Back From The Brink: A Recollection of 07 Nov 05

It happened 8 years ago this week. Hovering near the brink of death with Stage IV cancer, I was unable to eat, talk, or sleep through the night. Talk of hospice care had begun, and the consensus among doctors was that I would not make it another two weeks.

Almost everything had been tried to arrest this death sentence. Just weeks before, we had been told by the wizards from the experimental treatment community that my only hope was to be a test subject for an experimental drug; the disease was too far advanced for any other existing treatment. The other option was a radical treatment known as a stem cell transplant. We chose the latter option on the basis of my conviction that if I was going down, I was going to go down swinging. But in the weekend leading into Halloween that fall of 2005, even that slim hope was evaporating. My tumor markers were extraordinarily high, and I was caught in the ultimate catch-22: tumor markers do not go down without treatment—they go up; but no doctor wanted to continue treatment of any kind because those markers were too advanced.

That weekend, while I lay clinging to life in a sterile hospital environment on the 8^th floor of Methodist Hospital in San Antonio, my home church—Calvary Temple of San Antonio—began beseeching the Almighty in prayer. The following Monday, the nurses took a blood sample and came back with the shocking news: my tumor markers had DECREASED. The drop was slight, but unheard-of. My doctor, the perpetually awesome Paul Shaughnessy, made the call to move ahead with the stem cell transplant. Everyone agreed that a bona fide miracle had taken place. I was wheeled into apheresis, but I was too malnourished for anyone to find veins—so they installed a catheter in my neck and separated adult stem cells from my blood to freeze for later use. I was sent home to spend Halloween with my family, and hospitalized for treatment a few days later.

Normal chemotherapy is given in 100% doses. A stem-cell transplant consists of approximately 500% doses of Cisplatin, a platinum-based drug. The idea was to shut down all cell growth entirely in my body—a sort of “re-boot” of my immune system. It was the equivalent of bringing a person to the brink of death and then bringing him back. Three days of such treatment will most assuredly kill a person—without the novel rescue of the adult stem cells, which they infused back into my system afterward. I’ll never forget the terrible smell of the chemical preservative used to keep them frozen; nor can I forget the sight of my 12-month-old son toddling around the infusion room with Carrath and my mom.

It was 07 Nov 05.

For the next 14 days, I was neutropenic—absolutely vulnerable to anything that attacks the immune system. Those who die from this procedure usually do so from something as simple as a cold. Dr. Shaughnessy’s instructions were clear: if he runs a fever of any sort, you are to bring him back to us pronto. I had been sent home from the hospital the Monday before Thanksgiving, and had eaten my first actual meal in months on Thanksgiving Day. It was a joyous occasion, and still the biggest holiday of the year for my family. But the next day, I ran a slight fever. I wasn’t about to get dragged back to the hospital, so I tried to hide my condition from Carrath. That worked about as well as Obamacare, and she rushed me to the hospital. They admitted me for observation and kept fluids in me for a week. When I realized that I was going to miss Zechariah’s first birthday, I was as angry as I could be. I remember threatening Dr. Shaughnessy that if he didn’t let me come home I would come up out of this bed and make him regret it. I think he and Carrath had a good laugh at that one.

Dr. Shaughnessy and the nurses and staff on the 10^th floor of Methodist Hospital were definitely called by God to do the work that they do. Every year around this time, I am thankful beyond mere human expression for the miracle of life that I was given in 2005. Despite my inherent worthlessness, God saved my life—and these fine people were instrumental in that. I am still driven by the motivation that this second chance not be wasted.

Tomorrow, I’ll go see Dr. Shaughnessy and his awesome staff again, for it’s time for my checkup. I’d love for the world to know what a great man he is, and what a crack team of professionals work year-around to preserve life at the Texas Transplant Institute. We’ll all get a good laugh at how I weigh around 100 pounds more than the day they released me, and I’ll attend a reunion of stem-cell transplant survivors the next day. The best part is that I’ll walk out of my own volition and, God willing, be with Zechariah on his 9^th birthday.

Football Predictions from the Wheels-Off Theologian

Everyone else is making NFL predictions. In keeping with the traditional bandwagon approach of our culture, it’s time for me to follow suit.

I predict that, at some point during this season, Jerry Jones will utter something incomprehensibly stupid that will reveal his profound ignorance of the game of football.

I predict that “casual fans” of football will continue to derive their passionately held opinions from sports media types who talk or write about all “sports” but are not particularly devoted to football. This will comprise the “conventional wisdom” that will immediately be discarded by actual football fans. Some examples of this drivel may include, but not be limited to: 

1. “The game has changed.” 
2.  “The game has passed [insert name of coach over the age of 40 here] by.”
3.   “The problem is that [insert name of Star Player here] is just not a winner. He’s never won The Big One.” 
4.   “It’s all about the offense nowadays.” 
5.   “People should just ignore the character issues of [insert name of Talented-But-Troubled Athlete here] because that stuff doesn’t really translate to the field.”

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I predict that this season, the professional defensive coordinators of the NFL will have figured out a way to make RGIII look human again—just as they did with Cam Newton, Vince Young, Matt Leinart, Mark Sanchez, Michael Vick, and every other quarterback the sports media types anointed as Immortal.

I predict that the sports media types will still tongue-kiss RGIII in their broadcasts and columns anyhow.

 I predict that, as it has since 1924, Offense will sell tickets but Defense will win the championship.

I predict that intelligence and character will still mark football as unique from other sports, but will still be roundly ignored by sports media types (and Jerry Jones).

I predict that the Cowboys’ offensive line will once again prove to be the laughingstock of all of football.

I predict that the casual fan who listens to sports media types will still blame Tony Romo for problems that are obviously related to the offensive line.

I predict that injuries will once again cripple the Cowboys’ defense, highlighting the need to draft well for depth (as opposed to the Jerry Jones Draft Philosophy—“Chase The Shiny New Thing”).

I predict that Cowboys’ fans will be reminded of the importance of special teams this season—and not in a positive, happy sort of way—but in a miserable, setting-oneself-on-fire kind of way.

I predict that DeMarco Murray will miss part of the season with injury.

I predict that the Cowboys’ red-zone offense will sputter, yielding many field goals.

I predict that, during the course of the season, the Cowboys will play teams close enough to give fans hope—but then, when it counts, will rip our hearts out as brutally as they do every year.

I predict that the Cowboys’ coaching staff will find a way to make Barry Switzer start to look reasonably intelligent.

I predict that Jason Garrett will favor 85% pass plays and 15% run plays, and will offer no compelling reason why he feels that way.

I predict that casual fans will call for the benching of Tony Romo, the firing of Jason Garrett, and the drafting of whatever Shiny New Thing in college is currently being touted by the sports media types. Because that approach has worked out so well for the Jets.

I predict that the Cowboys’ experiment with having about 7 tight ends on the field and no fullbacks will ultimately end up being filed in the same cabinet as the Wildcat offense and the use of Stickum in the 80’s.

I predict that Cowboys’ fans will experience the familiar inner conflict of being grateful that it’s football season and being depressed that the games actually have to be played.

I predict that my idea of filing a class-action lawsuit against Jerry Jones on behalf of all Cowboys’ fans for long-term pain and suffering will gain steam, although no actual lawyers will sign on for it.

I predict that, at the end of the season, Cowboys’ fans will be disappointed as usual. But having lived through such a beating of a season will still be better than watching soccer. Because hating soccer is as American as apple pie.

The Reasonable Christian

Imagine for a moment that you’re in a lifeboat on the open sea. You’ve escaped a giant sinking ship, and there’s still plenty of room in that lifeboat for everyone on the ship. You’re trying desperately to talk the people in that ship into leaving it and getting in the lifeboat, but they’re not convinced they’re sinking. They think you’re foolish for leaving the ship, and they have nothing but contempt for you. Because you are a reasonable and decent human being, you decide to spend the time that you have left before the giant ship sinks doing everything in your power to rescue the people on it.

That’s the best analogy I can think of for the state of affairs in the world. Christians know that the ship of Man is no good—it’s destined to slip beneath the waters of justice and all who are aboard will perish. Christians have been rescued, and are desperately trying to get others into the lifeboat provided by Christ, as well. But the unsaved—the people on the sinking ship—have nothing but contempt for us. As a result, the Sisyphean task of the Christian is to continue to come up with ways of getting people off that ship and into the lifeboat. Occasionally, they come up with good ones. More often than not, they are faced with the terrifying prospect that Christ was actually right when He said “all men will hate you because of Me” (Mt 10.22). Nothing Christians ever do can change that—and yet we try with all of our might.

Typically, the person trying the hardest is Reasonable Christian. You know Reasonable Christian—he’s “different” from typical Christians. He doesn’t engage in all of that hateful judging and fear-mongering. He talks about love and grace as if he alone has discovered the theological significance of these concepts. Reasonable Christian bends himself into all kinds of calisthenic pretzels to appeal to the people on the sinking ship. When the topic of gay marriage comes up, for example, he can’t wait to chime in with what he believes is a novel and thought-provoking original sentiment: “Why are evangelicals so obsessed with gay marriage and social issues?” He blogs about how Christians need to rediscover love and grace, and he frequently says things such as “love wins.” He sees himself as forward-thinking because of his enthusiasm for Left-leaning causes—never stopping to think about the danger of considering the Left and Right to be moral equivalents of one another. Reasonable Christian’s entire self-image is modeled on the implication that other believers are Unreasonable Christians—they don’t really believe in love and grace, and they are full of hate and anger.

The truth about Reasonable Christian would be hilariously annoying if it weren’t so dangerously naïve.

Have you ever had a long conversation with someone about an issue that is dear to you? Let’s say the conversation took several hours, and there has been a respectful back-and-forth between the two of you. Perhaps you table your discussion after four or five hours, and come back to it again the following day—then the next, and the next, until you are several weeks into the discourse. Suddenly, along comes a young acquaintance who overhears 13 seconds of your conversation one day—and immediately jumps in and begins contributing, despite the fact that he has no context for his place in the discourse. Quick—without overthinking it—what is your initial emotional reaction to that young acquaintance?

That’s Reasonable Christian, in a nutshell.

He thinks he knows whereof he speaks, but is really only jumping in late to a conversation that’s been going on for decades and even longer. What he thinks is an evangelical “obsession” with the so-called “culture war” is really just a response. The people in the lifeboat didn’t start this assault on marriage, family and Christianity: the people in the sinking ship did. He doesn’t even bother to educate himself on the particulars of the conversation—all he knows is that if he can dress, talk and act like the people in that sinking ship, he can save them all by himself, and he’ll be the hero instead of the Unreasonable Christians who are “obsessed” with stuff that’s not important. He’s as ignorant as a child, but is also ignorant of that fact, too. This makes him dangerous.

Unfortunately for Reasonable Christian, his entire existence as “reasonable” is based on two faulty assumptions: (1) that the unbelievers on that sinking ship—particularly those on the Left—are imminently reasonable people who’ve just been turned off by some other people in the lifeboat; and (2) no matter who wins this election or that debate, life will continue to go on as it always has, and no one needs to get too excited about these things. Let’s deal with these assumptive fallacies one at a time.

The first assumption is that unbelievers—especially those on the Left—are simply reasonable people who are just sitting around and waiting on a Reasonable Christian to “get” them. They’ve had their feelings hurt by others in the lifeboat—like that terrible fuddy-duddy Falwell, or that other fuddy-duddy Dobson—and if they can just see what a nice, trendy, chest-shaving, Tom’s-wearing, hipster glasses-having, Mac-using, chai latte-drinking person Reasonable Christian is, they’ll come to the gospel faster than you can whisper “arugula!” Based on this fallacious assumption, Reasonable Christian listens to what he thinks are valid criticisms of people on the sinking ship and tries to respond to them directly. He hears them say that they don’t like Falwell or Dobson, so Reasonable Christian goes right over to Falwell and Dobson and tosses them over the side of the lifeboat. He then looks back at the sinking ship and says, “see? We’re reasonable after all. You can get in and enjoy a soy burrito with me now!” Reasonable Christian thinks that he’d rather be Andy Stanley than Jerry Falwell, because the former is hip, trendy and reasonable—and the latter is just full of hate. But what Reasonable Christian never seems to understand is the REAL reason the people on the sinking ship rarely get off of it. It’s because of the profoundly offensive propositional truth of the gospel:

Man is fallen, and can’t redeem himself. Ergo, he can only obtain redemption from outside himself—specifically, from the Son of God, Jesus Christ.

That’s the REAL problem with the sinking people—and they’ll never consider Reasonable Christian reasonable as long as he affirms that truth. Reasonable Christian does everything he can to quickly move past that terrible propositional truth and get right back to talking about wind tunnels and soccer and how terrible Republicans are. What he doesn’t yet realize—it typically comes with having lived long enough to actually contextualize your place in the conversation—is that sooner or later, every evangelical conversation comes back around to that proposition truth. And when it does, Andy Stanley looks just like Jerry Falwell to the sinking people—and so does Reasonable Christian.

The other bad assumption is that life will continue as it always has. Reasonable Christian is in for a rude awakening on this one, too—but by the time he realizes it, he will have dragged all of Western civilization down into this morass of ignorance with him. He is spoiled, decoupled from the extended conversation, and self-serving—as a result, he doesn’t see how Christians fare in EVERY part of the world except America. He doesn’t realize that basic fact that even our Founding Fathers—the old dead white dudes that Reasonable Christian wants to distance himself from—understood: that government is a necessary evil, and if left unchecked will always devolve in totalitarianism. He doesn’t know that Keynesian economics has never worked. He doesn’t know that the Left-leaning “care for the poor” rhetoric only perpetuates a permanent poor underclass, forever dependent on others. Reasonable Christian has never stopped to think about the loss of dignity that government paternalism has inflicted on entire subcultures in American life. Reasonable Christian conveniently forgot about the 56 million unborn children that the Left has enthusiastically murdered in the last four decades, and he gladly lends his voice to this murderous crowd because he doesn’t see any moral difference between them and anyone else. Reasonable Christian isn’t mature enough to think of the sobering ramifications of a political culture that considers the slaughter of 56 million children convenient—and labels any opposition to it as a “war on women”—and he doesn’t realize that if they will kill those 56 million children, sooner or later they’ll come for him, too.

No, Reasonable Christian can’t be bothered to think about those matters. He’s too busy being reasonable to understand that the marriage issue in front of the Supreme Court this week isn’t about “rights” (he doesn’t even know the Constitutional definition of that anyhow) or “gays” or “marriage” or “traditional culture.” Reasonable Christian doesn’t realize that the issue that’s really at stake is one that he cares even less about: freedom. If the people of a state elect representatives to write laws for them—or if nine people in robes issue an edict--it’s all the same to him. He’s not real big on the Constitution anyhow. He never heard Andy Stanley or Brian McLaren or Rob Bell or any other of the host of trendy preachers he follows on Twitter speak about it. Reasonable Christian just wishes that everyone everywhere could have whatever they want when they want it and could just smile and hold hands and sing the Lollipop Song together.

It short-circuits Reasonable Christian to have to think about what’s happening in Greece today as having anything to do with him. Believe me when I tell you that Reasonable Christian’s vote was not cast with monetary policy in mind; he voted strictly about changing the culture—after throwing other Christians over the side of the lifeboat that he deemed were too “obsessed” with culture. Reasonable Christian isn’t aware that wealth redistributionist schemes tried in Russia and China resulted in the deaths of more than 100 million people in the 20^th century; and because he didn’t learn about any of this in school, the rest of us in the lifeboat get to relive that history.

Reasonable Christian will wake up one day, of course. No one can be 22 forever, after all. But by the time that day comes around, Reasonable Christian will live in a remarkably different world: he will live in a world that looks much like every other country except the United States. He will wake up one day to a world in which it is illegal to believe in that propositional truth of the gospel of Jesus Christ. He will open his eyes, one day, to a world in which he and his sons will be imprisoned and executed for the gospel—even WITH that Obama bumper sticker on his Volvo. In that day, he will understand what the fuddy-duddies meant when they spoke of “American exceptionalism”—he will know that they meant there has been one exception in the history of mankind to the list of governments that end up killing their own to solidify power.

And by then, Reasonable Christian will have helped to hasten the demise of that one exception in world history by having lent his voice to the freedom tramplers. In his imminent Reasonable-ness, he will have aided immensely in the destruction of a society in which Christians are free to live out their theology without being killed for it. Reasonable Christian will have inadvertently lent his voice to the cause of totalitarian slaughter and global poverty--all because he didn't deem "freedom" to be important enough to understand or defend. Maybe in that dark moment, he'll look back in time and remember those of us who tried to warn him of history's inexorable march in that direction--and he'll recall that he dismissed us as irrelevant because we weren't Reasonable like him.

In the end, no Christian is reasonable to the world. The propositional truth of the gospel is so offensive that the people on that sinking ship want to blast the whole lifeboat out of the water. Reasonable Christian thinks no one is confusing him with Falwell or Dobson, but he’s wrong. We’re all the same to those folks. I know because I used to be one of them. This doesn’t mean that we’re to stop trying—but Reasonable Christian could get himself off to a fantastic start by just not tossing fellow Christians overboard. The sinking people are never going to invite Reasonable Christian to their cocktail parties. They’re never going to join his church or follow his podcasts. They’re never going to agree with him. He's as ridiculous, culturally, as the 50-year-old high school teacher who tries too hard to look 21 and be "cool." In the end, Reasonable Christian will have to satisfy himself with a smug pat on his own back that many of his Facebook friends are sinking people with whom he can occasionally communicate without shouting. That is, until they come for him next.

Then he’ll finally find out just how Unreasonable he always was.

Our Outing In Dealey Plaza (or, "Yet Another Way I Can Kill A Day Without Writing In My Thesis")

The wife has Spring Break this week. Spring Break is apparently a period of time in which some people have absolutely nothing to do—for an entire week. Not being one of those people, I have to take her word for it. Typically, during Spring Break, the wife will suddenly develop an interest in Making Sure No Leaves Remain Unraked in the yard, or Developing A Comprehensive List of Furniture That Is To Be Moved Around. I have tried, to no avail, to engage her Spring Break Motivation Engine to such worthwhile activities as making me a pie, or perhaps making me two pies. Today, her need to Go Do Stuff was mollified by a trip to Dealey Plaza in downtown Dallas, Texas.

 I should say right off that I am not one of those Dallasites that moans and opines about what a backwards, soulless city Dallas is, and how the poor artists and loft-dwellers have to walk four whole blocks to get to the park where they’re going to shoot meth or whatever. I think that’s all crock. Dallas is one of the most historic cities in the South, and anyone who says otherwise simply hasn’t seen it—period. My advice to the bellyachers is to move to New Orleans. They’ve got a lot of Culture and Stuff, there, too…and a state income tax, which the Gripers always seem to believe is a great idea. But I digress. My point is that I love Dallas. I love visiting things in Dallas, and discovering history there.

I hate parking in Dallas, however. Seriously….parking in Washington D.C. was easier….and those are all Yankees who hate Southerners who insist on driving. I drove right up to the Smithsonian district in a big red truck with Texas plates and a God Bless John Wayne bumper sticker in the backglass and had no trouble whatsoever. But if you want to park in Dallas, make sure you’re riding a bicycle.

Our outing was to visit Dealey Plaza. She’d never been down there, and I had only driven through there hundreds of times on business. Our first order of business was to park. I had carefully researched the Sixth Floor Museum and learned that they even had their own parking lot. I found it and proceeded into the entrance, where I was met by a helpful attendant who helpfully told me that I would helpfully have to pay with cash to park. Now, I haven’t carried cash since the Clinton Administration—much like the rest of civilization except  for the citizens of Red Oak, Texas, who don’t go in for all that newfangled bank card hocus-pocus—so this was a bit of a problem. But Helpful Attendant allowed me to pull to the curb and walk around the museum to an ATM that he promised would be just inside. Naturally, the ATM that was inside was out of order, so the lady in that building directed me to another ATM in the OTHER Sixth Floor Museum, confusingly located directly across the street from the real Sixth Floor Museum. I crossed the street and went into this “other” museum and overheard the lady in there explaining to another man that there was no ATM there, but we would find one around the corner near the Subway. Mind you, I have left the wife in my truck—now two blocks away—while I visit the ATM, and by now the Helpful Attendant is surely starting to wonder whether or not I have just left him the wife and truck and skedaddled to Phoenix. Fortunately for Dallas’ keen sense of adventure, the ATM located around the corner near the Subway ALSO was out of order. I decided to go back to Helpful Attendant and helpfully explain why I was going to go park some place more helpful. He wasn’t there, but, strangely enough, the wife still was. I got in the truck and explained the drama to her while I began to maneuver the labyrinthine maze of one-way streets in downtown Dallas, looking for a parking attendant from the 21^st century.

I have never understood the rationale of the strange street situation—I’ve always imagined a bunch of fat guys in the 30’s smoking cigars and standing over maps in a locked room, saying, “No, Hersch, this would make too much sense to just let them drive normally down here. Let’s make this street one way, and this street one way—and let’s make this street come to a complete dead-end at this park where people are shooting meth.” But of course they didn’t have meth then, so I’m sure that conversation didn’t quite happen that way. In any event, every other person who is driving in downtown Dallas knows EXACTLY where the frickety-frack they’re going and how to get there, and they don’t feel much like tolerating the guy who’s questioning the city planning rationale.

Over the course of the afternoon, I finally found a parking garage with the soothingly familiar “Visa” ensignia on its sign. I pulled into the building, where I was met with a uniformed man. I’ll call him “Achmed.” Achmed informed me, in a tongue known only to Allah, that I would drive up past the 3^rd floor to park and I would pay a machine on the first floor. Simple enough.

You know those parking garages with wide driving lanes and helpful arrows telling you which lane to get in to go UP and which lane to get in to go DOWN?

This wasn’t one of those parking garages.

This parking garage seemed literally held together with bailing wire, and each turn I went around brought me perilously close to parked cars, structural columns, and other disasters. I finally made it to the 8^th floor…the very top…and carefully backed into a spot. I say “carefully” because there was no wall separating my truck from an 8-floor drop to the ground below. My wife and I nervously boarded the elevator and were relieved to end up on the ground floor. Once at the bottom, I went and asked Achmed if there was a certain way to drive down, and he responded with “the same way you went up.” I asked him how that would work if someone was going up at the same time. I even used helpful hand gestures. His response: “be careful.” I shrugged; I’m in a one-ton pickup truck. The final scoreboard will definitely be in my favor, if it comes to a contest.

We walked to the Sixth Floor Museum, and decided that we’d eat lunch first. The Other Sixth Floor Museum and Café looked pretty inviting, so we went in. Unfortunately, they didn’t have anything that men would want to eat there—just a selection of muffins and coffees. Of course, my wife thought it was just charming…but I was actually hungry, so we left to go find real food.

Naturally, there’s not any restaurants down near Dealey. Oh—other than the Record Café. The Record Café was cheap but crowded, and definitely in danger of being shut down by the Health Department sometime soon. We ate and trekked across the street to the real Sixth Floor Museum. I looked down Elm Street where the President had been shot, and noticed two X’s on the street. Sure enough, a helpful conspiracy theorist happened upon us and explained that the nearest X was where the President had been shot first, and the second X was the fatal head shot. I looked closer and became disturbed.

I admit I’m not a conspiracy guy. My default position is OPPOSITE of any position Oliver Stone takes, so I’m sort of down with the Warren Commission. But I’m also the owner of a bolt-action rifle—and I know how long it takes to throw that bolt after firing a round. Those two X’s looked awfully close together for 2 torso shots at a moving target. The Museum itself was worth the drama and the money ($16 apiece). It was very informative and put together well.

Eventually, however, our outing was finished, and it was time to go back to the Parking Garage From Hell. The wife told me that she was going to wait on the ground floor this time, and I could just go up and get the truck and drive it down to her, thank you very much. I went over to the elevator and pushed the button, and when the door opened I noticed that it was pitch-dark in there….not one light working in the elevator. I quickly decided it was time for an 8-flight climb…and I walked all the way to the top. Driving back down the Maze of Doom was easier—until I ran across the lady who was having her tiny car towed from the garage. I’ll let you picture a tow truck with a car trailing behind trying to navigate those narrow lanes and turns—with the woman walking helpfully behind and in my turn radius. Approximately 3 weeks later, I finally made it down to the bottom, and picked up my wife. She told me that she tried to call me and tell me about the tow truck headed up that way, but then realized that I had stashed my cell phone in her purse. I’m a genius that way.

It was more fun than I made it out to be…but mostly because the wife was there, laughing at my calamity the whole time. The fact that she’s always mildly amused at how much drama seems to gravitate my way is itself amusing to me. All in all, a fun time—and I didn’t have to eat any muffins whatsoever.

And don’t worry, Dr. K…..I came home and wrote on my thesis anyhow.