Now Jesus' mother and brothers came to see him, but they were not able to get near him because of the crowd. Someone told him, "Your mother and brothers are standing outside, wanting to see you."
He replied, "My mother and brothers are those who hear God's word and put it into practice."
--Luke 8: 19-21

As I write this, on January 30, 2004, the world's population is an estimated six billion, three hundred forty-five million, three hundred forty-five thousand, four hundred forty-one people. By the time you read these words, it will be even greater. Every minute I spend typing here, two hundred forty people take their very first breaths, and one hundred seven take their very last. I have the phone numbers of about fifty people in my address book.

When a recent earthquake killed tens of thousands of people in Iran, most Americans noted the event with sadness, perhaps included the dead in their prayers. It was difficult for us to grieve the loss of so many, so far away. What sorrow we felt was not for this man or that woman, because of course we didn't know them. Our sorrow was a generalized one, directed from one mass of humanity to another. We orgainzed relief efforts for the survivors, sent them aid and prayers and condolences. But we could not send them much grief, because we did not grieve; we did not mourn. It was hard for us to feel sharply even such a great loss in some part because until that moment, we'd had no idea that some city called Bam even existed. Before the earthquake, if someone had asked you to point out Bam on an unlabeled map, you would have been hard pressed to do so. Unless you knew someone there, of course. Or had been there yourself.

All this makes it seem as if we are unfeeling, but of course we are not. Humans are feeling machines; we can't help but feel. But we cannot feel for what we do not know. We must have a relationship with something before it can matter to us.

Relationship changes everything.

At the hospital where I worked the summer before college, there was another oncology patient named Mary. Mary's life was pure pain. She suffered immense physical discomfort at all times, aided somewhat by an ever-present morphine drip, but not enough. She was a grandmotherly woman in her sixties, was in fact a grandmother several times over. She wore big glasses with plastic rims and did the New York Times crossword puzzle every day--I believe it was she who first pointed out to me that the crossword gets more difficult as the week progresses. She had a devoted husband who was often there when I came to take Mary down to the basement for her radiation therapy. He held her hand and caressed her forehead, fed her ice chips when she was too tired and queasy to eat. I liked them very much.

Shortly after I started working at the hospital, Mary was transferred to a long-tem care facility. Her cancer was terminal, and her latest round of therapy had only impeded the disease's progress, not cured it. I was not there the day she left, and only learned of her absence when I went the next day to pick up a different patient from the room that had been hers.

A month later, Mary's loving husband walked into the long-term care facility, entered his wife's room, and shot Mary in the head, killing her. Mary left a note explaining that she could no longer bear the pain and this was the only way out for her. I read about it in the paper. Those of us at the hospital who'd known Mary were shaken up by the news. A bit addled by morphine, Mary had on more than one occasion expressed a wish to die. But we didn't take it very seriously. She was a patient and we had a job to do.

Relationship changes everything.

My wife and I took our honeymoon in the Bahamas. When we hailed a taxi to the resort, we were ebuillient, ecstatic. The flight had been long; we'd overslept and hadn't had time to shower; we were bone tired. Now, with the Bahamian sun shining in our faces and a cool ocean breeze blowing through the open car windows, we felt as though we were in paradise. We tried to joke with the taxi driver--he did not share our enthusiasm. He sees young married couples every single day. Their joy is utterly tangential to his life. As we wound our way through the curving streets of Nasau, we began to see the heartbreakingly familiar signs of urban poverty--cars up on blocks in untended yards; shacks built from spare wood and sheet metal; barefoot, dirty children playing in the road. When we finally entered the gates of the resort, all that was behind us. We were surrounded by enormous concrete pillars, marble floors, mahogany furniture. The driver, sweating, dumped our bags by the curb and sped off without a word.

If I ever return to the Bahamas, it will not be on vacation.

When I was twenty-six, and still an atheist, my sister-in-law sent me a copy of C.S. Lewis's Mere Christianity. My sister-in-law's name is also Mary. My sister-in-law is one of my favorite people, and one of the few whom, had they sent me a copy of a book of Christian theology, I would not have responded by throwing the book immediately in the trash. My only knowledge of Lewis prior to that day had been the Narnia books; in my adolescent years I'd grown suspicious of him when one of my friends pointed out that the Narnia books were lightly veiled Christian allegories. I felt as though I'd been tricked.

I began to read Mere Christianity first with a grudging tolerance, then with interest, and then with a ravenous appetite. Reading Lewis was, for me, more than just the experience of encountering a thoughtful and well-spoken writer. It was more the feeling of arriving at a party full of strangers only to realize that your best friend is also there. I didn't just feel that Lewis was speaking to me; I felt that he was raising his glass to toast me and offering me a cigar. That feeling of warmth, of acceptance, was strange and new, and I loved it. It is for this reason that I still find Lewis so charming, even though I now find some of his ideas bigoted and wrong-headed. Lewis, for instance, claimed that the only appropriate sentiment one could feel upon encountering a homosexual was bewilderment and pity. He also believed that women should not be allowed to be Anglican priests for no other reason than that it had never been done before. Regardless of all that, I still feel him in many ways to be not just an author, but a teacher; a spiritual father. Somehow my sister-in-law knew me well enough to know that I would feel this way.

Relationship, as I have mentioned, changes everything.

Mary is my brother's wife. When he told me about her, I wondered who this strange person was that was stealing away my brother. The first thing I ever talked to her about was books. I seem to recall her telling me that her favorite book was A Prayer for Owen Meany. I liked that, because it was one of my favorites, too; even though, unlike the book's narrator, I did not believe in God because of Owen.

It was on my trip to their wedding that I found myself in San Francisco and saw the light of day again. Several months later, I moved to the city, but they'd moved out of it, down the peninsula. I made it down there as often as I could, but not very often.

I did manage to make it down to Sunnyvale the day that their son was born. I missed the birth, but I saw him. I held him. That night, as he swung in his little swing, dreaming such newborn dreams as we can never know, I stared at him in wide-eyed wonder. He was so small, so full of promise and light. Such a little thing, so much potential. What would he be? I wondered. What would he do? What kind of person was he? I kissed the top of his head, something I had never done before to a baby. The skin was so soft, so warm.

Three months later, I was in the middle of a job interview when the interviewer got a call for me, from the Sunnyvale Police department. How they got that number I have never discovered. I was informed that there had been "an accident" and that I needed to call my brother immediately.

The interviewer let me use the phone on her desk. It was an open office, with about eight or nine people working nearby. I picked up the phone and dialed the number, terrified of who would answer and what they might tell me. My brother answered the phone. He told me that the baby had died. I started to cry in front of eight or nine complete strangers, one of whom had just been in the process of interviewing me for a job.

Someone at the office offered to drive me to Sunnyvale, as I had no car. She was very kind. She talked to me about the weather and the city and about human resources. When she finally dropped me off, I was sad to see her go.

My sister-in-law is one of the strongest people I know. This is no insult to my brother, who is also strong, but he is no match for his wife. Saints and madmen gawk at her steadfastness. She says that her strength comes from God. I can only imagine that she is a fan of Philippians 4:13, "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me." This is no idle boast in her case. She experienced the worst thing, and she survived it. Both of them did.

I didn't get it. The notion that people received strength from faith was not alien to me, but I had always considered it to be a mere platitude, an empty sentiment. I wrote a poem in my notebook later that week:

this remarkable faith you have
I can neither understand nor taste
much less believe that
it all comes from some dead guy
banging sticks together in the sky
but what do i know?
only you are you and I am only I

If you need any further evidence of the paradox of God's love, consider that even within the death of a baby are the seeds of joy. When Voltaire read in Romans 8 that all things work together for good for those who love God, he laughed a sad yet scornful laugh and wrote Candide. Had I read either Romans or Candide prior to my nephew's death, I would have sided with Voltaire. Now, though, I believe Paul was right. I say this because through God that child's death was redeemed many times over, in the strength that shared tragedy brought to my family, in the tempered wills of my brother and sister-in-law, and even for the grudging openness to faith that it brought me, showing me the workings of faith in a relief so stark that it could not be ignored. It was through this tiny window that I finally crawled into the light of God's grace, and I do not think I would have done it otherwise. 

I do not believe, by the way, that God killed my nephew to make these points. I believe that my nephew died, and God found a way to plant seeds of joy in the soil of agony, transmuting grief into happiness in the same way that dead earth grows into rose petals. This is how God works best in the world. It is God's finest accomplishment and the most sublime of all miracles. I know this in my heart; the knowledge of it is my treasure in the field; it is my pearl; it is my lost sheep, finally found.

Mary, whose last name I have forgotten. Mary, who is my sister in more ways than one. Tens of thousands of Iranians. My nephew. You. God. My heart opens and yearns to know them all. Some I will know, some I will not. You, reading this, now know something about me that has value. That, if nothing else, is our relationship.

Relationship changes everything. What was lost is now found, and can never be lost again.

A Parable

When the baby died, the angels carried him up to Heaven and rested him gently on a cloud. A man was there, also new, and they decided to tour Heaven together. "Tell me about yourself," said the baby, trying to put the man at ease.

"I was old. I died in my sleep. I had a long life, so I can't complain." The man looked at the little baby before him. "You, though. How could God let you die so young? It's cruel. It's unfair."

The baby just shrugged. They walked on. As the man walked, he grew angrier and angrier at God. "How could God bless me with such a long life, and give this little one nothing? What did I do to deserve so much and him to deserve so little? How could God be so unfair? When I see God, I'm going to demand that he explain himself."

They continued walking, and finally they spotted God, who was taking a walk. Despite his anger, the man prostrated himself before God. The baby smiled and wiggled his toes. God welcomed them both.

"I don't want to question you, Lord, but something's bothering me," said the man. "I lived a long life. I had so many years, had so much happiness. Why did you deny this little baby such a life?"

God looked at the man with kindness. "Your pity is misplaced," he finally said. "It is not this child who deserves pity. Ask him about his life; get to know him. Then you will understand." Then, embracing both of them, he walked away.

The man was stunned. "What on earth did that mean?" The baby only shrugged. Exasperated, the man said, "Tell me about your life, then."

The baby grinned. "Oh, it was wonderful there. Always warm. Everyone was so gentle, so kind. Everyone loved me. Whenever I was hungry, they fed me. When I was dirty, they cleaned me with warm water and soft touches. When I was lonely I had only to cry out and a beautiful woman would take me in her arms and rock me until I fell asleep."

The man sighed. "Never to have known betrayal, or hatred, or deceit. I cannot imagine such a life."

The baby looked around with the shock of recognition. "Come to think of it," he said, "it was a lot like this place!"

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