context, has put it better than I: http://outthereq.blogspot.com/2010/12/i-love-that-they.html

Haiti Part II Episode I

Cholera has a 50% mortality rate, if untreated. It is a horrible death of profuse vomiting and diarrhea, an undignified, dirty, leper-like death. Families have abandoned those who start showing signs of it, fearful of ending up with the same fate, leaving patients to die alone in the filth of their own feces. Other families have shown great courage and sacrifice in getting their loved ones to the hospital.
It is ridiculously curable; the simplicity of IV fluids is enough to cure the disease. That is all; the lack of clean water and the giving of clean water are both the cause, and the cure.
Part of this contributes to my rage here, watching those who lie, completely undignified, half-naked on our hospital cots with holes ripped open in the middle of the bed, so that they can simply defecate straight into deep buckets under their cots as they are too weak and sick to do their business in private. Rage that something as simple as clean water prevents this disease. Rage that 1 in 6 people on this planet lack access to clean water on a daily basis, and that one-third of our population lack access to basic sanitation.
I serve as the pediatrician here, and have been in charge of the Pediatric Ward (Lopital Kolera pou Timoun in Creole) since my arrival. My charges are the small babies to the teenagers. Everyday, I have witnessed the miracle of Lazarus, again and again, of those who were dead, but have been brought back to life. All for the sake of a few litres of clean water.
My littlest have been but several months old, tiny little critters, to teenagers that have made me laugh when they have gotten well enough that they can complain, over and over again of, "I'm booooorrrrred." (Thank God you're well enough to complain like a regular teenager!). Some have broken my heart in their stories of hunger and want, some have made me laugh with their smiles and their shenanigans (which prove to me how much better they've gotten), some have dozed off in my lap with their velvety chocolate fingers wrapped around my own relatively fat pale ones. This is the face of Jesus that I and my amazing Peds team have resuscitated and maintained and cured, with my nurses colouring and blowing balloons and bubbles for the children. I thank God for my team, for they were amazing women with huge skills and huge hearts, and certainly, though being the pediatrician for the week, I wouldn't have been able to do it without them.