Of Gods and Men and "the Lord's Strategy of Liberation"

 We have only to allow ourselves to be awakened by [God's] words, 
chosen by the divine prudence like so many hands extended to caress our sadness; 
and then we shall be caught in the trap set by the Lord's strategy of liberation.

--Erasmo Leiva-Merikakis, Fire of Mercy, Heart of the Word

Recently (and finally!), I watched the film Of Gods and Men, a true story about a community of Trappist monks who have lived with, loved, and served their impoverished Muslim neighbors in Algeria for many years. As the country erupts in sectarian violence, the men must decide whether to stay or return to the safety of their native France.

Instinctively, many of them wish to flee: What is the point of committing collective suicide, one monk asks? Over time, however, the monks realize, through a lengthy process of individual and collective discernment, that they have no choice but to remain where they are.  As French citizens, they have the privilege and opportunity to escape the growing danger whenever they choose. But if they wish to be faithful to their calling, to the gospel, and to the Christian path of love, they cannot run away without suffering a fate worse than death: a conscience forever disturbed by a failure to live in solidarity with their Muslim brothers and sisters, who have no such privilege or freedom to escape the instability and violence.

The monks accept this truth with simultaneous peace and dread. Like Jesus in Gethsemane, they know and accept what awaits them as a consequence of their obedience to what Love demands. They do not seek martyrdom but suffer it. Such is the cost of discipleship, the inescapable share in the cup of Jesus's own suffering and death (Matthew 20:22).

The monks' story reminds me of Etty Hillesum's, a young Jewish woman who died at Auschwitz and whose diary I recently read. As scores of friends, neighbors, and colleagues were rounded up and sent to "transport" camps, Etty was given several opportunities to escape. But she refuses. "I don't think I would feel happy if I were exempted from what so many others have to suffer," she writes. "It is sheer arrogance to think oneself too great to share in the fate of the masses." As frightened and horrified as Etty was by what she witnessed, she was clear in her will to never to escape the fate of her own people.

I see my own dilemmas in these stories, though far less is at stake in my case (at least on the surface).  As a relatively privileged person accustomed to having education, resources, a million options, and a great deal of freedom to exercise them, it's easy for me to become dissatisfied with my lot in life and to assume I can (and should) just change my circumstances at will. I habitually follow the glib conventional wisdom that says, "Just look for another job" or "do something else" or "do what makes you happy."

Such advice may have sufficed ten years ago in the grim aftermath of my dot-com days, but it doesn't hold up too well now. I'm no longer a wanderer but a follower (I hope) of Christ on the narrow road that leads to life (Matthew 7:14). That means I have far fewer options if I want to squeeze through the narrow gate or pass through the eye of a needle. I can't just skip away from life's challenges whenever I choose. I can't just be a seeker of self-fulfillment. If I desire eternal life, I must, like the rich man (Mark 10:17-22), sell all I have, which in my case means sacrificing the privilege of restlessly searching for "something better" and instead coping with life as it is. I'm not always happy to realize this and, like the rich man, I have often walked away shocked, sad, and even angry because I don't want to accept the cost of discipleship.

I often wonder what happened to the rich man after he walked away. Did he grieve for awhile then come back to Jesus? Was he overcome by Jesus's compelling love, so much so that, in the end, he was able to drop everything he knew to follow it?

Perhaps shock, grief, and dread are normal "features" of the spiritual journey. The Trappist monks felt it. Etty felt it. For they, too, were rich. But Love overcame their natural, human fear, and they gave their lives for it. Can I give mine?

An Homage to Oncology Nurses, et. al.

I cannot wipe away your tears, my dear.

I can only teach you how to make them holy.

--Anthony De Mello

Recently I led a memorial service at the hospital where I work to honor the many cancer patients who died this year, as well as the Oncology nurses, physicians, physical therapists, dietitians, case managers, and just about everyone who has a role in caring for them. Several people have since asked for the remarks I made at the beginning of the service. Fortunately I wrote them down the night before in a bit of a frenzied rush. That means I didn't have time to get in my own way, thus allowing the Spirit to flow. Here is what came:

We come together today to remember those cancer patients who died: To remember how we loved them and how they loved us. 

We also come together to honor the work that we do--our labor of love--because at the end of the day that is really what our work is about: whether or not we realize it, whether or not we feel it, whether or not we live up to Love's demands. 

We do our jobs and we do them well:
We order diagnostic tests and interpret results.
We administer medications.
We draw blood for labs.
We bathe our patients.
We make sure they have adequate nutrition.
We help them get out of bed to regain physical strength.
We arrange for them to go home with everything they need.
We keep their environment tidy, clean, and safe. 

Everyday we do so much yet in the midst of it all we are doing something even greater: I'm talking about the human connection we make--some might call it the sacred connection we make--when we care for our patients. 

We come to love them. We see them when they first come to us, perhaps with a new diagnosis of cancer. We see them frightened but also full of hope--hope for healing, hope for recovery. We come to know them as they struggle through treatment: We learn about their lives, their families, where they grew up, what they did for work, how they met their spouse, what they believe in. On this leg of the journey we find our patients still hopeful, but wavering at times, wondering will they get better, is the fight worth all the pain and suffering, why is God allowing this to happen. 

And sometimes, after years or maybe even weeks or months, they return and we know-and they know--that something is different this time: They are not getting better. The healing we had all hoped and prayed for is not to be. Life in this world is coming to an end. 

In this moment all seems lost and we begin to feel anxious and sad with our patients, who are no longer patients to us anymore but friends or brothers or sisters. We've been on a journey together and we've arrived at a crossroads or a threshold. We've reached the limit of what medical treatments can do. We say there's no more hope but that's not really true. It all come down to how we understand hope. 

If our hope is based solely on the happily-ever-after outcomes of our own actions and interventions, then all hope is truly lost. But if our hope is rooted in something deeper--something eternal--then nothing, not even death, can take it from us. 

I want each of us to remember that, when we come to this threshold between life and death, whether with our patients, our loved ones, or even ourselves, we are standing on holy ground. We may not be able to treat the disease any longer. We may not be able to cure. But we can still heal. 

How? Because of the love that we have cultivated and shared all these weeks and months and years. We heal because our presence assures our patients that we will continue to care for them until the end, that we will not abandon them when they become helpless or when they suffer.

We heal because we can do less and be more. We can wipe a tear, hold a hand, embrace; we can pray, we can sing. We heal because even as physical life fades, we continue to celebrate all of who this person is and what she has meant--and will continue to mean--to us.