Veneration

CrownOfThorns

The distinct possibility that Jesus of Nazareth was unaware of exactly how things would turn out is particularly moving to me. This vision of the “fully-human” side of Jesus (as opposed to His “fully-divine” side) requires significant effort, but on Good Friday feels particularly powerful.  Take an Ignation journey with me and see Gethsemane through His human eyes, where He only knows that His heavenly father has asked Him to trust in Him, and willingly encounter this evening.

OK, with apologies to Aquinas (who was pretty convinced that Jesus was omniscient from birth, and understood the entire plan – that he would not actually die but had eternal life), think about a little different theology.  There’s no way to really know for sure, but the fact that He wept, sweated blood, and asked that His father pass “the cup” from Him would imply that He was, at least a little, unsure or at least unclear how this would all play out. Perhaps He was as surprised on Easter morning as Mary was…

One of the professors in my master’s program, a Jesuit named Fr. Michael Cooper, led us through this “low Christology” journey.  How much more faith, love, and obedience would it have required for Him to say “yes” to the whole crucifixion dolorosa if He knew none of this.  Imagine Jesus blown away by the transfiguration, His ability to change water to wine, multiply loaves, and walk on water.  Humor me this contemplation: close your eyes as Jesus and imagine the loneliness, anxiety, and desperation of knowing your father has asked you give the ultimate gift, and you are just to trust him, that all will work out.  How much more of an ultimate gift would that have been, to embrace such suffering and agony depicted by Gibson and in our minds without full knowledge of the third day.

There’s a story about a five year old boy and his eight year old sister, who both contracted a disease and became very sick. The boy’s immune system was able to develop antibodies to overcome the disease, but his sister did not. She was not expected to live even another day.

The doctor who had been treating her sat the little boy down and explained the grave situation to him, asking kindly if he’d be willing to give his antibody rich blood to his sister. To the doctor’s surprise, the boy seemed to hesitate.

The boy looked down at the floor and his thoughts seemed very far away. It was some time before he snapped out of it, then he took a deep breath and said

“Okay. I’ll do it, if it’ll save her.”

After hearing this the doctor and nurses wasted no time and immediately got the blood transfusion procedure going.

With wide eyes the boy lay in the hospital bed next to all the machinery and watched as his red blood flowed through the tubes, out of his body.

Later on he watched as his sister in the bed next to him received the blood, and he could plainly see that the color was returning to her cheeks where before they’d been so pale. He smiled at her, but seemed so distant and sad.

The doctor was brimming with joy and hope for the little girl, but before he could give the boy and his parents the good news, the boy turned and asked in a whisper, “Will I die right away?”

On hearing that, the doctor almost dropped the clipboard he was holding.

You see, the little boy thought that agreeing to the blood transfusion meant that he had to give all of his blood to save his sister’s life.

Did Jesus of Nazareth agree to all the suffering and humiliation of being stripped naked and literally beaten to death out of love for us and obedience to His father with out full knowledge of Easter morning?

There’s something about the contrite silence when leaving Good Friday services that has always hit me hard.  The tabernacle is empty, the holy water fonts are dry, and we all leave in the sober silence of leaving the theater after our first viewing of The Passion of Christ so many years ago.  We avoided eye contact from the horror of modern day massacre, but also grief, guilt, and responsibility.

But also in relief that we have a God who knows suffering. Who knows the pain of losing a son. Who walks with us daily as we carry our own crosses.  But why does this make our own suffering any easier – to know that the Creator of the universe knows us personally and has cried our tears of grief?  I don’t know why, but it does.

The five years seems like a lifetime since I walked the Camino de Santiago as part of my own grief journey after losing my son. There were so many amazing “coincidences” during that month, where I would find myself walking with someone who had a message in their own story that I desperately needed to hear, or whom needed to hear my own story.  One amazing story involved standing in the morning darkness of a foggy bathroom mirror in a hostel with a towel around my waist shaving, when I was joined by another perigrino in this “chance” encounter.  We had never met, but I soon realized that I had walked for about an hour with his nephew a few days earlier; he had lost his son in an accident a year previously and of the hundreds of thousands of hikers on the Camino in 2013, our paths had crossed “coincidentally.”  It was on that day that I first encountered another father who knew my pain and suffering.  We only spoke for a few minutes, but that was all we needed.  With our shared tears we knew each other in unspoken ways.

It is difficult to explain why this was pivotal, but in retrospect, it was.  Soon I would witness my own transformation: No longer did I want to share the tragedy of my cross to bring everyone I could down with my miserable, broken life.  Easter morning had brought redemption and joy and resurrection.  It was still such a heartbreaking story, but one with new purpose, a lost life had brought forth so much light from the ashes.

Eagerly embrace your own Easter morning.  You don’t walk alone.

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A Birthday Choice

The OB/GYN looked down at the young couple authoritatively and did his best to console them.  “I’m very sorry, I know how much you’ve been looking forward to another child.  But you’ve lost this baby.  I know how much this hurts, but you’re very young and have plenty of time to try again.”

The 29 year old looked up from the beautiful baby bump and met the eyes of the doctor. This father was a veterinarian, and as such had significantly more medical knowledge than perhaps most other expecting parents.

“But Dr. Shure, how can you be so certain? Couldn’t there still be a heartbeat even though your doppler stethoscope can’t locate it?”

The physician looked so soothingly compassionate.  “Bill, I’ve done this for a long time. Your wife has an abnormal pregnancy with a condition known as placenta previa, and although sometimes this corrects itself, this time it’s getting much worse. We need to get her downstairs for a D & C before she loses any more blood.”

This was before the age of Google, but hours had been spent digging into his medical books, leaving the young father with an irritating unwillingness to follow doctor’s orders.  “I’m not comfortable with your advice. I think we should get an ultrasound to see if the baby’s still alive.”  Dr. Shure’s compassion was becoming transparent as his confidence turned to arrogance.  “It doesn’t really matter.  Even if there’s a heartbeat, there won’t be very soon.”

Knowing very well that this would be self-fulfilling if they went downstairs, they nodded in agreement.  “We want an ultrasound,” they said in unison. “We’re Catholic, and we’re just not comfortable with abortion as an alternative.”

Dr. Shure was red-faced now and the veins on the side of his forehead were clearly visible from across the room.  “Well, I’m Catholic too, but this is important, you need to face reality.  You are making a mistake, and wasting time.”

Perhaps they had different definitions of Catholic, or different interpretations of what was important.  For them their faith was what helped them discern what really is important, as they face reality.  Risking his further disapproval of their blind ignorance, Bill clarified: “Well, we’re practicing Catholics.”

The door closed abruptly as the man they had chosen to help them bring forth life left in disgust.  And so the young couple was engulfed with fear as they looked down at the bloody sheets.  Before they could get her dressed, a nurse came in to assist. “The doctor doesn’t understand your feelings, but I certainly do.  I’ve made arrangements for you across the street to have an ultrasound performed, and they’ll be waiting for you.”

Their tears of joy were contagious with the entire staff at the imaging center, who now knew what was happening, and were all in tears.  Emily’s heart was most certainly beating, and it continues today.

It wasn’t an easy final 6 months of pregnancy, all spent in bed.  Any attempt to become vertical resulted in massive blood loss, and progesterone supplements were taken as a precaution against premature labor.

Of course the young man was me and today I remember that fateful day.  Beautiful memories of each of my five children have carried me through some pretty tough times. Today is September 13, and I celebrate one of them.  Happy Birthday Emily.

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Please help me celebrate by remembering precious memories of your own children, or siblings, or growing up. Recall a moment when something life changing happened. Give someone a hug and tell them how much you love them and how glad you are that they’re alive today.

Life is beautiful.

emilyotis

 

Close to Home

“I don’t care what they do with each other, in their own privacy.  Just keep ’em away from my kids.”

I was discussing this morning’s tragedy at the gay nightclub in Orlando with Robert, a carpenter helping me get some work done around the house.  As I stenciled out the patterns he worked the jig-saw, and then I asked:

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“But Rob, what if they are your kids?”

He looked up. “What?”

I repeated, “What if ‘them’ isn’t somebody else, somewhere else?  What if your son was in that club last night?”

He laughed and said, “Couldn’t have been, I only have two daughters.”

“Seriously Rob, what if one of them, or your brother, or a nephew, or grandchild was gay, because they might be.  What if it hit your own family.”

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“That would be different,” he said.  He looked up from the saw, and right at me.  That’s when it hits too close to home, and you gotta face the real world.  That’s when I become a compassionate father, and stop being a bigot.  Those jokes aren’t quite so funny, and you see life through a different lens.”

I nodded and said, “Amen.”

Maybe I don’t know anyone that was in Pulse Nightclub last night.  But I could have.

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Everybody Remembers a Mike

Today is the anniversary of my first publishing this. It also would have been Mike’s birthday. I forgot that I had written this one night over a glass of wine or two and a few tears. I know it’s long but I’d love for you to read it to the end. It’s one of my very favorite writings.

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I think Dewey and Vaudean Gimlin used to see me for what I was back then – Eddie Haskell, Wally Cleaver’s best friend on Leave it to Beaver.  And although this was pretty correct, their son Mike and I used to feed off of each other.  This is why we were best friends for about a fourth of my life.

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Every time Mike got into trouble, Dewey pretty much blamed me.  My long hair was probably why Dewey saw to it that Mike’s was never more than about a half inch – he was too curly to allow a military “flat top,” but this was the general idea.

Although I went to St Francis Xavier and he went to public elementary school, weekends and all summer long found us together.  He was classmates with Paul Ensor and the three of us would always be together in some combination…

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Stitches for Christmas

I hadn’t planned on the Christmas traffic and so I was a bit late for work.  “I’m not even on the highway yet,” I phoned my receptionist, “So you might want to call my first appointment and advise them to come in 15 minutes late.”

“Just be glad you’re not early!” she exclaimed.  “We had an emergency run in, and the poor thing was torn wide open from getting caught under a fence, and bleeding all over the place.”

“Are they waiting?” I asked as I sped up well past my comfortable speed.  “No, I sent them to Dr. Elsewhere.  Besides they’d never been here before, and said the dog wasn’t even theirs!”

I’d seen the schedule and knew we were slammed; it was good that they went down the road.  I had 18 appointments scheduled for the abbreviated 3 hour day, and that would be plenty.  Besides, it was Christmas Eve and everyone would be anxious to get home after just a half day.  I was glad I wouldn’t have to feel guilty.

I’ve  come to really enjoy my hour and a half commute.  I listen to lots of audiobooks and, now that I’m enrolled in University postgraduate classes again, I listen to my professor’s lectures a few times as well.  But it does make for a long 13 hour day, and there’s not much of me left when I get home.  My coping mechanism involves an hour of silence, contemplation, prayer early every morning.  And I find myself struggling, pleading, praying for peace and joy from each hectic day.

Some days it’s hard to find much joy.  I’m sometimes immersed and submerged in grief of lost life and love.  And so I plead with my Creator for consolation.  I want to know that it’s not all in vain.  That we’re here for a reason.  That I’m here for a reason.  Give me your eyes to recognize opportunities to love and serve as you would have me.  And that I am living my life as He would want – that the world is better for my having been here.  I’ve been having a bit of a dry spell, and feel like I’m just checking the box some days.

I realize I’ll never cure cancer.  And I’ll never make enough money to create a Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation to end a disease like rubella.  Or embrace the “humans discarded like garbage” as Mother Theresa did.  And so it would be easy to see my ordinary, everyday life as just that. But I strive to find Jesus with every encounter – every time I smile, touch, or open my mouth.  I pray for patience, and compassion, and the vision to realize who it is that is actually standing in front of me, and overlook their human faults.  I ask for wisdom to recognise those opportunities that I’m given where I can draw closer, but be indifferent to those which push me away.

Sometimes people aren’t very kind, or appreciative, or forgiving of my own faults – my forgetfulness, my schedule, my often sarcastic personality, my tardiness.

And so, I zipped into the driveway, with almost 20 cars already in it, knowing that the day would be another challenge.  My first two appointments were waiting, along with two unplanned emergencies; 6 pets had been dropped off for me to examine “in my spare time,” and over 40 charts were on my desk for me to evaluate lab results and to call to discuss treatment options.

After years of this script, my employees know I have a routine, and to only jump on me if someone is bleeding.  Since they didn’t, I made a dash for the baño and returned the three mugs of coffee I’d inhaled almost two hours ago.  I grabbed my stethoscope, and slid into the first exam room.

Soon I had dispersed, delegated, prescribed, and advised everyone waiting to see me, and was shocked to see no charts in front of me.  I looked at the clock and was confused that I had a little down time in the middle of a busy, busy morning.

As I turned to tackle my stack of charts, one of my receptionists spun me around and said, “Dr. K., the person that came in so early this morning, the one I referred to Dr. Elsewhere is back, and begging for you to look at the dog.  I know what you’re going to say, so I’m not sure why I’m even asking, but she wants your opinion. Remember, it’s not even her dog, and she has now told me three times that she doesn’t have any money.”  The other doctor had told her just to hose the dog’s wound off every day and it would probably heal fine.

I shook my head and smiled, “Tell them to bring the dog in, and I’ll have a look.”

“No,” she said, “They’re too embarrassed to come in with no money.  Can you go out to their car and just have a look to see if you agree with the other doctor.”

“Sure.”

The gash was deep, and blood was everywhere.  There was little chance this would heal on it’s own.  Not without antibiotics, and she really needed stitches.  I looked around and “for some reason” there were still no cars in the parking lot.  The little dog looked up at me and wagged her tail.  I looked at the wrinkled, worried forehead of the couple who had cared enough to bring in a dog that didn’t even belong to them.

Fence Gash

“Field stitches” are something that I learned from my boyhood mentor as I “helped” around the neighborhood vet clinic, a lifetime ago, working on cattle and horses, and most certainly aren’t taught in medical school.  They are fast, and require no general anesthesia.  I looked at the huge gash in the little dog, and realized that it most certainly wouldn’t be the best medical care, but one hell of a lot better than hosing it off every day.  Besides, I could shave and disinfect the wound, inject some lidocaine, place a drain, and “field stitch” the dog in about 20 minutes.  (To do it properly, with acceptable sterile technique would require anesthesia and over two hours of surgical time).

OK, so it actually took 30 minutes, and by then about 4 or 5 people were waiting. But, as I placed the final stitch in her neighbor’s dog who hadn’t even flinched, and gave her a shot of antibiotics, I knew it had been the right thing to do.

Her husband had looked at the floor most of the time we were in the exam room together, and finally, looking up, spoke with a cracking voice.

“I’m not sure why ya done this fer us, and I told you I didn’ haf any thing ta pay ya with. Would it be OK if we came back and paid you a little bit each week, when I get m’ check?”  He seemed to fear my response and was clearly embarrassed.

I was a bit moved by his offer.  I had known they couldn’t pay when I invited them in.

“No,” I said, “I only ask one thing.  Don’t go around and tell everyone that we work for free.  ‘Cause if I did this very often, (pointing to my nurse) she’d have to work for free, and then her family wouldn’t get to buy food.”

“What?” they were both clearly a mess now.  “You done all this fer nuthin?”

“Nope. We did it because we were supposed to.  Thanks for coming in today, and … Merry Christmas.”

I gave them each a hug, and high fived my nurse as I left the room.

She smiled bigger than I did.  She knew we hadn’t done it for them.  It was for me.  I’m selfish that way.

Clearly, a businessman can’t give things away on a regular basis, or he wouldn’t be able to pay his staff, and give raises, and pay for health care, or the mortgage.  But sometimes you can.  And it feels really good.

None of this is about “telling people about our good works so that others will know how good we are.”  It’s simply opening our eyes so we can see.

It’s not about doing good, or “giving back,” because others have been good to us.  No, that’s simply the “exchange” of Christmas gifts.  Tit for tat.  And as such, although trades are extrinsically good, they don’t really add good to the world.  The balance shifts when we do good where there is no possible way for the other to repay.

At the end of the day, isn’t that what Christmas is really about anyway?

For God so loved the world that He gave His only Son …

JN 3:16

The original gift of Christmas was one given with full knowledge that it could never be repaid, and clearly there has never been that expectation.  We don’t do good because we owe God anything.  Or because we’re afraid of Hell.  We do good because God is good, and in our design we are programed to enjoy doing so.  There are no mistakes in our design.  He did this for a reason.  We are here for a reason.

Centuries ago, Blaise Pascal (consider also Pascal’s Wager) formulated a concept later described as a “God shaped hole” in our hearts.  We seek and try repeatedly to fill this longing with things of this world, trying to satisfy the craving, and fill the void ourselves. Sixteen centuries years ago Pascal observed power-lust and self-centeredness, with the resultant narcissism and addictions.

This he tries in vain to fill with everything around him, seeking in things that are not there the help he cannot find in those that are, though none can help, since this infinite abyss can be filled only with an infinite and immutable object; in other words by God himself.”
– Blaise Pascal, Pensées VII(425)

Only by recognising what “fits” in this hole do we “satisfy that longing.” Only through love and service for others are we truly happy.  What we did on Christmas eve was really no big deal.  Everyone can, and must reach out those around them.  Maybe you can’t stitch up a stray dog.  But you can help someone fix a flat tire, or unload their groceries, or shovel their snow, or give a blanket to someone who is wandering and cold.  Or just stop and, with a conversation or a smile, show a stranger that they matter.

ed. note:  I considered for a week before I wrote this. Last year a similar post about Betty and her dog Baby (Rude) resulted in a considerable number of folks being put off by what they saw as “attention seeking, and patting myself on the back for doing something we should all do anyway.” But that was the entire point of She Wasn’t being Rude, if the reader had actually read it and made it down to the end of the post.  Of course we should do good, and what I (and every other veterinarian I know) am able to do sometimes, is a blessing – to me.

After tragedy enters someone’s life, they see the world through a much different lens.  Everything takes on a new color, with depth and detail that was never before noticed.  When the bleeding stops, everything has purpose;  life becomes deeper and meaningful, and appreciated.

My vision is with other eyes now.  Mainly those of my father and my son.

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“God isn’t fixing this.” (NY Daily News)

I’d be hard pressed to think of a more cynical and exploitative headline at a time of national mourning than the New York Daily News, in exemplary journalism, who took “progressive” rhetoric one step further and decided to use its cover to mock God for failing to “fix” the problem of sinful mankind doing sinful things:

God wont fix this

A quick peek at the Twitter “trending” box found many like this at the top. The very same people quoting “our” Jesus to us just a week ago urging an embrace of more Syrian Refugees yesterday seemed to race again to social media.  They didn’t offer any compassion to the victims of the shooting, any information to the authorities, or any insights on how to prevent future terrorist attacks–but to mock people for having the audacity to pray for the victims and their families.  Another Wikipedia definition seems imminent, “Prayer-shaming.”

we dont need your thoughts & prayers – we need action. Now.

and lots demanding more gun control:

We dont need you to send prayers. We need you to vote for modern gun laws.

(I had to dig deep to find why so many included hash-tags for PP, and then I stumbled upon one who shared the news that the PP “clinic” was a only a 20 minute walk away.  You can’t  make this stuff up.  Clearly a connection with the “Bible thumpin’, AK47 totin’, Shoot ’em up Pro lifers!)

 

Prayers aren’t working.

Another mass shooting prompted another round of silence Wednesday from GOP presidential candidates on the issue of gun control.

Instead, while the Democratic presidential wannabes were calling for stricter gun laws in the wake of the San Bernardino massacre, the Republicans were preaching about prayer.

It’s all they ever have to offer, isn’t it? And it doesn’t make one damn bit of difference.

…discussing out how much money all of those “thoughts and prayers” politicians have received from the NRA.

Since I’ve been on AOL since Al Gore invented the internet, for some reason I get spoon-fed Huffington Post as my reliable news feed. Here’s the best they could come up with:

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Really?  “Their ‘useless’ thoughts and prayers?”  Really?

“Politicians are the people society trusts to solve society’s ills?” Really?

No one I know trusts politicians to solve our ills.  That’s why (at least most of) the people I know want smaller government, because (again, perhaps it’s my own myopic vision) the bigger and more responsibility ladened a government becomes, the more poorly she performs. A big government is top-heavy, inefficient, and corruption prone.

I honestly understand that half of our population has no idea why private citizens have any business owning guns.  They don’t hunt, and have no desire to learn to use a firearm to defend themself or their family.  The thought of even touching a gun scares them.  So, to them, the second amendment is nonsense, out-dated, and should be abolished.  The founding fathers could not have foreseen the sins of today’s society when they crafted this law.  But I’d purport that they did.  And perhaps if a few of the luncheon participants had disregarded the “gun-free zone” signs and had a 357 tucked in their belts, we’d have different headlines.  Or maybe not. Maybe the entire thing would have not even have been newsworthy if they’d both been slain before they even pulled their first trigger.

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But I digress.  Gun control is not the topic of this post.

Anyway, I was honestly confused as to what possessed all of these media types to choose “people who pray” as the target of their anger.

Then I stumbled onto the clincher. The grand pooh bah of enlightenment. A well-regarded, progressive Washington Post journalist wrote this:

This mentality was really weird to me, and revealing. Almost more of a temper tantrum than anything else, particularly since progressives immediately turn to “prayer of a different kind” in the aftermath of tragedy.  They pray to the god of bigger and better government.  Something must be done!  Legislate!  Last week we needed more programs to serve the huge increase of refuges that we “must” accept.  And now we need gun-control laws.

Maybe we should compassionately accept more refugees, and maybe we do need better gun control laws.  These are fodder for later use.

The phrase “thoughts and prayers” sounds like fingernails on a chalkboard to athiests and maybe agnostics, let’s just say “humanists.” Initially, I assumed it was because the “thoughts” portion seem somewhat meaningless. Combining it with prayer makes it seem like prayer is nothing more than “thoughts,” kind of like “good energy,” when New Ager’s send out “white light.” Prayer isn’t just “thoughts” and perhaps people could really drop the “thoughts” portion of the phrase. Kudos to Ted Cruz and Paul Ryan for their more theologically precise public statements in that regard.

Prayer is at the heart of the Christian faith. Jesus spoke about it extensively, explaining to those of us who follow him how to pray to our father in heaven. Perhaps you have heard of the “Our Father,” which provides the model of prayer for the Christian.

Prayer is described throughout the entirety of Scriptures, from Moses’ telling of discussions with God all the way through St. John’s glorious vision of the consummation of prayers in the restored heavens and earth, described in Revelation. And the Gospel of Luke describes how Jesus prayed in the Garden of Gethsemane on the eve of his crucifixion — “being in agony, He prayed more earnestly. Then His sweat became like great drops of blood falling down to the ground.”

Jesus tells us to call God our Father. He tells us that God wants us to ask him for things like a father wants his children to ask of him, so he can answer and give them what they ask for to show his love. For the Christian, we pray because God commands it, and that means it’s extremely important to us. We know God wants to hear our prayers and will use our prayers to help us in some ways that we can’t even understand.  And many that we can.

You see, to a faithful (Hindu, Buddhist, Jewish, Islamic, as well as Christian) people, praying is not “doing nothing.”

We do believe that God can intervene, to comfort the hurting and even to energize ourselves and others for right action. At the very least it is an expression of, “We love one another, and we hurt for one another.”

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Those without such faith might look from afar and just “not get it.”  There’s lots of things I “don’t get,” but I do my best to have respect and civility for those things I don’t understand.

As a (Western) medical person, I don’t get holistic, naturopathic, reikki, and other non-traditional type approaches to healing.  But I don’t stand and laugh, disparagingly, at them.  Some might, in fact, work as well as my own approach.  The fact that I don’t understand how is a side note.

Answers to prayers aren’t like some divine vending machine where you put the money in and out pops a Snickers Bar.  I am honestly a witness to many inexplicable things, both in my personal, as well as medical life.  To these I do attribute Divine Intervention.  Whether or not you agree is also a side note.

But prayers aren’t always (infrequently even?) answered with direct changes in courses of action.  I’d purport that God acts and directs us and our life journeys in lots of altered ways because of our prayers.  In prayer we are changed.  Our hearts and the lenses through which we view our brothers become like clay and conform to His will.  It’s not magic, or meditative self change, nor the power of positive thinking.  It’s opening ourselves up to our God.  Understanding that He is the master and creator of the universe, and that He is God, and that I am not.  Supplication and humility open us up to His love and the changes He wants to see in us. Don’t understand?  Try.  Don’t have a desire to change? Don’t want to yield to a higher power? Don’t have any idea why others feel this “call” to believe?  It’s a thing called grace which enables and empowers us to “open the door” and let Him in.

And so, when we “pray” we do this very thing.  We open the door and let Him in.  He sits to eat with us, and we with him.  And when we open ourselves up to His will, we gain perspective.  We see others through eyes not our own, and we grow in His love.  This, of course, is empathy and that love we all know we should have. We pray also because of our needs; the community’s needs which, in love, we should take on; and the burdens of all of our neighbors and even our entire country and world.

Don’t tell me not to pray for my hurting brothers and sisters. And for you. And for a change of heart for those who hate us. Perhaps enough of these prayers will in fact change their hearts.  But maybe that change will occur because our own hearts begin to love enough that others actually see Jesus in us. Perhaps this is the action you want to see, instead of what you think are empty prayers. Maybe prayers seem empty because you haven’t really opened the door yourself. And so, perhaps prayer is exactly what is needed – for you, and for me.

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Lots of acknowledgment to Mollie Hemmingway at “The Federalist,” Russell Moore at “The Washington Post,” Jim Martin, at “America.”