Learning to Hug Lepers

She lay there babbling incoherently, a half-eaten pizza sitting next to her. Her clothing was worn and filthy, her hair matted with dirt. I noticed her as I returned to my hotel on San Diego Bay, where I was staying for a conference. I locked my eyes on the street corner, willing myself to look past her and the other homeless people lining the street. I walked past her without a word or a backwards look, just like hundreds of others before and after me. I returned home the next day, intrigued by an apparent “class system” among the homeless of San Diego. Bubbling under the surface of that interest, however, was the haunting feeling I had about her – the incoherent woman next to the pizza. I don’t know her name. I don’t know her story. I don’t know her. All I know is that I walked past her.

Shortly after I arrived home, my husband and I joined another couple to go to the movie theater to see Risen – a largely fictionalized account of the events between the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead and His ascent into heaven. As the movie neared an end, I watched a farmer fearfully and angrily shoo away a leper. The leper’s clothing was worn and filthy, his hair matted with dirt. Jesus stood, walked deliberately to the cowering leper, knelt down, and hugged him close, soothing him. As the leper walked away, he happily discovered that he had been healed by the touch of the Savior. 

Shortly after these events, I participated in commencement downtown in the city where I live. Afterward, as my husband and I returned to our car, I smelled him before I saw him. There was a crowd around a homeless man who had collapsed. Maybe he was dead, maybe just passed out. He had lost control of his intestines, and the stench was terrible. My mind flashed back to the woman on the street in San Diego. My heart felt clad in iron. Yet, I walked on yet again.

I cannot shake the images from my mind – the woman on the street, the leper, the hug for the leper, the man lying there in his own filth. I find myself yearning for the opportunity to go back and just touch that woman’s hand, to let her know that someone loves her just because she exists and is worth loving. I find in my heart a war which threatens to rent it in two. On the one side is an awakening of love for the unlovely. On the other is a habit of repulsion. Time will tell which side will triumph in my heart in the end, but my will is on the side of love, and I choose to believe that my will is stronger than the turning of my stomach.

I am convinced that the repulsion is the result of lies – lies that I’ve told myself, lies that I’ve been told. In an effort to give truth the upper hand, my purpose now is to identify a few of those lies – and to present an alternative.

They are there by their own choice.

“They could go back home if they really wanted to.” “Most of the people living on the streets are choosing that life for themselves.”

As with every lie, there are tiny grains of truth infused throughout. It is often (although not always) true that the path to homeless hopelessness begins with a choice. A choice to pursue a life of crime. A choice to saturate one’s mind with drugs and alcohol. Here’s the catch, however. As I wrote in a recent post, our choices so often become chains. Maybe the woman on the street in San Diego had a choice at one time, but it was abundantly obvious that she no longer has that choice. She didn’t even know where she was. She will never move past her helplessness unless someone helps her. I wasn’t that person for her. I want to be that person someday, with Christ’s help.

It’s not the place of ______ to help those people.

Fill in that blank with whichever entity you want, and you’ll have heard the excuses about it. The government. The church. Whatever. The truth is, though, that whether or not it’s ever the place of an entity to create a program to help those people, it is always my place. I am responsible for loving and helping my fellow man. As long as I walk past them without a second glance, there is someone who is choosing not to do what they can. That someone is me.

I don’t have anything to give.

Let’s face it, I’ve been a student for a long time. I don’t have much in the way of finances to give, but that doesn’t mean that I have nothing. Did you know that human touch is important? I could have at least touched that woman’s hand. I could have at least reached out to remind her of her humanity. All of us have something we can give. It’s time to start. 

I am praying for the strength to choose love. To reach out and touch the filthy person on the street, to look into their eyes and give them the gift of a moment of camaraderie with another person. To extend friendship to the friendless. To embody the love of Christ to the person who feels like the dregs of humanity. A bad smell shouldn’t turn me away. There are numerous instructions in God’s Word about loving and helping those who cannot help themselves, and there is judgment waiting those who refuse to do so. God, give me the strength to hug the leper!   

The Gospel Makes No Sense

Confession: I never finished reading the Harry Potter series. I plan to, but I haven’t yet. Recently, however, my husband and I pretty much marathoned the movies. I like books better than movies, and so there’s a little piece of me that’s dead inside because I succumbed to my desire for immediate fulfillment and watched the movies before I read the books. And now I have no idea how the movies measure up, and no way of ever truly knowing, because my memories of the movies will interfere with my imagination as I read the books. #booknerdproblems.

Anyway. Remember the part at the end where Harry lets Voldemort kill him? (Sorry for the spoilers… But I figure that if a movie is five years old, it’s fair game). Remember how Harry has to die in order to defeat Voldemort, how the only way for him to really live is for him to die first? It’s the ultimate contradiction, right? Authors love this stuff. I love this stuff. Interestingly, even God loves this stuff. God is all about impossible contradictions, and He really loves the ultimate contradiction.

It’s so easy for the gospel of Christ to get covered up by conflict – and Christians are just as guilty of covering it up as anyone else. The thing is, though, that even when it’s not obscured, it’s just hard for us to wrap our minds around. We like the idea of overcoming our perceived faults, but that’s not what Jesus offers. Jesus offers to make us into completely new creatures – and that’s all He will do. He won’t do it halfway. To live in Christ means total surrender. C.S. Lewis (as always) says it so well:

“Christ says, ‘Give me All. I don’t want so much of your time and so much of your money and so much of your work: I want You. I have not come to torment your natural self, but to kill it. No half-measures are any good. I don’t want to cut off a branch here and a branch there, I want to have the whole tree down. I don’t want to drill the tooth, or crown it, or stop it, but to have it out. Hand over the whole natural self, all the desires which you think innocent as well as the ones you think wicked – the whole outfit. I will give you a new self instead. In fact, I will give you Myself: my own will shall become yours.”

Wait a minute. All of my innocent desires?? Everything?? Kill my natural self? It doesn’t make sense. If those are the things that you are thinking, you’re right. It doesn’t make sense. What seems to make more sense is to accept ourselves as we are. And that, my friends, is where God shows just how much He loves this greatest of all contradictions. If you’re getting stuck on the idea of the killing of your natural self, stay with me. You’re right – it sounds crazy, unhealthy – stupid, even. God knew that it would sound that way to us. In fact, the apostle Paul addressed this to some extent in 1 Corinthians 1:18-31.

“For the word of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God. For it is written, ‘I will destroy the wisdom of the wise, And the cleverness of the clever I will set aside.’ Where is the wise man? Where is the scribe? Where is the debater of this age? Has not God made foolish the wisdom of the world? For since in the wisdom of God the world through its wisdom did not come to know God, God was well-pleased through the foolishness of the message preached to save those who believe. For indeed Jews ask for signs and Greeks search for wisdom; but we preach Christ crucified, to Jews a stumbling block and to Gentiles foolishness, but to those who are the called, both Jews and Greeks, Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God. Because the foolishness of God is wiser than men, and the weakness of God is stronger than men. For consider your calling, brethren, that there were not many wise according to the flesh, not many mighty, not many noble; but God has chosen the foolish things of the world to shame the wise, and God has chosen the weak things of the world to shame the things which are strong, and the base things of the world and the despised God has chosen, the things that are not, so that He may nullify the things that are, so that no man may boast before God. But by His doing you are in Christ Jesus, who became to us wisdom from God, and righteousness and sanctification, and redemption, so that, just as it is written, ‘Let him who boasts, boast in the Lord.’”

It doesn’t make sense. I know. And I don’t know how to explain to you that it does make sense in the end. What I can do is tell you that it works. I can tell you that I’ve been brought to the moment of complete surrender, to the moment of allowing my natural self to be killed. What happened after that moment was amazing, and continues to amaze me. The transformation happens gradually, and so there are still bits of my natural self that show through and are ugly. The thing is, though, that my sin no longer defines me. I can confess it freely, knowing that it will be conquered in the end, that it is my enemy. It also ceases to define those around me. When you’ve been loosed from the chains of your sin, you see the chains on the people around you. Yes, they’re guilty. Yes, they’ve made stupid and horrible choices. But now, I see that each of those choices becomes a chain. The gospel of Christ breaks those chains. You’re no longer chained to your choices. Before I encountered the saving power of Jesus, I didn’t see the chains – my own chains or the chains of others. All I saw were the choices that defined the people. I saw the choice the alcoholic makes to take the next drink. I didn’t see that each time s/he chooses the drink, it becomes a chain that compels the next drink. The power to choose vaporizes, and the compulsion becomes the authority. The grace of Christ that changes my heart daily opens my eyes to the chains – to the victimization that is the purpose of sin. It makes me abhor my sin, which, promising pleasure, delivers death and captivity. And it’s because of that that I can sing this song by a man named Dennis Jernigan:

“Your love ravages my heart and leaves me bare.

My heart laid waste - My heart left naked standing there.

Lord, if suffering means winning, means death to flesh and sinning,

Lead me there - in Your care.

I’m not able - But You are able

To bring forth life thru any suffering or loss.

No, I’m not able - but You are able.

When I am shaken, what’s left standing is Your cross.

I’m devastated by Your love - Like a child, I need You near

To hold my hurting heart close to Your heart when I would fear.

The devastation of Your love has left me broken once again.

So faithful are the woundings of a Father.

Faithful are the woundings of a Friend.”

So many people are turned away from Christ because of an interaction they’ve had with a church or with an individual Christian. Please, let me say to you – I’m sorry. I’m sorry that we still allow our prideful, selfish habits to direct our actions. I’m sorry that we have forgotten the chains and see only the choices.

All of us find ourselves acting in ways that we wish we didn’t. We decide over and over and over again that this is the last time – the last drink, the last look at pornography, the last angry outburst, the last thrown punch, the last needle, the last strip tease, the last dishonest numbers, the last cut. If you’re defeated in your efforts to change over and over and over again – those are the chains that I’m talking about. Thing is though, Jesus won’t only break the chains you see and hate – He’ll break the ones you don’t see and that you like, because He knows they’ll only kill you in the end. Saying “Yes” to Jesus means a complete change of mind. Everything thing you think about yourself and about other people is in for a surprise. The water here is good – but it’s not because it’s comfortable – it is water of “suffering that means death to flesh and sinning.” It’s good because you can finally see both the danger and the way out. You’re finally swimming with the Guide who conquered the danger.

What I Learned in Graduate School

Today, my life as a graduate student draws to a close. I stood before an audience and defended my right to be called Dr. Stacey Rodenbeck. In one hour, I summarized the last four years of my life – at least the science part. The reality is, however, that the science is only a miniscule part of the learning I did in graduate school. As this day draws to a close, I’m pensive. I need to share the ways in which graduate school shaped and changed me.

I learned humility. When I graduated from Indiana University Southeast on May 7, 2012 with a 4.0 GPA in my major classes and highest academic distinction, I believed that the sky was the limit. I was the big fish. Everyone knew who I was. Underclassmen asked me to tutor them. Faculty relied on my expertise as I served them as a lab assistant. I had easily conquered the challenges of an undergraduate education; so I was excited about my future as Ph.D. student at Indiana University School of Medicine. On my 27^th birthday, August 20, 2012, I sat down in my first graduate level class. As the barrage of information began, I realized that I was no longer the big fish. Sometime during the first year, I asked a trusted mentor from my undergraduate institution if I would ever feel smart again. The answer was, “Yes, but you will never feel as smart as you did the day you graduated with your Bachelor of Science degree.” Fabulous. A life time of feeling average. That wasn’t what I’d signed up for. The next four years, I won some and lost some. I learned how to compete with myself and not others (I still have growing to do in this area!). I learned to think of myself less and of the work more. I learned to apply those principles to my personal life, and have been blessed with some fulfilling opportunities to serve in my church and personal relationships.

I learned how to suffer. To a degree, graduate school is one long lesson in suffering. Sleepless nights. Isolation. Failure.  Disdain from those who don’t understand the intense, grueling nature of what you’re doing, and who can’t understand why you would stick with it if it’s that bad. “It’s your choice,” they say. “If it’s that bad, you could get out.” I learned that if you love something enough, you suffer for it. As I realized that my thirst for scientific knowledge allowed me to endure, it awoke in me a greater intensity of desire for spiritual growth. I began to pray that God would teach me to love Him so intensely that I was willing to suffer worse things for Him than I was willing to suffer for knowledge. I worked to develop a meaningful relationship with my Creator and a deep and thorough theology that would stand the test of time, ridicule, and persecution.

I learned the importance of community. On that first day of classes, I sat beside three other girls who were to become dear friends over the course of our first year. Even in the days of full-time class taking, we gave and gained support from one another. We encouraged one another to stay the course, to fight the battle of graduate school. As we joined separate labs, we continued to be friends. As we learned the ropes and prepared for our qualifiers, we served as editors for each other, sounding boards, and learned to function as colleagues. My labmates formed a team, and together we solved problems, asked and answered questions, and developed strong personal bonds. Science should not be a solo activity. Like good science, good lives are founded in community. As we sharpen and strengthen and serve each other, character flaws are revealed and dissolved, love flourishes, and productivity is enhanced.

I learned that something worth doing is worth doing poorly. I don’t like to fail, and until graduate school I just avoided things that I wasn’t good at. During my graduate training, I soon learned that the avoiding tactic doesn’t fly. If something is worth doing well, it’s worth doing poorly at first while you’re learning. I learned sheer grit – to get up and try again when a negative data set knocked me over. I sometimes think that if I’d never gone to graduate school, I would have never gotten married. I was terrified of failing in a marriage. Learning that failure is just another chance to get up and solve problems enabled me to step out in faith and to marry a man who makes me a better person. I don’t like the moments when I fail him, but if being a good wife is worth it, so is being a poor one as I learn the ropes.

I learned how to think outside the box to solve problems. Ph.D. stands for “Doctor of Philosophy,” and even though I never took a formal philosophy course as a graduate student, I soon found that abstract thinking was crucial to success in the lab. If something doesn’t work, you examine a million facets of the experiment to determine why. If your hypothesis is consistently shattered, you change your paradigm. That’s how science works. As my critical thinking skills sharpened, I found myself applying them to other parts of my life. My Christian faith strengthened as I applied critical approaches to Bible study. My understanding of my own shortcomings deepened as I sought to “determine the mechanisms” underlying my personal failures.

So yes, I learned how to do science in graduate school, but I also learned how to do life. I learned to look the future in the face, knowing that I’ll fail miserably sometimes, that reaching out to those around me is ok, that I’ll get back up when I fall down. Graduate school isn’t the only place where you learn lessons like this, but I will never regret my choice to pursue higher education. The lessons I’ve learned here are valuable and will travel with me in all aspects and phases of life.