This article was published by Today’s Christian Doctor in their Fall 2014 magazine.
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I glanced at the clock ticking on, and expecting my mentor to arrive any minute, I logged out of the EHR and closed my laptop. When I asked for an appointment with the Great Physician—offering to take him out for lunch—I hardly expected His thoughtful response: lunch on him, at my office. He would stop by Panera on His way.
Photo courtesy of Adrian Clark via flickr.com.
The moment His shadow hit my door, my drab office brightened. Jesus ignored my outstretched hand and welcomed me with a hug. His presence had a surprising effect on me. Looking at His forehead smoothed by peace, the worry lines on mine began to relax. As he leaned back in my tall leather chair with easy confidence, I felt the tension dissipate from between my shoulders. His eyes drew mine away from a million lesser tasks.
Nestled inside the takeout box Jesus handed me, I found a Mediterranean Veggie Sandwich and Thai Chicken Salad—my favorites! How did he know? Looking up, I saw delight sparkle in his eyes. Between bites I asked questions about healthcare, people management and His view of medical ethics. He answered simply and brilliantly, bringing clarity to each situation. Finally, with only a few bites of my sandwich left, I gathered my courage, took a breath, and dove in.
“Have I…” the right words dissolved in a wave of embarrassment. Did I really want to ask him that? I preferred to keep that insecurity locked away from public view, but I needed to know. “Have I missed the boat?” I said, trying to give him the gist of it without baring my soul. He waited.
“Should I evangelize more?” He held my gaze in silence.
Finally, I choked it out. “I don’t share the gospel very often with my patients.”
There it lay between us, exposed. My great guilt. My plaguing worry. Having owned my insecurity, the words came avalanching out. “Sometimes I pray with them and sometimes I love them, but rarely do I tell them about you, let alone share the gospel with them.”
I felt ashamed, but I forged on. “I want to point people toward you, but how do I do that as a medical professional? What do you expect of me? Have I got it all wrong?” Formulating the last question—the real question—the one underneath it all, I felt his gaze pulling my eyes toward him. I took a breath and looked at him. “Are you disappointed in me?”
The Great Physician watched me for a long time without answering. I searched His eyes for condemnation. None. Disapproval. None. Disappointment. None. I only saw in Him what I sometimes feel in the exam room—compassion and concern. When He finally spoke, He said something like this:
“A doctor needed to leave the office at 5 p.m. so she could watch her son’s soccer match, and she had three patients left to see. Walking into the first, she greeted a 40-year-old man. He hadn’t seen a doctor for years and wanted the rash on his arm to go away. When the doctor expressed concern for his high blood pressure—174/92—he said he felt fine. When she suggested cutting down his caffeine and rechecking his blood pressure in two weeks, he refused. She made the alternative suggestion of medication, but he only glared back. The doctor felt frustrated. The appointment was already running longer than scheduled, and trying to convince him of the risks of untreated hypertension would slow her down. He obviously didn’t want to hear it, either. So, to break the stalemate and do something, the doctor wrote a script for Benicar-HCT, handed it the patient and left the room feeling that at least she had done her part.
“Next, the doctor greeted an 82-year-old woman who looked as though someone has started folding up her bones in an attempt at origami, but stopped mid-process. Her vital signs showed a blood pressure of 190/106 and the patient complained of headaches. Seeing that the patient only took Bystolic, the doctor wrote for Benicar-HCT and advised her to come back next month. Both felt happy with the plan, neither of them realizing that the patient’s last labs showed stage III kidney failure.
“Finally, the doctor examined a 75-year-old man. He wore his only pair of jeans, stained and smelly, and his stomach grumbled, long empty since a single piece of toast that morning. His fixed income made it impossible to keep up with his medical appointments, but the doctor didn’t know that. She only knew that he had failed to return nine months ago as advised and had run out of his medications. The patient, too embarrassed to admit his poverty, insisted that he simply forgot to take his meds. Now rushing to leave for her son’s match, she failed to hunt for the truth. Assuming that the patient would want one pill instead of two, for his blood pressure of 188/96, the doctor sent in Benicar-HCT. The patient never filled the script due to the cost, and the doctor never knew.”
Jesus paused, looking at me. “Whose blood pressure did the doctor treat?”
I thought for a moment, then answered, “All of them and none of them, at the same time.”
“In what ways?” He asked.
“The doctor got the problem right—they needed their blood pressure lowered—but she didn’t take the time to find what obstacles prevented each patient from accepting her solution.”
“The same is true of spiritual healing,” Jesus said. “The problem always needs addressing, but not everyone can digest the gospel all at once.”
The Great Physician knew exactly what I needed to hear—not another rule or evangelism technique, but an call to love. Every patient sitting in my exam room has travelled a different road and unique obstacles litter their path to Jesus. Discovering those obstacles and offering the next step toward Jesus takes time, which, in the field of healthcare, is costly. But then, so is love.
