The Radical Concept of Care

We have been struck by the kindnesses. Accompanying my parents on a medical safari through the Mayo Clinic in Jacksonville, Florida, we have certainly been the beneficiaries of those kindnesses, ourselves. Receptionists, housekeepers, nurses and doctors – everyone we have encountered has beamed a genuine smile, extended a helping and patient hand, and generally made us feel like their sole reason for waking up in the morning has been to make us comfortable, oriented and content. And while that has been a welcomed surprise (those not being my typical adjectives for describing experiences with the medical community), what has amazed us has been the generosity with which those graces have been offered amongst themselves – doctors to nurses, housekeepers to receptionists, and even doctors to each other.

Kindness, rather impatience. Cooperation, rather than competition. Appreciation, rather than presumption. Fundamental respect – as if, in language more familiar to my environs, people generally do recognize, around here, in each other’s faces the very image of God.

It reminds me of a restaurant experience that Lori and I enjoyed a few years ago outside of Portland, Oregon where, because of a serendipitous acquaintance the night before, we were privileged to sit at the counter of the exposed kitchen in the working company of the chef. We were intrigued by the intricate activity – the cooking and the assembling, the staging and the arranging for all the patrons of this busy bistro – but what awed us was the palpable kindness that oiled the movements and the mechanics between preparers and servers. It was a like a gentle ballet, with the kitchen voices amiably calling to the servers, “Amy, please,” or whose ever order was ready at the time. Kindly respect, which made it difficult for the customers to participate in the experience with anything but the same.

Back at Mayo, we wheeled the chair between clinics and floors, from one lab to another, and sat in one doctor’s presence after another. And without exception, we experienced people looking into our eyes, not simply Mother’s charts. We experienced people listening to her story and to her spirit, not merely to her symptoms.

And we had the unshakable impression that all of these specialists and assistants were not simply accommodating; were not merely fascinated by the physiological conundrums of medical complications. We left with the sense that they genuinely cared.

Imagine that: people, caring about people. What a radical concept.

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A Satanic Piano and the Melody of Grace

I was intended to be merely background -- unobtrusive fingers on the keys, plinking out simple accompaniment in musical support of the real star of the afternoon: my wife. She was the invited guest at the annual ladies luncheon of a small, inner-city church with which we have become acquainted. Ladies from the host congregation had heard Lori play her flute in a service at our own church and had been impressed. She is, after all, a woman of many talents. She has had a lot of experience playing her flute in churches, but never as the "featured artist". She has always been part of the accompaniment, never the one needing it, and so when she expanded the invitation to include me, it was easy to sign on. This was a delightfully special invitation. Together, then, we browsed through possible selections, settled on repertoire, and practiced. A lot. We thought we sounded pretty good. We were ready.

The day arrived on Saturday, and because I would be slipping in from another meeting, we wouldn't have opportunity to run through the two selections on the premises (insert danger signs here). When I arrived, the meeting was well underway -- boisterous, fervent singing, a lovely dance routine to a pre-recorded song by a young immigrant woman, scripture reading and prayer. And then it was time for the special music. I began the introduction, and almost immediately felt the terror of indecision. The piano -- exactly like pianos in countless church basements all over the world -- sounded terrible. To describe it as "catastrophically out of tune" would be an exaggerated understatement. An old friend would have said it was "supernaturally out of tune; nothing could be that tuneless without divine help." The more I played, the worse it sounded. If I hadn't been so mortified, I could have been satisfied -- what difference did it suddenly make whether I played correct notes or not? Every note was sour, no matter the intent.

What, then, to do? Play softly? Drop out altogether? My back was to Lori, so no eye-signaled communication was possible. We soldiered discordantly on through both selections (yes, 2 songs), trying fecklessly to hide each note somehow in the next one, as if anything could rescue the moment. Finally, mercifully, the music reached its double bars. We were finished. Lori had done beautifully, but how would anybody know?

And then something amazing happened. They applauded. Not politely, or primly or even, for that matter, exuberantly. They applauded, instead, affectionately, gratefully, honestly and lovingly. As if in a tender, corporate and profoundly genuine hug, their verbal interjections and hand-punctuated appreciations conveyed more heart-felt and spirit-filled appreciation than most artists ever have the privilege to receive. What we should have known all along was that they were more interested in Lori and the music of her heart than in the music of her flute. And no out-of-tune piano could possibly obscure what they were able to hear in her or receive from her -- nor what they were able to offer in return.

There, in a simple church basement, amidst folding chairs and wall posters, soup and some salads and few dozen women of faith, we came to realize we were standing -- and playing and, in an awe-filled sort of way, kneeling -- on holy ground.

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Blessed Britney and the Quest for What Matters

The news reports this morning that Britney Spears has shaved her head, has been adding tattoos, and may or may not have entered rehab. Presumably, the rehab is related to substance abuse, and if she has a problem in that area I hope she gets the help she needs. But my hunch is that a surplus of hair, a poverty of skin art, and an indulgence in alcohol are the least of her problems.

A disclaimer: I am not a Britney fan. Neither her music, her marriage history, her wardrobe (or lack thereof) nor her self and social contortions in search of publicity are of particular interest to me. I have not developed a taste for her "art."

But I find myself grieving on her behalf. What began as a fetching, energetic, if not all that original step into the entertainment arena has evolved, over the years, into cartoonish parody. Fair Britney has careened from one silly and melodramatic absurdity to the next in what seems -- at least to this admittedly disinterested observer -- like a tragic grasp at significance. And who, after all, doesn't want to matter?

I haven't shaved my head and I've never really understood tattoos; I've certainly never made it into "People" magazine, but in my own subtler way I suppose I've done my share of clawing for attention. Trying to matter. Begging to be noticed. And my suspicion is that such attempts look no better on me than they do on Britney.

In my better moments, I recognize how unnecessary are the graspings. Significance, after all, is the grace of the gospel. As far as God is concerned, we don't have to gyrate in a spotlight and recklessly careen from one camera to the next. We have already been noticed. And we already matter. It has to do with that whole "image of God" idea, and the voice that we, too, might hear if we interrupted our preening and prancing and paused long enough to hear it: a voice saying "you, too, are my child, in whom I am well pleased."

Maybe, in other words, it is our idea of fame and significance -- of the opinion that truly matters -- that needs the time in rehab.

In the meantime, I'm going to go comb my hair while I still have it. I'll be bald soon enough.

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Welcome, My Friend, To Life

There are plenty of reasons to be circumspect -- even reticent -- about the baptism scheduled for tomorrow. For one thing, it's single-digit cold outside and the thought of stepping down into a tank of water in the midst of a chilly Saturday-morning sanctuary isn't all that appealing. I don't think we'll have to break through any ice, but I hope the Lord doesn't mind a little goose-pimpled flesh.

For another thing, I don't know this man. He comes to my ministrations by way of a retired colleague who met the man in the hospital -- which brings up the other little piece of this scenario. The man is dying. My understanding is that dusk is settling in on life as he has known it, which is to say that while this isn't quite literally a deathbed conversion...it's close.

Who am I to judge? And the truth is, I don't. While the thought of a leisurely Saturday morning curled up by the fire with a book is alluring, I have coated up and warmed up the car for far less. And ultimately I'm simply not in the business of turning down baptisms. It's not that I believe the dunking is magic. I trust that God's grace is expansive enough to welcome home a repentant and reconciled soul whether or not it has passed through the requisite volume of water. It's just that I value any occasion that brings someone into deep and conscious reflection about the meaning of life, the experience of love, and the glorious awe of eternity.

And if it takes the nearness of death, so be it. While I might choreograph it all a different way, this is the way it is happening. And so, in the name of God our heritage, our help and our hope, I'll descend with him into the water and offer us both into the waiting arms that are, if nothing else, grace.

Welcome, then, my new friend whom I haven't yet met, not to death...

...but to life.

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The Better Angels of our Nature

A fat book loaned to me by a friend has immersed me in Lincoln of late. Though my reading schedule has allowed steady but only slow progress, every page has brought an education; and here and there, an awakening. For example, how did my education – or my retention – overlook the closing lines of Lincoln's inaugural address? Spoken at a time when at least one state had already seceded from the Union – spurred on by Lincoln’s own election – and rumors of assassination forced his covert arrival into the capital city, Lincoln strove to address the concerns of both North and South. And then this conclusion:

We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battlefield and patriot grave to every living heart and hearthstone all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union, when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature.

“We are not enemies, but friends. …the better angels of our nature.” The recent years of electoral combat, the polarization of progressive and conservative Christians, the strident arguments over bullying and civil rights for those of varying sexual orientations – to say nothing of warfare in the global community - make Lincoln sound like a contemporary. According to playwright John PatrickShanley (Doubt), Americans have shifted into a "courtroom culture." "It's evident in political talk shows, in entertainment coverage, in artistic criticism of every kind, in religious discussion," he writes. "Discussion has given way to debate. Communication has become a contest of wills."

The Des Moines Register (12/12/06) recently cited Deborah Tannen's best-seller The Argument Culture: Stopping America's War of Words, "When you're having an argument with someone, your goal is not to listen and understand. Instead, you use every tactic you can think of — including distorting what your opponent just said — in order to win."

His against hers. Hers against theirs. Theirs against ours. Us against them. We are not enemies, but friends, Lincoln wrote, and I pray we find a way to remember. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained it must not break our bonds of affection.

Imagine what we might hear if we were to take his words to heart, allowing the “mystic chords” of humankind to be strummed by “the better angels of our nature.”