It Felt Like a Heart Attack

75mph on the highway somewhere near Bowling Green, Kentucky yesterday, a sharp pain gripped my chest and would not let go. For nearly 5 minutes, I drove along in blinding pain unable to breathe in or breathe out. I pulled over to let Debra drive when my arms started to go numb and my head began to swim. I was sweating and nauseous.

“Oh God no. God, please no!” I kept thinking, panicked. “I can’t afford to go to the hospital.” Uninsured, out of state, and having every symptom of a heart attack. I could just see the bill sitting ominously in my mailbox and I debated just NOT going in. Surely it would pass... The bitter irony that I was more immediately concerned about money than the fact that I could drop dead any second was very stark in that moment. I struggled to understand this rock-in-the-gut feeling that millions of underinsured Americans feel every day: “Oh God, I can’t afford to be sick.” But the pain didn’t pass. My vision continued to blur and I nearly passed out. So to the hospital we went.

I’ve never seen Debra go 15mph over the limit on purpose. I smiled to myself sardonically as she whizzed past the traffic toward the hospital in Bowling Green while Annabel happily drew princesses on her "magnedoodle".

Staggering to the reception desk, I explained as calmly as possible, “I think I might be in the middle of a heart attack.” The nurse looked unimpressed. Clearly, I was still standing. “Have a seat and I’ll be with you in a moment,” she said, looking bored.

After all the standard pokes and prods, a young sympathetic doctor came in and I politely begged for his discretion in ordering an expensive battery of tests. I could live with some ambiguity in my diagnosis. I just didn’t want to lose my house over this.

An x-ray revealed my diagnosis: chest wall pain. Awesome. Well I knew I was having chest pain, but at least now I know that it was chest wall pain. But I was grateful to know I wasn’t dying even though the results felt pretty flimsy. While the nurse pulled out the IV, she confided that her son had just experienced identical symptoms which hospital dismissed was chest wall pain. Her son continued to have residual dizziness—which the doctors blamed on stress—and was scheduled to see a specialist. The specialist said he had seen an outbreak of similar cases recently with no real explanation. Perhaps, I joked, we were among the first victims of the yet-undiscovered “Moose Flu epidemic of 2012.”

While I support socialized medicine now more than ever, I was profoundly grateful yesterday for a few things: First, that little sign on the hospital wall explaining that even I couldn’t pay, I had the right to be seen and stabilized. Second, the lady who helped me apply for charity assistance to cover part of the hospital bill. Third, a responsive medical system that saw and diagnosed me right away. Fourth, a gut instinct that while this is a major inconvenience, God’s care and provision are by no means on the line. I felt I was able to say in the midst of it, “Okay, this is one more way for God to show me that he loves me and isn’t going to abandon me.” Even if we’re chained to this thing for years, I feel God’s heart towards us is not in question. I wouldn’t have been able to say that 5 years ago. But at this point we’ve seen God take care of us over, and over, and over.

And over again. We’ve seen that he’s willing to let us get extremely uncomfortable but that He never abandons us.

Now to be fair, I’m waking up this morning and I feel hung-over from all the stress of yesterday: a long drive home from Chicago with screaming kids, the threat of financial strain (or ruin), the profound stress of a medical emergency, general sleeplessness, and a wife who spent at least an hour calculating the ramifications of being a single mom… we got home late last night and collapsed on the bed unable to move or to attend to Levi who toddled around our room happily after a long nap in the car.

So this morning, Georgia is gray and rainy and I feel kind of gray inside too. Not because I doubt God but just because I’m just tired all around.

(I’ve moved now to my screen porch and it has started pouring rain like a spring storm in Minnesota and I am grateful to live here. Nearly Christmas and it feels like spring.)

Today is Levi’s first birthday and I wish we could do more to celebrate him on this gray, exhausted day. He has brought a sweetness and insanity to our family perfectly characterized by those middle-of-the-night hours in which I’m so annoyed to be up with him and can’t fathom where all this joy and playfulness comes from at this ungodly hour and can’t believe he can keep it up for 4 straight hours when he doesn’t even stay awake for that long during the day; yet I’m so endeared by his big baby grin and crabapple cheeks and playful boyish giggle that I can hardly hold it against him. More stress. More dying-to-self. But so much more sweetness and fun and fullness. I sure do love that guy.

Happy birthday Levi. You were born into one crazy family walking a crazy tightrope adventure through life with God. I hope you feel seen and loved in the midst of it. The life of this family may always feel uncertain and not totally safe. But I hope that even if we can’t give you security, or nice things, or food bought from a real store, that you sense that this family trusts, and this family loves, and this family receives Love. And I hope you will also sense that YOU can trust and love and receive Love. I think we don’t feel guilty about the life we’ve chosen because at the end of the day, if you can do those things, then you’ll be doing pretty darn good in life.

Absolute Certainty: the Evangelical Myth

Epistomology: The Achilles Heel of my faith. That old question of ever-elusive certainty: sure you experienced something profound, but does that make it real? Or should we like Scrooge blame indigestion for our superstitions? (“There’s more gravy than grave about you!”)

Conservative Christians claim to have this slippery truth and to be honest I join my generation in their collective sigh of exasperation. I’ll tell you an evangelical secret: Christians don’t actually FEEL more certain of their dogmas than other people. But they are told that certainty will win people. They are told that presenting one’s argument as “absolute truth” will fill a deep hungry void left in the heart of every postmodern. I don’t buy it.

Honestly, I think the rallying cry of “absolute truth” in the church is a tired and obnoxious rhetoric which we oughta crumple into the trash can of religious brain farts.

It was the quest for this elusive certainty that just about sent me off the cliff of lonely agnosticism a few years ago. Who told me this junk about certainty? I was rescued from that cliff when I started suspecting that true things are certain by degrees and in comparison with other things. And that’s different than saying “That’s a cool truth for you bro, but I’ve got my own truth that works for me.” The question was no longer, "can I posit from scratch with certainty and conviction the existence of an omnipotent loving Creator who became a person to save the world from sin?" Rather, I started asking, "is this Christian story (in spite of all perceived hurdles) true enough, beautiful enough, and strong enough to to start living it... to jump off a cliff for it?" And my conclusion rather surprised me one morning after 6 months of hard searching: "I think it is!"

(BTW, I kinda doubt that the "it works for me" pragmatism is a good rubric for judging a worldview. Same for happiness and perceived profundity. Jesus said fruit (as in outcome) is a much better rubric and I tend to agree… and BTW, I don’t think our evangelical “unfruitfulness” comes from a deficient gospel as much as a deficient commitment to maturity.)

A buddy of mine wrote a paper in seminary suggesting that you can objectively argue that Fat Tire is better than Bud Light because of the ingredients and the brewing process. And if you prefer Bud Light, well, I won’t argue that point, but I might rightly argue you’ve got a faulty set of taste buds!

I like the way you put it, Jesse Dukes. Truth is relational and Truth is a person. If you get to know that person, you’re getting to know truth. It seems like Jesus proposed that he IS that person. That “I am the way, the truth, and the life” bit? I think it was pretty radical in his context just like it is in ours. He didn’t hold up the bible and say, “here it is folks! A manual of the universe. Absolute truth in a book!” He said, “Look, you’re right, there IS absolute truth and now you can sit down and have coffee with Him every morning. Isn’t that better anyway?”

I don’t think many postmoderns are out there seriously arguing that Absolute Truth doesn’t exist. Not many are denying the basic principles of arithmetic or physics. They’re just asking for a really compelling reason to believe that “Joe Christian” has somehow tapped into that Truth!

So far, we haven’t given them that reason. Not because our apologetics are crappy, but because our lifestyles are crappy. Even if you can convince me that Jesus is the way, the truth, and the life, you’re going to have to go the extra step of proving that you KNOW him well enough and you TRUST him enough to be LIKE him: to act like him, think like him, and feel like him (credit to Bob Dukes for that one).

The point is, I think it’s time to talk less about knowing and more about trusting. That’s it.  If we really think truth is a person—not a book or an algorithm or a line of code—then we should stop sermonizing about what we know and start chatting about who we know. And within our churches, I think we ought to renew our commitment to maturity. We gotta start brewing people (instead of programs or doctrines) with better yeast, in smaller batches, for a good long time. Then when they come out they'll taste damn good and be so heady they make everybody else drunk on Jesus.  I mean… am I off my orthodox rocker here?

Sad news and the tug of war between bitterness and grief.

Today I lost a friend. His name is Steve Mwitwa Kwaywa. He was a student at Copperbelt University in Zambia with a bright future in business. He was MY friend. He looks pretty serious in this picture but he had an amazing sense of humor and was goofy most of the time.

The first time I went to Zambia, he was having dinner with me at the Chifunda home. He made me feel accepted and welcomed. He joked that I should try the fried caterpillars because "they taste just like prawns!" Then he laughed uncontrollably when I reported that they taste NOTHING like prawns!

When I visited again in August, he was not well. An apparent liver infection had hospitalized him. Chomba and I visited him and he was in considerable agony. But he managed a smile of recognition when he saw me. "Hi Nate! How are you doing?" He grinned.

Apparently there had been a cancerous growth on his liver that finally killed him. I'm not sure if it was ever diagnosed or treated. I do know that when he needed testing and surgery the first time, the hospital left him writhing in pain for days just because the diagnostics center had closed for the weekend. I know the Zambian medical system was slow to help him and probably couldn't (or wouldn't) have properly treated his cancer given his financial restrictions.

The bitter part for me is that several years ago, he turned down an opportunity to study in America. He wouldn't leave his family or his home in Zambia even though it would have meant greater opportunity. It also might have meant better medical treatment. It could have saved his life.

This is my first personal brush with the cold reality that poverty can kill. I personally have friends and family who are able to receive life-saving cancer treatments. Some can even travel to the Mayo Clinic for specialized treatment. Why? Simply because they live here and have insurance that will cover such things. Had Steve NOT been born Zambian, he might still be alive facing a bright future.

Forgive me for being political. But I have often commented on the barbarism of living in a system that forces millions of Americans to CHOOSE between sickness and financial ruin. I simply cannot believe we would oppose universal healthcare in favor of tax cuts and then call it a "platform of Christian values" as though health were a luxury commodity.

But Steve HAD no choice. He didn't get to choose between money and health. He had neither, and in the end I believe it killed him. Is that fair? Is it right?

It was once hard to believe anyone could be poorer than me. I would tell the vendors in Kenya that I was a student and was too poor to buy their trinkets. They would always give me a patronizing smile because of course that was a lie. Poverty isn't just the lack of cash. It's the lack of options. It boxes you in and often sends you careening down one of many tragic paths that you can see clearly but can't do a damned thing about. And more often than I'd like to admit, that lack of options can kill.

I started building more authentic friendships with these "optionless" people a couple years ago. And it has already started to ruin me. Would I recommend it? I think so... But today I feel tenuous. I'm glad I knew Steve. I would never trade that in. But poverty is a stigma among the middle class for a reason. It makes me uncomfortable and if I let it, it will make me profoundly sad.

But God has been teaching me about compassion this month. Like the Grinch, I feel my heart is growing a few sizes bigger each day. So I'm no longer protecting myself from sad or uncomfortable situations. I'm crying more, empathizing more, and for once, those feelings don't threaten to swallow me whole. I know that I can handle empathy and compassion (com-passion: to suffer alongside) while still having a firmly-rooted identity in Christ. My finances, my status, and my comfort may be threatened but my identity is not.

Today I'm "suffering alongside" Steve's family and friends. Truthfully, I am one of them.

You Feed Them

"You Feed Them"

by Nathan Harkness

The pastor of First Baptist Church sat in his study on a Tuesday morning pouring over a large desk cluttered with papers. The church’s bank statements, the budget, last week’s offering. He was feeling flushed and a bottle of aspirin sat at the ready on one corner of the desk. This is not going to work, he thought. This was a bad idea. Why do I have to be such an idealist? Why didn’t I listen to people?

Giving had been on a downward trend since he began his new sermon series on justice a year ago. One by one, his best tithing families had quietly found new church homes. He would always remember those pivotal moments of change, those moments of no return.

One Sunday he had cancelled the service and organized a volunteer workday in the community instead. While most families enjoyed the service project, an email the next day read, “While I appreciate your heart to serve and bless our community, you have to understand that every Sunday, I come to church absolutely exhausted from the week. The last thing I want to do is come to church and do more work! I need a church where I can come and be fed, not where I’m constantly being expected to pour myself out for strangers. I have barely enough energy to care for my own family.”

Another Sunday, a controversial sermon on poverty had prompted concerns over the “increasingly political agenda coming from the pulpit” though the following week’s talk on racial reconciliation generated even more controversy. A mostly Caucasian church in an economically and ethnically changing suburb, the pastor no longer felt they could continue as a homogeneous church in a diversifying community. The church had become a tutoring center during the week, offered ESL classes, hosted a food bank every month and was involved in outreach at a local high school. Most of the congregation was happy about these programs until the beneficiaries of these ministries began showing up to the church’s other programs. The custodians began to find cigarette butts in the parking lots on Sunday. There was graffiti in the men’s restroom.

Worst of all, 3 African American kids from the high school showed up to youth group last month with alcohol on their breath. Several families left the church at that point since it was no longer a safe environment for their kids. “I love the idea of being a diverse church,” one of the deacons had told the pastor. “But you have to understand that with low-income families you’re invite a huge set of problems. New security risks, financial strain, a much needier population. You have to think about the people God has given you to shepherd. They’re not going to put up with a lot more.

One by one families had left. Over the last year, the staff had been cut in half and the remaining ones took a 20% pay cut. The elder board had temporarily disbanded since only two elders remained. New faces replaced the old ones, but they brought more needs than resources. Single mothers, high-school dropouts, immigrants, day laborers, even an occasional homeless person.

Now barely making it on half of last year’s operating budget, the pastor sat at his desk and gazed across the room with a bemused expression at the blueprints that hung on the adjacent wall. The blueprints were a dream, an idea for an expanded worship center, new offices, and a new children’s wing. The staff had once dreamed together of all the growth and new ministries that the addition could mean. More space would bring a bigger constituency, a bigger budget, new programs, and more volunteers along with a greater overall impact on the community. But today, he thought instead of a winter’s worth of new potholes in the parking lot, a new leak in the roof, a demoralized staff, and carpets that desperately needed cleaning.

His head dropped slowly into his hands. God I thought I was doing the right thing here. I wonder now if I was just being idealistic and naïve. I was so sure that you wanted to me to bring in the poor and hurting in our neighborhood. But I’ve alienated everybody, I don’t know how I’m going to pay salaries next month… this church has been going for over 50 years, our savings are gone, and we’ll have to close our doors soon if we keep…

“Pastor,” a secretary’s head appeared in the doorway. “Marie Tennet is up front. She says the transmission on he car blew up yesterday and she needs it to get to job interviews. She’s asking for help… and she’s crying.”

If Marie had a stable personality and marketable skills, he thought, she wouldn’t have to go to interviews. She could go to work… “Okay… anything else?”

“Joel Perez was here earlier asking if there were leftovers from Monday’s food outreach… I told him to come back next month.”

The pastor thought of Jesus feeding the 5,000 with a couple fish and a few loaves. If only it were that easy, he mused. I’ve got a responsibility to my staff and my family. I’m already way out on a limb here. I’ve got people lining up for help. Hungry people. Uninsured people. People who can’t get a job, people who.... Did we even pay our missionaries this quarter? I wonder if…

“Pastor?” The secretary’s voice came again. “Did you hear me?”

“You feed them,” he mused quietly looking out the window.

“Sorry?”

He glanced quietly to meet her puzzled stare. “Uh… Can you bring me the check book Janice?”

“What for?”

The pastor shrugged. “Let’s help Marie out. Let’s get Joel some food. Heck… let’s spend it all.”

“Spend what all?”

“Everything Janice. Everything we’ve got. Let’s give it all away.”

The secretary’s eyebrows furrowed only a little. She was also the church’s accountant and she was used to this pastor’s occasional whims.  But this was a new one. “Marcus…”

“I’m serious Janice. Bring me the checkbook... And close the door.”

For the next hour, pastor and secretary came up with every person they could think of who had a need: church members, neighbors, people in the community... and gave away every dime the church owned. Small notes were attached to each gift, stuffed into envelopes and dropped into the mailbox before either of them could change their mind. Both knew they had just given away their paycheck, their livelihood, and their future. But there was a strange lightness and humor in the room as they methodically gave away every last shred of the church’s stability and financial solvency to anybody and everybody who could make use of it. And when the last envelope was sent, the pastor stood, gathered the papers slowly from his cluttered and gingerly set them in the garbage can. “I’m going home Janice,” he smiled. “Lock up when you’re done?” She nodded mutely, not sure what had come over her.

As the pastor walked down the dark hallway toward the doors, he thought of how he would break the news to his staff, to his wife. He wondered whether they could sell the building before the bank got it. He doubted it was worth much. Clearly he’d cracked up. But inexplicably he felt light, invigorated. He actually laughed out loud. “Alright God!” he shouted wildly, his voice echoing down the hall. “That’s that!”

At that moment he spotted Marie Tennet sitting near the doors looking somewhat frightened by the shouting pastor. “Hi Marie! How are you today?” he shouted cheerfully and paused to take in her dumbstruck expression.

They stood there silently for a moment until the pastor finally sighed and made his decision. “Well Marie, it’s not much to look at…” he said. “But it’ll get you around town.” Pressing the key of his ’96 Honda Civic into her palm, he turned on his heel and strode toward the door.

“It needs an oil change!” he called over his shoulder. “And don’t roll down the back windows. You’ll never get them up again!”