Although
I could write on any number of intriguing ideas presented in Tracy Kidder’s
book, the constant return to Paul Farmer’s own character is the most convicting
story being told. If you’ve never read Mountains
Beyond Mountains, it’s the tale of an American doctor and infectious
disease specialist named Paul Farmer, “the man who would cure the world.”
Although his work has come under critique by various public health officials and
organizations throughout his career, his goal remains the provision of “first-world”
medical care to people in the “third world.” Mountains Beyond Mountains chronicles this work in rural Haiti, the
slums of Peru, tuberculosis-ridden areas of western Russia, and any number of
destinations in between. Again, however, the most surprising narrative that
Kidder writes isn’t necessarily the work Farmer does; it’s just Farmer.
“Here
was a person who seemed to be practicing more than he preached, who seemed to be
living, as nearly as any human being can, without hypocrisy. A challenging
person, the kind of person whose example can irritate you by making you feel
you’ve never done anything as important, and yet, in his presence, those kinds
of feelings tended to vanish. In the past, when I’d imagined a person with
credentials like his, I’d imagined someone dour and self-righteous, but he was
very friendly and irreverent, and quite funny. He seemed like someone I’d like
to know, and I thought that if I did my job well, a reader would feel that way,
too.”
Practicing more than you preach. Living without hypocrisy. Making others feel
that they can do likewise. I’ve never met Farmer or even talked with anyone who
has, but his reputation remains the same. He is a man passionate about justice,
about equality in health care access, about the responsibility that the healthy
have to the poor. Farmer himself constantly reaffirms his confusion about the
general pushback to such a simple idea. The healthy should help the unhealthy;
“I mean, everybody should have access to medical care,” says Farmer. “And, you
know, it shouldn’t be such a big deal."
There is deep profundity in claiming
a simple truth.
Working in the Service-Learning
Center is a pretty fluid gig. I have a job description that defines certain
expectations and tasks to complete, but the more time I spend working, the more
I recognize my position as one centered around the sharing of ideas and not the finishing of a work list.
Conversations on the kingdom define my job life. We talk about segregation in
our schools and systemic racism in our justice system. We talk about
socioeconomic divides and Christ’s call to justly distribute wealth. We talk
about ourselves, the fact that we’re college students and professionals from
all over the country (and world) and, through such a blessing, have enormous
responsibility to actually act
through our education and work. We don’t have any answers, but we’re full of
questions.
This, too, is a simple truth. I have
no idea how long it will take for this country’s terrible racial and socioeconomic
divides to pass, and I’m sure that I contribute to them even as I try not to. But
talking about the fact that they’re here is much better than hoping they’ll
disappear without anyone recognizing they’ve gone. “Everyone deserves justice,”
we think and pray. “And, you know, it shouldn’t be such a big deal.” This is an
essay of lament because, well, it is. It’s a big deal that the computer I’m
typing these words on was pieced together with mineral wealth stolen out of the
hands of slaves in the Democratic Republic of the Congo. It’s a big deal that
Ukraine is in shambles. It’s a big deal that people have to stand on the corner
of the street at 28th and the Beltline to put food on the table.
So let’s practice more than we
preach. Let’s live without hypocrisy. Let’s help other people do likewise. You
and I are characters in the story of Christ, and that, too, is a pretty big
deal.
Peace,
Evans
Lodge
