The Risk of Embrace

I try to blame it on the fact that I have kids, and a twelve-year-old boy specifically, that I giggle like a child at bathroom jokes. You know, the ones along the vein, “Some people think it’s funny but it’s only hot and runny…”?

(I admit, it’s not very mature, but stick with me and I promise this email will get meaningful.) So, a couple of weeks ago my doctor and I had a lengthy talk about diarrhea because diarrhea can be a real problem for the international traveler. Since we’re headed off to Africa, I had a few questions about what I was in for, digestionally speaking, and he seemed like the man with the answers. It took all of my concentration to keep a straight face while he explained the details of the subject while repeating “diarrhea” over and over again throughout the discussion.

Deep breaths, Alyssa, I thought, you can get through this without laughing! All I could think of was how hilariously my kids would laugh at this story. But I resisted a chuckle and tried not to look the doc in the eye.

Then the conversation took a turn for the worse.

“…But you do not want to treat bloody diarrhea with any medication…”, the doctor instructed.

Bloody diarrhea? What? And there is no way to treat it, to stop it? One can only drink lots of water and while bloody diarrhea runs its course? (Sorry, the pun was intended.)

“Well,” I pointed out, “I’m not going to be slogging through the bush or administering medical care when we’re in Africa, nor am I going to drink the tap water. We’re on a fact-finding mission for ministry opportunities, so I shouldn’t be exposed to whatever it is that causes…bloody diarrhea, right?”

“If you’re going to be around people at all, around children, holding babies, it’s a definite possibility. You contract it by touching people.”

Gulp. I promised silently right then not to laugh, lest I be smitten in response to my flippancy. Of course I’d be touching people. I’m in for it.

Later, while driving to pick up my daughter, the thought struck me—what am I doing? What am I, of all people, thinking? That it’s a good idea for me to leave my life, kids, and germ-free water and put myself at risk for who-knows-what, including untreatable bloody diarrhea? How do I meet, love on, bless and be blessed by my new friends? What if I’m sick the whole time? The doubts, fears and questioning swirled about my head. As my daughter, Bella, rode in the van with me, I told her about my visit with the doctor, my near outburst of laughter and the yucky, final portion of our conversation.

“But wouldn’t you rather touch those people, and hold the babies and get sick? Wouldn’t it be so much more worth it to know you touched them even if it meant catching something than to be safe and healthy by never taking the risk?” Bella asked, then added, “Besides, if you get the runs uncontrollably, you could just bring ‘Depends’ along and no one would ever know!”

We laughed at that, but then we realized something. Jesus touched humanity. Although the Bible tells us he was without sin, it never says he was without sickness during his life on earth. We know he suffered and required care during the fast in the wilderness. We know he ate and drank and became tired. He experienced great pain during his beatings and crucifixion. He very well could have become ill at some point.

But he touched Peter’s mother-in-law anyway, who was sick in bed with a fever – something contagious no doubt. (Matthew 8:14)

He touched the children. In Matthew’s gospel we read that he blessed them and spent time with them and “he placed his hands on them” (Matthew 19:13-15). He touched a girl who’s parent’s had called in the mourners, and he gave her life again.

In Luke 17, Jesus encountered the untouchables. The ten men stricken with leprosy didn’t dare cross the road to touch the One everyone was talking about who healed. By the breath of his words he healed them, and one returned offering solitary, but enthusiastic praise. He was a Samaritan, not even from the Jewish race. The Bible doesn’t say so, but I imagine Jesus leaned down and touched this man whose skin was cleansed. Once he had been a dead man walking and bore the physical marks of a devastating, untreatable, flesh-killing disease. He was unable to associate with anyone outside of other lepers, he could not worship, earn an income, even hope for a cure—he had been cut off from society. Disenfranchised.

He touched the sick, the Bible says. And he did this knowing that he risked getting sick himself, because he was, after all, as human as he was God.

Jesus understood something so completely, a concept so difficult for us to be enveloped in: Jesus loved God and loved others so much that he could completely trust God and take any and all risks for the sake of loving this creation personally, intimately, thoroughly.

Jesus didn’t have medicine in his suitcase. He didn’t even have a home to return to after his time in the mission field. He risked it all (Philippians 2), for the opportunity to bring glory to God. That was his insurance policy.

Has he touched you? Has he made your life, your spirit, your body, your mind healthy with his healing grace? We have an incurable problem, this thing, this abhorrent little word we like to ignore: sin. We have one hope for a cure—the healing breath of Christ, the work of his word in our lives, the atoning covering of his death, and the power of his resurrection. One hope.

So, we are going to be touching Ethiopia. And Ethiopia is going to touch us. Is the risk greater than the blessing? Perhaps. But I think Bella had it right, we’d rather embrace with risk than risk missing the blessing. And by this, just maybe, we’ll grasp the concept that compelled Christ to reach out to us.

John 15:9-17

“As the Father has loved me, so have I loved you. Now remain in my love. If you obey my commands, you will remain in my love, just as I have obeyed my Father’s commands and remain in his love. I have told you this so that my joy may be in you and that your joy may be complete. My command is this: Love each other as I have loved you. Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends. You are my friends if you do what I command. I no longer call you servants, because a servant does not know his master’s business. Instead, I have called you friend, for everything that I learned from my Father I have made known to you. You did not choose me, but I chose you and appointed you to go and bear fruit—fruit that will last. Then the Father will give you whatever you ask in my name. This is my command: Love each other.”