I do, I hate them. I hate them the way I hate cancer, and car accidents. Except, I actually hate them more than that. We have them, and they aren't going anywhere. And since that is the truth I don't have any problem with the 2nd amendment. I disagree with the way it's used and abused these days, but, then, we can all disagree about a lot of things. I understand there's probably a reasonable place for them in the present day, and that their presence in the past is part of what shaped our country's founding, independence, and power. I'm not sure how proud I am of that particular history, but it's the history I have and bearing arms was an important part of it.
All that said, I still hate guns. I find them to be one of the most offensive items in our current society.
I spend years working with patients to improve their health just enough to lengthen their life by a few years. Aside from the rare though gratifying life saving moments I have, the vast majority of medical work is long and slow. It's like long term counselling for your body. No one changes overnight, and the reality of our mortality is ever present. Some medical advances have more impact than others, but even when you look at the big picture - modern medicine has lengthened the average lifespan by about 15-20 years if you go back a couple of hundred years. And it has took trillions of dollars to do so.
A gunshot can steal away a life in seconds. We spend trillions to be able to lengthen lives by a fragment of the amount of life that can be stolen by a bullet. As someone who is charged to do no harm, to improve the number and quality of our days on earth, and who does so at great cost to patients and taxpayers (those are actually the same people, remember?) it is offensive to then also allow weapons to exist so rampantly in the community that can undo countless dollars and hours of effort towards improved life in just seconds. How can we pour words and time and money into healthcare (or education, housing, public safety), while in the same breath sanction those tools which so carelessly and carefully take away life. It is a contradiction at it's core. We cannot serve two masters- either we love life, or we love death. We'll never be perfect at loving life and choosing life, but we love and choose death too much.
Have you ever stuck your hand into a bullet wound? I have. I'll never forget how warm my finger felt, my right pointer finger, when it pushed it's way into the bullet wound hole of young man in the ER in DC. He was shot in the neck. He was probably already dead, but as a med student I foolishly thought maybe if I put my finger in to stop the bleeding it would help. But I was useless. And for once, I wasn't useless just because I was a med student, we were all useless in the ER that night. That was the first bullet wound I touched, but by far was it the last.
The holes bullets make in flesh are remarkably clean because the bullets go through so fast. It is almost hard at first to believe such a small hole can do so much damage except that there is so much blood. But isn't that just the problem? This small machine can do so much harm with so little thought and with so much thought. It's an equal opportunity killer when it comes to forethought, though not equal with who it kills.
I've never seen a toddler killed by accidentally firing a bayonet.
I'd just as well get rid of guns all together. It won't happen, but I think it's the right thing for any society aiming to love life, liberty and happiness. Find a different way to command force and fear and public order. Find a different hobby or sport. It isn't a luxury worth having. It's not that some of us should have them and not others. None of us should have them. Radical, I know. But wrong? They came about as a necessary evil and we got addicted to their ability to command armies and nations, but also friends turned enemies, spouses turned traitors, black bodies, and kids. But, really, is evil necessary? I don't believe so; it isn't what was meant to be, what is meant to be. Evil is laced with good explanations and intentions about culture and context and rights and history. Evil is convenient. But the argument that better or safer life can be achieved through instruments of death was valid once in history, in Jesus, and we are arrogant to think that it is a power we are sanctioned or able to wield.
Also relevant: https://www.bbc.com/news/world-us-canada-46186510
Monday, November 12, 2018
Wednesday, September 5, 2018
Cookies for Communion
For months, maybe even close to a year, Theo has been fascinated by communion time at church. That makes sense - it's dynamic, kinetic - any on-looker can tell there is something different going on. There is walking and pouring and cracker breaking and singing. It is also conveniently right before lunch time, and little growling tummies (and big ones, if we're honest) join in the holy chorus. "I'm hungry," he often whispers, as he squirms in his seat, waiting to be done.
Those growling melodies are a helpful analogy. "Just like your body needs food and water to live and be strong, our souls need Jesus, body and blood, to live also," we often tell him.
Our souls growl, too. It sounds less like a broken garbage disposal (which is my best descriptor for a serious stomach growl) and more like a heavy sigh at the brokenness of the world; the discontentment with life even when things are going pretty well, but especially when they aren't; the longing for better love, even when you know you're loved, but especially when you don't; the disappointment in bodies that fail and relationships that fade; the frustration of always battling the same imperfections; the need for assurance that everything will be alright, will be made right.
Delightfully, Theo has absorbed all of the motions and words that get said as the wine gets poured and bread broken. Months ago I noticed him at the playground, holding up his ritz cracker snack to the sky, reciting, "the body of Christ, broken for you," cracking his salty snack in half, and proceeding to hand it out random kids and pigeons at the park. It was sweet...and salty. I didn't realize what he was doing initially, his words at the time still had a little bit of that toddler lisp left in them. When asked, he replied, "everyone needs some crackers." He doesn't know how right he was. (Apparently he's been doing it at preschool this week too?! Can't wait for our next parent-teacher conference...)
He still has some learning to do about communion. I'll admit it must look a little bizarre without context - some guy up front holds up a cracker like he's worshiping the cracker god, breaks it, then a bunch of adults and some kids go eat one and drink from a germ infested cup and then sit down. We're glad he's got some developing context and age appropriate sense of holiness.
The other night, after dutifully eating a respectable amount of dinner, he earned his chocolate chip cookie dessert. We were cleaning up dishes already as he got his prized treat. Sitting tall in his booster seat, he held it up to the sky, as far as his little 3.8 year old arms would reach, "the body of Christ, broken for you. Take and eat in...Christ died....thanksgiving." His voiced trailed off towards the end in part because he couldn't remember some of the words, and in part because he was really excited to get that cookie into his mouth. It was the holiest of unholy communions.
He finished with a grin. Cookie crumbs on the floor from his less than perfect breaking of it and traces of chocolate around his mouth where his tongue can't reach. "All done!" he proclaimed. All done, indeed. I doubt that the church at large will move towards serving cookies for communion (but really, who would complain about it?!), but what a sweet picture of the grace that is offered. Jesus' body isn't the broccoli your parents make you eat, or the pizza that is delicious but makes you feel bad later. It's the joy of a single chocolate chip cookie, completing a meal, ending a day, satisfying not just hunger, but providing more than enough.
I'm hungry. Everyone needs some crackers. Cookie communion. All done.
Would that our hungry souls mirror this sense of need, community, sweetness, satisfaction.
"Taste and see that the Lord is good." (Ps 34:8) Even as good as a chocolate chip cookie. Maybe, we'll find, even better.
Those growling melodies are a helpful analogy. "Just like your body needs food and water to live and be strong, our souls need Jesus, body and blood, to live also," we often tell him.
Our souls growl, too. It sounds less like a broken garbage disposal (which is my best descriptor for a serious stomach growl) and more like a heavy sigh at the brokenness of the world; the discontentment with life even when things are going pretty well, but especially when they aren't; the longing for better love, even when you know you're loved, but especially when you don't; the disappointment in bodies that fail and relationships that fade; the frustration of always battling the same imperfections; the need for assurance that everything will be alright, will be made right.
Delightfully, Theo has absorbed all of the motions and words that get said as the wine gets poured and bread broken. Months ago I noticed him at the playground, holding up his ritz cracker snack to the sky, reciting, "the body of Christ, broken for you," cracking his salty snack in half, and proceeding to hand it out random kids and pigeons at the park. It was sweet...and salty. I didn't realize what he was doing initially, his words at the time still had a little bit of that toddler lisp left in them. When asked, he replied, "everyone needs some crackers." He doesn't know how right he was. (Apparently he's been doing it at preschool this week too?! Can't wait for our next parent-teacher conference...)
He still has some learning to do about communion. I'll admit it must look a little bizarre without context - some guy up front holds up a cracker like he's worshiping the cracker god, breaks it, then a bunch of adults and some kids go eat one and drink from a germ infested cup and then sit down. We're glad he's got some developing context and age appropriate sense of holiness.
The other night, after dutifully eating a respectable amount of dinner, he earned his chocolate chip cookie dessert. We were cleaning up dishes already as he got his prized treat. Sitting tall in his booster seat, he held it up to the sky, as far as his little 3.8 year old arms would reach, "the body of Christ, broken for you. Take and eat in...Christ died....thanksgiving." His voiced trailed off towards the end in part because he couldn't remember some of the words, and in part because he was really excited to get that cookie into his mouth. It was the holiest of unholy communions.
He finished with a grin. Cookie crumbs on the floor from his less than perfect breaking of it and traces of chocolate around his mouth where his tongue can't reach. "All done!" he proclaimed. All done, indeed. I doubt that the church at large will move towards serving cookies for communion (but really, who would complain about it?!), but what a sweet picture of the grace that is offered. Jesus' body isn't the broccoli your parents make you eat, or the pizza that is delicious but makes you feel bad later. It's the joy of a single chocolate chip cookie, completing a meal, ending a day, satisfying not just hunger, but providing more than enough.
I'm hungry. Everyone needs some crackers. Cookie communion. All done.
Would that our hungry souls mirror this sense of need, community, sweetness, satisfaction.
"Taste and see that the Lord is good." (Ps 34:8) Even as good as a chocolate chip cookie. Maybe, we'll find, even better.
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