Two Reasons Why Bringing Dr. Brantly Home Is the Right Thing to Do (and Why Christians Should Be Ashamed for Opposing It)

[A few days after this blog was written, political pundit Ann Coulter posted a terribly offensive rant--probably no surprise if you know her style--about this topic that has stirred up a well-deserved backlash. She criticized Brantly and other Christians for going to " disease-ridden cesspools" like Liberia when they could have stayed here and done more good. It's hard to know whether to view her post as culturally arrogant, ridiculously nationalistic, or just plain racist. In any case, I'll let my comments below remain a partial answer as to why Christians should serve the poor and suffering, and why objections are clearly not Christ-like.]

Dr. Kent Brantly trained at one of the top Family Medicine residencies in the country at John Peter Smith Hospital in Fort Worth. He could have worked anywhere he wanted to go and made a profitable living caring for patients in the comfort of American upper middle class life. He chose instead to serve as a medical missionary with Samaritan’s Purse in one of the poorest areas of the world. When the Ebola virus struck people in the area he was serving, he could have returned home with his family and no one would ever have blamed him. But he chose to stay, working tirelessly to do whatever he could to save lives and relieve suffering. It is what he felt his faith called him to do. It is what he felt his medical training prepared him to do. It is what he felt his commitment as a physician required of him.  If Dr. Brantly had not contracted the disease, most of us probably would never have heard of him (just as we can’t name the many other doctors who have been doing the same thing without any fanfare).

When the news broke that he had become sick, everyone was amazed by his story, praising his incredible self-sacrifice. He was suddenly an American hero…until the announcement came that he was being brought to Atlanta to one of the best places in the world to treat this kind of disease. Now the hospital is getting hate mail, the Internet is flooded with fear and anger, and the news media is questioning the wisdom of the decision. Even though many medical experts say that America is not at risk of an Ebola breakout from Brantly’s treatment in this facility, many Americans seem unwilling to accept any possibility of any remote risk associated with treating Brantly in a facility designed to do just this. Sooner or later, it seems to me, this disease will surely find its way outside West Africa. The questions we have to ask are: Will we support those trying to fight the disease there? What will we do if they get sick? And, How will we respond when someone here in America does get sick?

I’d like to offer two reasons why Christians should believe that bringing Brantly home is unquestionably the right thing to do.

First, taking care of Brantly, even if there is some risk, is what Christian compassion calls us to do. What Brantly and others are doing in Africa, putting themselves at risk in self-sacrificial service to others, is profoundly Christian (i.e., Christ-like, following in the way of the cross). Bringing Brantly home is exactly what a “Christian nation” should do. (Of course, America is not really a “Christian nation” by any meaningful standard I can imagine, but Christians are nonetheless part of the chorus of American voices complaining about the decision.) If what Brantly and others are doing is profoundly Christian, then refusing to do whatever we can to help him is profoundly unchristian.

When the plague struck Carthage in the Roman Empire in the 3rd century, people abandoned their dying relatives and friends in the streets and even fled the city to save their own lives. But Christians, led by Bishop Cyprian, stayed in large numbers to treat the sick and dying, putting their own lives at risk to take care of, not just their own family members, but anyone who needed their mercy and care. Dionysius, another Bishop at the time, wrote this about the Christian response to the crisis:

Most of our brother Christians showed unbounded love and loyalty, never sparing themselves and thinking only of one another.  Heedless of danger, they took charge of the sick, attending to their every need and ministering to them in Christ, and with them departed this life serenely happy; for they were infected by others with the disease, drawing on themselves the sickness of their neighbors and cheerfully accepting their pains.  Many, in nursing and curing others, transferred their death to themselves and died in their stead…The best of our brothers lost their lives in this manner, a number of presbyters, deacons, and laymen winning high commendation so that death in this form, the result of great piety and strong faith, seems in every way the equal of martyrdom.

Second, and more important, ask yourself one simple question: If Brantley were your brother or son or father or friend, what would you be saying? Would you say, “He chose to go—it’s noble—but we shouldn’t take any risk whatsoever”? Or would you say, “We should do whatever we can to help someone who has risked so much to serve others?” Would you say we should leave him there to receive whatever care they can give, or we should bring him home to receive the best care we can offer? You know the answer to that question.

We have a name for offering Brantly the care we would want for our own loved ones: we call it “The Golden Rule.”

The Christmas I Stopped Singing a Lullaby

When my children were babies, I loved singing lullabys to them as I rocked them to sleep. They were mostly songs I learned from my mother and grandmother before me—“Hush little baby, don’t say a word, Mommy’s gonna buy you a mockingbird” and “Go to sleepy little baby ʼfore the Boogie Man gets you” were two of our favorites. Another favorite was one in the hymnal used in most of the churches where I grew up:

Can you count the stars of evening
That are shining in the sky?
Can you count the clouds that daily
Over all the world go by?
God the Lord, who doth not slumber,
Keepeth all the boundless number;
But He careth more for thee,
But He careth more for thee.

It was a sweet song expressing the faith that God would individually care for each little child. Holding my sleeping infant and softly singing these words was both a parent’s prayer, but also an expression of comfort and security.

Our second child was born in August of 1984—the year a terrible famine struck Ethiopia. That fall the news was full of stories about the hundreds of thousands of people dying of starvation. I sat down to our annual Thanksgiving Feast of turkey and dressing haunted by images of starving children with emaciated faces and bloated bellies. I tried to forget the images while I ate and avoid feelings of guilt for my gluttony while others were starving, but that just made me feel more guilty for trying to forget.

Then one night I began to sing that lullaby to Zack as I rocked him to sleep. I came to the third verse and the words choked in my throat—I just couldn’t get them out:

Can you count the many children
In their little beds at night,
Who without a thought of sorrow
Rise again at morning light?
God the Lord, who dwells in heaven,
Loving care to each has given;
He has not forgotten thee,
He has not forgotten thee.

I have never sung the song again. I can’t. I don’t believe it any more. It was a song of a faith that only made sense in a life of privilege and plenty. The words were not true for starving children in Ethiopia.

A few days after Thanksgiving a group of British and Irish pop and rock stars recorded a new song to raise money for famine relief.  The song was written by Bob Geldoff (of Boomtown Rats) and Midge Ure (of Ultravox). Some of the biggest names of the day participated—Sting, Phil Collins, George Michael, Duran Duran, Bananarama, and more. “Do they Know It’s Christmas?” became a huge hit in both England and America.

I first heard it riding in the car in Chicago in the middle of the bustle of the Christmas season. The lyrics were piercing, disturbing, and inspiring.

But say a prayer, Pray for the other ones
At Christmas time it's hard, but when you're having fun
There's a world outside your window
And it's a world of dread and fear
Where the only water flowing is the bitter sting of tears
And the Christmas bells that ring there are the clanging chimes of doom
Well tonight thank God it's them instead of you

Do they know it's Christmastime at all?
Feed the world
Feed the world

I lost a song that season. But I learned a better one.

Something Has Changed

The other day I went to a run-down motel to pick up the belongings of a homeless man named Dwayne who has been part of our Reunion community. He had been sharing a room there with a man who was living on meager disability checks. Dwayne paid him about $15 a day to share a room, money he earned selling The Contributor on street corners. Dwayne has been in the hospital for weeks and is now in the respite care program at Room In The Inn. The roommate is moving back to his home state, and Dwayne asked me to go get his belongings for him.

I took some boxes and plastic bags and gathered his stuff. Two small boxes of books and papers. A few large bags of clothes. An electric blanket. Some personal items. I carried it all down to my car and packed it tightly into my trunk. As I closed the lid, it suddenly occurred to me…I just loaded a man’s entire earthly belongings into the trunk of my car. The trunk of my car.

And this was not a nameless homeless person we might stop to help or serve in line at a mission. This was my friend Dwayne. I see him every week in our home. Most Wednesdays we grab a burger and talk about life. I had everything my friend owned in my trunk.

Something has changed in my ministry these last few years. I’ve been involved in some way in ministry to the poor in the city for many years—whether starting a tutoring program for inner city kids in Milwaukee, or serving on the advisory board of a Houston charity, or preaching for a church with a food and clothing pantry in Nashville. I have considered myself a compassionate person with some level of understanding of the issues faced by the poor. I guess I would have considered myself a friend to the poor.

But something has changed these last three years. It all seems more personal—which might be expected since I now work for an inner city ministry—but it’s more than just my job. And it seems more complicated—I’ve learned so much more, and realize how little I still know (my father always said that the value of an education is not what you know, but what you know that you don’t know)—but that’s not what I mean either. The change is something more than greater knowledge or deeper involvement.

What has changed is that I used to serve the poor—now they are my friends. I don’t mean I am friendly to them (I think I always was). I don’t mean that I know them by name. No, I mean we are actually friends.

They have been in our home, and Judy and I have been in theirs. We were invited to her son’s wedding. He has slept in our guest room. Her little girls call us Miss Judy and Papa. I was up in the middle of the night talking him out of suicide.  He came to our home for Thanksgiving Dinner. We’re friends.

I’d feel better about that, but I keep wondering why I was near the poor for so long, but not close to them. Is it just that we moved into a transitional neighborhood? That’s surely a part of it. But I know it’s more than that. We’ve chosen to make friends with people who happen to be poor—not because they are poor, but also not because we have a lot in common (isn’t that the usual basis for choosing friends?). We have chosen to make friends with people in our neighborhood, and our neighborhood is diverse. We’ve chosen to make friends with people we are meeting in our ministry—and we’re ministering to people from more diverse backgrounds than ever before. We’ve chosen to make friends—not just to be friendly.

And I see poverty differently now. It’s not just about political issues or social causes. It’s not just about theological positions on social justice. It’s not just about feeling compassion or showing mercy.

No, now it’s about our friends.

Why You Can Bet the House Jesus Won’t Return Today

Perhaps you've seen the news reports about the group predicting the world will end today, May 21.

Associated Press (OAKLAND, Calif.) – Some shut themselves inside to pray for mercy as they waited for the world's end.
Others met for tearful last lunches with their children, and prepared to leave behind homes and pets as they were swept up to heaven.
And across the globe, followers of a California preacher's long-publicized message that Judgment Day would arrive Saturday turned to the Bible, the book they believe predicts Earth's destruction on May 21.
The doomsday message has been sent far and wide via broadcasts and web sites by Harold Camping, an 89-year-old retired civil engineer who has built a multi-million-dollar nonprofit ministry based on his apocalyptic prediction.

But I am absolutely positive he's wrong. Not because I think he's a little confused about how the calendar works (I saw a TV interview with him, and he was definitely confused). Not because I interpret some Biblical prophecies differently (which I do). And not because I've figured out the errors in his mathematical calculations (I haven't bothered). I am confident he's wrong because of one simple thing that Jesus said:

So you also must be ready, because the Son of Man will come at an hour when you do not expect him. (Matthew 24:44)

So I'm certain Jesus will not be coming back today, precisely because the people are expecting him. Even if this was supposed to be the day, when these folk launched their ad campaign announcing the world would end today, I figure God would have just changed the date.
So instead of trying to calculate when prophecies will be fulfilled, maybe we ought to be trying to do what the prophets told us to do—take up the cause of widows and orphans and foreigners, help the poor and the weak, protect innocent blood, be honest and righteous and faithful.
Which might suggest some better uses for those multi-millions Camping has raised than buying ads to spread his fanciful calculations.

Christmas Mission

Those are not two words I usually think of together: "Christmas Mission."
Christmas Eve. Christmas shopping. Christmas pageants. Christmas presents. Christmas dinner. Christmas sales. Christmas trees. Christmas parties. Christmas cards. Christmas decorations.
Not "Christmas Mission." Not unless you hear someone say they are going to help feed the homeless on Christmas at the Mission—but how often do you hear that?
But isn't the Christmas story really a story about mission. And I don't mean Rudolph on a mission on a snowy night. I mean the story of an angel announcing to Zechariah that God is about to fulfill the prophecies and promises of old. The story of Mary learning that she will give birth to the Son of the Most High. The story that God entered this world as a light to the nations, to bring peace to those on whom God's favor rests, to save his people from their sins.
Christmas isn't just a story about a baby in a manger, and angels singing to shepherds, and wise men bringing gifts. It's really just a chapter (though certainly a heartwarming chapter) in a greater story of a God who was, and still is, on a mission in this world.
Christmas Eve services are a lovely tradition (our family attends one every year). But the risk Christians run at Christmas is the same risk Christians run every Lord's Day. Most church goers are at risk of thinking that the focus of our faith is our faith. Church is about what the leaders can do this week that will be meaningful to me. Whether the church we choose emphasizes liturgy or preaching or music, the critical issue seems to be whether it encourages and nourishes my faith. We measure church by the quality of the experience. In short, church is about me (at least, that seems to be how we often evaluate it).
But isn't the focus of our faith really God's work in this world? Isn't the Lord's Day really about remembering the mission of God that took Jesus to the cross and brought him out of the tomb? Shouldn't we be more concerned about whether church services stir us to follow Jesus on his mission in this world?
And isn't that really what should lie at the heart of our observance of Christmas? Shouldn't Christmas call us to be light in the darkness around us? To be as concerned for the poor as is the Son of God who slept in a feed trough? To be voices of peace in the middle of all the strife? To be friends with the people Jesus came to save? To be on God's mission in this world?
Maybe Christmas at the Mission is closer to the heart of the story than most of what we do—whether at the holidays or on Sundays.
Maybe a good question we could each ask is this:
To what mission is Christmas calling me this year?

Colbert vs. Beck on Social Justice (for laughs and...)

This is a very funny response by Stephen Colbert to Glen Beck's rant on social justice. I agree with Beck on some things, not on others. But on this subject, I thought Beck was bordering on the bizarre. Whatever your views of Beck, you'll probably get a laugh out of this. Click here.

Charleston “From Below”

A number of years ago my brother David introduced me to the idea of seeing the world "from below." I sometimes don't know whether to thank him or curse him for it.

The phrase comes from the writings of Dietrich Bonhoeffer, a minister who opposed Hitler during World War II and died for it. The phrase refers to seeing the events of world history—and the world around us—from the perspective of the oppressed, the outcasts, the suffering, the mistreated, the powerless. History is almost always written from the perspective of the powerful and the victorious. It is most often the story of the rich, the educated, the successful, and the privileged. This is probably unavoidable, to some extent, since they are the ones who write it.

Not only do we see history from the perspective of the privileged, we generally see life from that perspective. The very fact that you are reading a blog on the internet is probably an indication that you belong to the American middle or upper class. You are, as am I, part of the privileged minority in this world. And our viewpoint on life cannot help but be shaped by that reality—we see the world "from above." The challenge is to learn to see the same events, the same realities, the same relationships, the same policies, and the same society from the viewpoint of those who experience them from below rather than from above.*

As my brother explained the concept to me, and as I later continued to reflect on it, I realized that I had already been learning to see the world from below—a little at a time to be sure, but nonetheless in life-changing ways. The first time I can remember seeing "from below" was at an event in high school, sitting with African-American friends when the band struck up Dixie—and everyone stood. The next time was when my American history teacher in college made us read Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee and forever changed the way I would think about cowboys and Indians. The journey has continued, and in recent years has changed the way I see the struggle between Israelis and Palestinians—again with my brother's insightful and disturbing help.

On our recent vacation, Judy and I visited the city of Charleston, SC—a city filled with beautiful homes and historic sites. We visited the home of Thomas Heyward, a signer of the Declaration of Independence. George Washington rented this house for a week on a presidential visit to Charleston. We also toured the antebellum home of William Aiken, governor of South Carolina in the 1840s. We saw lavish homes decorated with striking architecture, beautiful antique furniture, lovely gardens, and fine art. But as I strolled through the buildings, I really didn't see all that.

Everywhere I looked I saw luxury enjoyed at the expense of human suffering. What I saw were not beautiful mansions, but small slave quarters above the kitchen where slaves burned themselves preparing the sumptuous meals of their masters. I saw a huge dining room where slaves scurried to wait on the waiting wealthy. I saw the laundry where sweating slaves labored to clean the expensive fabrics worn by those who owned both the clothing and the cleaners. I saw the back stairs used by the slaves so they wouldn't "disturb the family."

I saw rows of beautiful homes just around the corner from the slave market. I saw canons and fortifications used to defend the right of the rich to own the enslaved. I saw churches built by slaves, who then had to worship in the balcony. I saw one church that slaves built for themselves, but which was then closed in 1834 when South Carolina outlawed all-black churches along with education for slaves.

From below, Charleston did not look so pretty.

I sometimes think I'd like not to see this way. But it seems as though some sort of surgery was done to correct my eyesight. And even if it were possible, who would want to have surgery done to take away your eyesight?

I think I am seeing a lot more clearly these days. You just may not want me as your tour guide in Charleston.

 

*For more on Bonhoeffer's "view from below," check out this blog from my friend, Larry James: http://larryjamesurbandaily.blogspot.com/2008/06/bonhoeffer-on-racism.html

Amos: The Annoying Prophet

"Hear this word, you cows of Bashan on Mount Samaria,
you women who oppress the poor and crush the needy
and say to your husbands, "Bring us some drinks!" (Amos 4:1)

"Cows of Bashan"! Can you imagine any preacher in his right mind getting up and calling the ladies of the church, "cows of Bashan"?
No wonder Amos wasn't very popular.

In a recent sermon in our series on the Mighty Acts of God, we talked about Amos and other prophets who preached about the Exile. Since that lesson, I've been thinking now and then about what Amos would say today. And, to be honest, it makes me pretty uncomfortable. I doubt he'd be very popular today either.

For example, he castigates the Israelites because "they sell the poor for a pair of sandals" (2:6; 8:6). Those are harsh words, and at first glance I'm just glad that I would never do such thing. . . . Or would I?

We American consumers are noted for caring only about getting the lowest possible price for the things we want. The consequence of that market pressure is that companies are always looking for ways to provide products at a lower cost than their competitors. Inevitably, some companies will find they can do that by purchasing goods from foreign suppliers who pay pitifully low wages for extremely long hours, do little or nothing to provide for the safety and health of their employees, and even use child labor. Is it possible that my shopping choices contribute to the selling of the poor for a cheaper pair of sandals?

And then there is that annoying sermon in the first few verses of chapter 6. Our small group spent a little time one evening imagining how Amos' words might translate into our culture. It's easy to read words about "ivory beds" and "choice lambs" and "strumming harps" and distance myself from the message. Those don't sound like my life. But what if Amos preached this in contemporary images?
I wonder if he might have said something like this:

Woe to you who are complacent in America,
and to you who feel secure in your cities,
you successful citizens of the foremost nation!
You think the day of consequences is far off,
but bring near a reign of oppression.
You lie on your king-size beds with satin sheets,
and lounge on your couches and recliners.
You dine on fine steaks and grill your extra large burgers.
You watch your widescreen plasma TVs,
and listen to your surround sound home theater systems.
You fill your frig with all your favorite drinks.
You smooth your skin with luxurious lotions.

But you do not grieve over the ruin of your people.

Therefore you will be among the first to face
the coming calamity;
your feasting and lounging will end.

I don't know about you, but I don't think I'd want to go to Amos' church.

Everything Is Not Okay in the Holy Land (guest blog)

My brother, David McRay, M.D., is leading a small group of medical students on a month-long visit to Israel and Palestine as part of their medical education. With his permission, I am sharing this as a guest blog. David is a gifted writer with a unique perspective on the problems plaguing the Holy Land. I think you will be stirred, enlightened, intrigued, and troubled.

-----------------------------

“Everything okay?” No, everything was certainly not okay. My immediate reaction to his question was frustration, even anger, followed almost as quickly by a mixture of disbelief, subdued laughter, and then despair. My emotions seem to race across this spectrum many times a day when I travel in Israel and the Occupied Palestinian Territories.

We were stopped at a checkpoint somewhere in the middle of the West Bank, on the road from Nablus to Ramallah. It was one of the hundreds of such barriers – most
“permanent” (or fixed) and many temporary or mobile (or “on the fly” as people here call them) – scattered across the Palestinian territory that make life so incredibly difficult for the people who must line up and wait, sometimes for hours, to get to their jobs, farms, and family, if they are allowed to pass at all. Life at the checkpoints is challenging – on a good day – and, on a bad day, may end there.

The young Israeli soldier – certainly no more than 25 years old – stood at the window of our van, clearly marked in multiple ways as a mobile medical clinic van operated by the Palestinian Medical Relief Society (PMRS), asking our Palestinian driver where he was going and why. In the usual posture of a soldier in this situation, with his finger on the trigger guard of his semi-automatic weapon, he glanced inside and saw that the passengers of the van were five Americans (our traveling party) and one additional Palestinian (our assistant and translator) – who is also an American citizen. Pausing briefly, apparently to find the correct English words, the soldier then directed his question beyond the driver to the rest of us. He was implying that there might be some reason to be concerned about our safety – a group of Americans in the company of two Palestinian men. I would like to believe he had our best interests in mind and that, if questioned, he might be able to offer a reasonable explanation as to why he made such an inquiry. In light of the many similar experiences I have had in the past (including the day before when another soldier at another checkpoint asked us, “Where are you sleeping?” and then, in reply to our response of “Ramallah” said, with a sly grin, “Ramallah? Why Ramallah? Why not Jerusalem or Tel Aviv?”), I could not easily find any other explanation for the “Everything okay?” question than the prevalent racial/ethnic/religious profiling that is an accepted approach to security considerations, even a way of life, here.

“Everything okay?” No everything was certainly not okay. Actually, nothing besides our safety was “okay”. For the third consecutive day, we had been driving through the ancient, beautiful hills of the West Bank, covered with stone terraces holding rows of old, but still productive, olive trees, admiring their beauty but saddened by what has happened to them over the past 40 years, especially the last 20. I have traveled these same roads many times since my first visit to this land in 1969. Now, in every direction, one can see hilltops covered with “settlements” -communities, towns, even cities composed of Israelis who, with their government’s permission and support, have built permanent homes on Palestinian land - and valleys transformed by new roads built on Palestinian land but open only to the settlers. I spoke today with a friend who owns a travel agency on the east (Arab) side of Jerusalem. His family owns the land on which one of the “settlements” (“colonies” as they are called by some here) was built. The land was confiscated from his father, without compensation, in violation of international and even Israeli law. The Israeli courts ruled in his father’s favor in the lawsuit that followed, but the court’s verdict was never enforced. No, everything was not okay.

We had been to Hebron where the poverty and malnutrition are devastating and where the conflicts created by a small group of hostile settlers who have planted themselves in the middle of this large Arab city are frequent. No, everything was not okay.

We had visited Jiftlik, a small Arab village in the Jordan River valley, in an area of the West Bank still under complete Israeli control. This was my third trip to this community to follow the status of the community’s health care and the continuing efforts of PMRS to address their needs. They have a new clinic, built by funds from USAID, a good staff, and adequate equipment. Yet the effects of extreme poverty, inadequate and unclean water, and severe restrictions on housing repair and construction imposed by the Israeli military authorities present obstacles they cannot hope to overcome. No, everything was not okay.

We had listened to the stories told by our Palestinian traveling companion, assistant, and translator about his experiences since returning to his homeland. Born in the West Bank, he moved to the US a number of years ago and became a citizen. After deciding he preferred life in his native country among his friends and family, he returned, with his American passport. At the border crossing from Jordan, the soldiers ran his name through their computer and discovered that he had been born in the Palestinian territories, therefore, in their eyes, he was Palestinian and not American. His passport was not stamped with a visa like ours when we arrived. Instead, he received a stamp that included his Palestinian ID number. Now, he is treated like any other resident of Palestine and denied the privilege of entering Israel, even to visit Jerusalem, only a few miles down the road from Ramallah where he now lives and works. (We met with a 20 year old student of Palestinian heritage studying at Beir Zeit University, born in the States and carrying a US passport, who, along with her family, experience the same restrictions because they have chosen to live in Ramallah.) No, everything was not okay.

And, we were on our way to Qalqilya, to visit a city of some 40,000 people completely encircled by the separation barrier – in some places a massive, 30-foot high concrete wall and in others a complex, multilayered fence with razor wire. Suhad, my friend and our guide for our visit, told us about the many severe health care problems created by the restrictions on movement throughout the Qalqilya region, including the death of her mother following a stroke when they could not transport her to a tertiary care center in a timely manner and the death of a mother following childbirth at the checkpoint. No, everything was certainly not okay.

Regardless of what one believes about the necessity of such barriers, restrictions, and decisions to insure the safety and security of the citizens of Israel, one cannot but be overwhelmed with the implications for the health, welfare, security, and life of the Palestinian people. This is part of what we came here to see and experience, in addition to learning about the health care delivery system in the nation of Israel, with its excellent national health “insurance” program and universal access to state-of-the-art care for all its citizens – two drastically different health care systems, existing side-by-side separated by only a few kilometers and a Wall, with two strikingly different outcomes.

We have completed the first two weeks of our four-week journey. Our group is small, but still big enough to make squeezing into a little rental car cozy, and into a smaller taxi, quite cozy indeed! Jonathan (my oldest son and a veteran now of Middle Eastern travel, on his fourth trip here and his second extended stay in Ramallah), Dr. Justus Peters and Dr. Deepa Somcio (both third-year family medicine residents working with me in Fort Worth), and I flew from DFW to Frankfurt and met the fifth and final member of our group, Danielle Smith (a third-year medical student at Northwestern University in Chicago), at the gate for our flight to Tel Aviv. We only had one hour between our arrival from DFW and our departure for Tel Aviv, but we made it with a few minutes to spare. Our luggage did as well!

After a rain-soaked Saturday night and Sunday in Jerusalem (water was flowing down the streets of the Old City), we headed south to Beer Sheva, and to drier, warmer weather in the Negev desert. We received a wonderful reception there from the members of the department of family medicine at Ben Gurion University and from the students of the Medical School for International Health at BGU, operated in affiliation with Columbia University in New York. Our week in Israel was filled with visits to clinics, a cancer community support center, a staff meeting of the palliative care group, a meeting with a group of family medicine residents, a formal presentation on the Israeli health care system, and two lectures I gave (one to the Israeli faculty and residents and one to the MSIH students). Our only major disappointment of the week was the cancellation of our scheduled home visits to the Bedouin community due to the absence of the primary physician (he was in Africa on a global health elective with a group of medical students!) and the illness of the driver. We left Beer Sheva much better informed and satisfied with this brief introduction to a national system of health care that has yielded excellent health outcomes for the citizens of Israel.

Although our conversations with the doctors and students in Israel were mostly medical and only rarely political, we did learn something of their experience during the recent assault on Gaza. The rockets fired by Hamas that fell on Beer Sheva did little damage but they disrupted lives in significant ways and caused deep fear and anger. In a nation as small as Israel, where every citizen serves in the military for 2-3 years after high school graduation, everyone, I have often been told, knows someone injured or killed in one of the wars or bombings. And every Palestinian, I have also been frequently told, has a friend or relative who has been injured, killed, or imprisoned by the Israelis. No, it seems in every way, everything is not okay here in the “Holy Land”.

After a weekend of somewhat arduous but enjoyable travel to Jordan to visit the World Heritage site of Petra, we crossed the Qalandia checkpoint into Ramallah and met our hosts for the final three weeks of our trip. This week has afforded us a broad, and exhausting, overview of the work of PMRS, a 20+ year old non-government organization providing primary health care throughout the West Bank and Gaza via an extensive network of clinics, mobile units, and a host of other healthcare related activities. We also enjoyed a detailed tour of the primary government hospital in Hebron, the major referral center for the southern portion of the West Bank and the site of some 8400 births per year. On Monday we will hear presentations on the history of the PMRS and on the status of another public health project in the Palestinian territories and then, on Tuesday, begin seeing patients at the Ramallah Emergency and Trauma Center (both in the emergency department and the operating suite) and with the mobile clinics conducted by PMRS in the villages around Ramallah. We will continue these activities during our final week and add a visit to the Holy Family Hospital in Bethlehem, a private maternity hospital that provides excellent care to thousands of Palestinian women each year.

Everyone is well and safe. We have never felt threatened in any way. We have had many memorable travel experiences and enriching and challenging conversations about life, medicine, justice, security, and health care. I anticipate we will have many more in the days ahead.

David

Christians, Americans, and “English-Only”

As an American citizen, I share the concern of many citizens over the issue of illegal immigration. The flood of undocumented people into our country presents a number of disturbing problems. How can our economy absorb all the people looking for work? How will our health care and education institutions meet the needs of these individuals and their children? Will our welfare system be able to manage the demands placed on it? How does the lack of border security affect safety and security in an age of terrorism? These are troubling questions and I claim to have no answers.

On the other hand, I am also increasingly concerned about the tensions, prejudices, and even hostility I see in our community over immigration issues. Sometimes the language used to discuss these problems sounds like racial prejudice in thin disguise. America has always been a nation that claimed to welcome immigrants (“give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free”). But in reality, immigrants quite often have faced much prejudice and hatred—whether the Chinese working on the railroads, the Polish in Chicago, the Vietnamese boat people in Texas, and on and on.

The city of Nashville is about to vote on an “English-Only” amendment. The law would prohibit the city government from publishing official documents in any other language or from hiring translators to communicate with citizens, except to protect public health or safety. The proponents have some good points to make about the importance of immigrants in any country learning the official language so they can function and prosper (http://www.nashvilleenglishfirst.com/). But the opposition raises some very troubling points about the impact this legislation will have on the poor, on recent immigrants who have not yet had time to learn the language, and on the image of our city in a global economy (http://www.nashvilleforallofus.org/).

Sorting out all the social, political, and economic implications of this amendment is beyond my pay grade. For me, though, there is one question that seems pretty clear: What would Jesus do?

Jesus seems to have been little concerned with the politics of his day. For example, he swept aside the debate over Roman taxation with the simple exhortation to “give Caesar what is Caesar’s, and God what is God’s”—which didn’t answer the questions about whether the Romans had any right to be there or whether their tax system was just. Throughout his ministry Jesus made it abundantly clear that he was more concerned about the kingdom of God than worldly kingdoms—and that meant he was very concerned about the poor, the outcast, and the foreigners, even the hated Samaritans. I think Jesus would be less concerned about the cost to the city of providing translations than he would be about the impact on poor immigrants of refusing to do so.

Jesus said one of the two greatest commands is to “love your neighbor as yourself,” quoting Leviticus 19:18. Just a few verses later, God commanded the same thing regarding foreigners:

“‘When foreigners reside among you in your land, do not mistreat them. The foreigners residing among you must be treated as your native-born. Love them as yourself, for you were foreigners in Egypt. I am the Lord your God.” (Leviticus 19:33-34)

According to Moses, God loves the foreigners residing among his people, and they must do the same (Deuteronomy 10:18-19).

If I were an immigrant in another country, I would want to learn the language as quickly as I could. But I wonder how welcome I would feel if the citizens said their city would offer me no help until I could master their language well enough to navigate my way through the system. (Well, actually I don’t wonder that at all. I think I know exactly how I would feel.)

And I wonder what Jesus would say to us as we head for the polls. I can’t say for sure, but I think it might be something like: “Treat others the way you would want to be treated.”