Christian Subversion

Moments from being hoisted up on the shoulders of the international community and paraded around like the game winning MVP, we suffered a staggering setback.  To everyone's shock the Ebola case that had entered the country at the end of October-- a case that seemed sure to leave a trail of infection across the western half of the country--caused not a single other casualty.  Those placed in quarantine were being slowly released.  We were just two days from being declared Ebola free and from being held up as a model of rapid response and containment.  Then the news came.

It came as it always does: a tiny blip on the international news scene that is so unassuming that I read and take note, but leave rather unimpressed, as if it has nothing whatsoever to do with me.  At the hospital, as I bump into colleagues, I say, "Hey did you see that they have a new case in the capital?" much like I would speak of recent development in Russia.  As the day wears on, the story became fuller; tidbits of information are added here and there, until finally the potential gravity sets in and the personal implications seem real.  This is serious.  Meetings are called, and we begin to lay out a plan. It is time to act.

The next day we wring our hands and check the news too often, waiting to hear what will happen.  More discussions and planning.  I'm laid up at home because of some stomach virus so I only get the phone call summaries. Twenty-four hours pass, and I have checked the news 20 times, and nothing has changed. 

The next morning,  more cases will be declared.  Through the day we will hear rumors of confirmed cases here and suspected cases there.  Some of this makes the news, but some of it is just rumor.  Everything swirls together, and as is so typical here, it is impossible to know truth from rumor.  Even the journalists will write things like, "It is unclear whether this case is among the figure that was cited by [such-and-such official]."  Nothing is clear. 

Nothing except the fact that this is real, suddenly real to me, real in a way that is going to alter daily life.

That morning, an all-staff meeting is called.  We file into the room, the nervous energy palpable.  I will laugh several times, maybe because I'm just more aware of my surroundings, maybe to take the edge off.  I will laugh when I see the guard sitting there with neon yellow headphones--cheap knock-off Beats-- which he never takes off, giving him an air of silly aloofness that is in no way coherent with his normal personality.  I will laugh when the doctor gives a long-winded explanation of Ebola, highlighting all the awful parts, concluding in a way that leaves the room with the feeling that we are all surely doomed to a horrible death.  Later I will laugh with colleagues about all the great Facebook posts we could be making, if only it wouldn't add to the general hysteria. "Darn you Ebola! I'm actually going to have to wear shoes to work.  I've been on an unbroken sandal streak for years now."  (We figure it probably loses something over cyberspace.)  And I will laugh as I save a document on my computer titled, "Ebola Screening."

But mostly it is serious.  Mostly, we are looking at a very unpleasant reality that no one really wants to be facing.  We vacillate between wishing it would all just go away and steeling ourselves for the work ahead.  Still not feeling 100%, I mostly just close my eyes to hope it will all just, magically, go away; I don't have the energy for this.  We all agree that the coup d'état was more fun.  We laugh, but there is heaviness and sighing.  In the meeting, several will voice serious concerns. 

Early in the morning before the meeting, I try to read my Bible, try to pray, but I'm distracted and half-hearted.  It would be nice to feel ready, to feel a pulse of unshakeable faith.  Instead, I check the news again.  Driving into the meeting, I tell the Lord that I'm a mess, that our hospital is a mess, that this whole world is a mess.  Just in case He isn't aware. 

In the meeting, there will be passionate prayer.  The concert of voices calling out to the Lord for protection will be a comfort.  Instead of praying, I will lay back into the prayers of others, as if the many voices were lifting me up.  We will join together in the Lord's prayer, and I will remember that I'm connected with a body of people, people throughout history who have whispered this same prayer in the face of all manner of trouble. "Deliver us from evil..." And I will be deeply moved as a nurse closes with a prayer of resolute faith, voice trembling, choking back tears. 

But mostly, I'm captivated by the song we sing as we first gather together.  I will replay it in my mind all day.  It starts timid and small--"My savoir is Jesus. He died, rose again, and came out from among the dead"-- but as the crowd grows, each verse gains momentum--"My good shepherd is Jesus. He calls His sheep by name!"-- till the last verse crescendos with the force of the full choir--"The Alpha and Omega is Jesus, He who is, and was, and will be.  The All Powerful Lord Jesus!!" 

Anyone who has been around a while knows this isn't just any old song.  This is OUR SONG.  It is hard to know whether it was our song before it became Dr. Dan's song or vice-versa, so entwined are those histories, but in any case it is known simply as Dan's song.  This is the song we sing in moments of joy and celebration, and it is the song we sing in moments of trial and in moments when everything seems like it is about to fall apart.  It is an anchor point for us.  It tacks us down, so though we are disheveled by the gales, we are unmoved.   When sung, this tune calls us back to everything we are about, everything we've come through, and most importantly He who has brought us through it all.

There is something bold in our singing, perhaps even defiant--as if looking this roaring danger in the face and taunting it with a little ditty.  Yes indeed, this is subversive Christianity.  To a world spinning wildly in fear, mad with danger, drunk on disaster, a world, that is, full of evil, we raise small and timid voices in song and prayer.  This is our civil disobedience, our sit-in, sliding flower stems down loaded barrels.  We say to this evil, all evidence to the contrary, you cannot win; you are not in control. 

Having thus proclaimed, we are free to go out and put ourselves into action.  In what Philip Yancey calls the double agency of prayer and action, of God's work and our work, there is no contradiction here.  Rather the two are coupled inseparably.  We taunt evil with prayer and song, and then defy it with our actions.

Our subversion starts best in cherished song and ancient prayer.  Song retrains emotions--emotions which threaten to become complicit with the fear and evil around us--by calling them forward to proclaim a truth they have forgotten to acknowledge.  Prayer forces the soul, sick with distraction, to refocus on this same truth.  Both, especially when they are of the cherished and ancient variety, call us back to a connection with a body that throughout history has practicing this defiance , ever since that founding act of subversion.  In the face of evil, Jesus died...  And suddenly, unexpectedly, redemption poured out and salvation sprang forth, as evils stranglehold was broken by resurrection.  So we continue in this same spirit, redeeming, saving, and resurrecting.

Here we are.  This is real.  How real, we don't know.  Nothing is clear yet.  So I'll keep checking the news.  I'll keep laughing at the funny things, at inappropriate moments, and at inside jokes with my coworkers.  I'll keep praying, and leaning back into the prayers of others.  I'll continue to remember those who've gone before, who have faced down bigger evils while whispering "Our Father who art in Heaven..." And I'll keep singing songs that remind me of all that He has brought us, me, through;  songs that defy evil by calling forth its undoing.