So that’s what they carry in their legal briefs: What is the “sex toy controversy” at the UW Law School?. Imagine the blaring NYT headlines: “Dean Dickey disses dildos — damsels dismayed.” Best line is in the comments: “Now, now, Dean Dickey is no one to play around with. He’s a real stiff. If you play around with him he might erupt. And nobody wants to see that.” Another points to, err, inflatable sheep. Jeez. or perhaps better, ewe.
The blogs are all abuzz about Obama and his mentor-cum-pariah Jeremiah Wright, who through weekend comments espousing his crazy conspiracy theories and bizarre anthropology have thrust them both into the headlines and into the headlights of an oncoming freight train. I have written previously about Jeremiah Wright, and so have little to add to the millions of words already written on his theology, social philosophy, pseudo-Christianity, and his influence on Barack Obama.
One of the more interesting angles to this controversy has been a question raised about whether Pastor Wright is in fact trying to undermine the presidential campaign Senator Obama. At first glance, such a turnabout is confusing, and the best rationale offered to date is that the good Pastor is a bit frosted about being straight-armed by his young protégé. While this may well be true, allow me to put forth another possibility, one which I believe to be far more plausible.
Jeremiah Wright cannot allow Obama to succeed.
Say what?
Yes, you heard me right. Consider this:
Jeremiah Wright lives, breathes, and exists to proclaim that Western civilization in general, and America specifically, are intractably racist and evil, and have been so ever since their foundation. We have all heard and read the sermons and the church bulletins, talking about how white men go to church on Sunday and lynch black men on Monday; how we are a terrorist nation bent on killing people of color and the poor; how the U. S. government created the AIDS virus for the purpose eradicating the black community. In Pastor Wright’s dark world, American society is incorrigibly racist, incapable of change, and the source of all problems in the black community and the world. The black man is a victim, oppressed, and the society in which he lives irredeemable.
Then along comes Obama.
This man, carefully mentored for 20 years under your tutelage, decides to run for President. And he starts winning — winning in part due to huge support from the black community, but winning in even larger part because of white voters. He becomes a rock star, the darling of the lily-white media, the heartthrob of the white intellectual elites, preaching a message of post-racial reconciliation and hope.
And he keeps on winning. In fact, he looks likely to be the democratic presidential nominee. And he looks highly competitive to become president of the United States.
By all measures, in a rational world, this should be a moment of enormous triumph for the black community, a testimony that America is finally beginning to move past race to the dream of Martin Luther King: to judge a man based on the content of this character rather than the color of his skin.
But if you are Jeremiah Wright, your world is falling apart.
You have preached for years that all white men are racists, and lynchers-in-waiting. You have talked for years that only black is good, and white is evil. You have maintained that the African-American is always a victim, always the target of racism, always doomed to fail in this system which, at its very core, hates him.
And now, the profound prevarication underlying all you have taught and believed in is embodied in the person of Barack Obama. Here is a black man widely viewed as bright, personable, and accomplished; whom large numbers of whites not only vote for, but enthusiastically support; whose success betrays the profound error of your entire worldview.
Whitey’s gonna elect a black man. And if he does, the gig is up.
In short, if Obama succeeds, Jeremiah Wright fails: Jeremiah Wright has deceived his congregation; Jeremiah Wright’s understanding of the world, his understanding of God, his understanding of Christianity, has been proven to be deceitful, hollow, and yes, racist.
If you are Jeremiah Wright, you are not amused. This is a man clearly obsessed with the adulation of his followers, who thrives on notoriety and outrageousness and racial demagoguery, who views himself as a prophet crying in the wilderness against a hopelessly bigoted white world.
But the scam has been exposed — if Obama succeeds. If he fails, however, sweet victory is yours: racist Amerikkka has lynched another black man, and the prophet will be honored in his own town.
The tragedy in all of this is not the now-unfolding public humiliation of Jeremiah Wright and all he stands for; it is instead with those who, like Obama, have sat in his pews for years, absorbing this hateful perversion of Christianity as truth. If it is certain, as Jesus said, that “the truth shall set you free”, then the corollary is most certainly true as well: that falsehood will enslave you. For those who feed and breed hatred in fact enslave those whom they teach, and bind them with enormous handicaps, as they try to come to terms and succeed in a world which in reality bears no resemblance to their imputed vision of it. If you believe that you are hated by every white man, and all your failures may be laid at his feet; if you are taught week after week that you are a victim; if you believe that you are poor only because of the greed of rich white men; if you believe that all-powerful forces of government and society are intractably evil and oppressive, then your chances of succeeding in a world where such things are simply not true will be dismal. The gospel of Jeremiah Wright is the gospel of failure, of hopelessness, of self-pity, of hatred; it is a most toxic stew which poisons the minds in the hearts of those who ingest it.
We may never know exactly how much of Jeremiah Wright’s bilious hatred Obama has absorbed. But the true tragedy must surely lie with those thousands who — unlike Obama — will never succeed because of the lies they have been fed. For them, it is not “Yes. We. Can.”, but rather “No, we can’t.” Whether Jeremiah Wright will succeed in destroying Obama’s candidacy remains to be seen; the story of the destruction of countless others who have imbibed his poison will, tragically, never be told.
I wanna live
with a cinnamon girl
I could be happy
the rest of my life
With a cinnamon girl.
– Neil Young
You can’t make this stuff up, really…
Joe is an old patient, been seein’ him since I started practice some 25 years ago. Nice guy, but a little — shall we say? — quirky. Big into herbs and alternative medicine, sees a naturopath who performs prostate massage on him until it stops hurting (or death, whichever comes first). Has some chronic prostatitis, and his love life leaves much to be desired — especially since his Asian concubine left him hanging, taking all of her magic potions with her.
“The thrill is gone,” as B.B. King would say.
So he comes in for his annual checkup.
“How ya’ doin’, Joe?”
“Pretty well, although my prostate still burns at times.”
“Been on any antibiotics for that?”
“Naw, don’t take those things, you know. Too toxic. But I did try another treatment.”
“Do tell.”
“Well, you know that cinnamon has healing powers.”
“Didn’t know that.”
“Yeah, I had a stubborn rash on my leg, and it cleared up after using cinnamon on it.”
“Interesting.”
“So I decided to try it for my prostate.”
Gulp. “How’d … you do that?”
“Well, I filled up a condom with it, and put it on, and worked it into the opening.”
Reflexly, I cross my legs, holding his chart tightly on my lap.
“How’d that go?”
“Hurt like hell!”
Ya think?
“Did it help any?”
“No — and I don’t think I’m gonna try it again. But I’ve got some other ideas…”
Perhaps next time he should blend it with sugar and berries, and make a tart…
Perhaps it is my profession, where the constant exposure to human suffering and pain harden the spirit and keep emotions at a safe distance. Perhaps it is the almost imperceptible but relentless inoculation brought about by the constant stream of violence and vice which pour forth from the dazzling screen faced daily from the comfort of cottage and couch. Perhaps it is the cynicism and callousness from one too many movies showing gratuitous sex; one too many art exhibits with fecal creativity or blasphemous pretension; one too many headlines of school shootings or child rape. It all seems to blend together, like some Clockwork Orange deprogramming script shimmering on screen as we sit with eyes held open against our will, the beauty of Beethoven lulling us into the normalization of depravity.
Each scene, more horrid than the last, flashes by, horrifying in the moment but soon forgotten, our calloused souls no longer responding, our eyes transfixed in cold determination on money and the material, routine and ritual. We have swum in the cesspool so long we no longer notice the smell.
This week, some things broke through the indifferent haze. Like some unheralded emetic, the cynical disdain for a culture gone corrupt turned instead to nausea — physical, to be sure, yet far more: a nausea of the soul, a dyspepsia so deep in the spirit that no hardened defense could mask its rolling waves of disgust and dismay.
There was, at the first, the video: a teenage girl, lured into a trap, then brutally beaten by six other girls her age for thirty minutes continually, carefully recorded on video for upload to YouTube.
Then came the Yale “artist” who repeatedly impregnated herself by artificial insemination, then aborted the fetus with drugs, carefully saving the results for display wrapped in plastic and Vaseline for her senior art exhibit.
Then this morning, in the local paper: a man — a school bus driver — convicted for sexually assaulting a 4-year-old girl left alone on his bus.
One could multiply such incidents, ad nauseum, on almost any given day, in any part of the world — beheadings and genocide, ghoulish scenes of body parts and bloodied walls from yet another heroic martyr seeking virgins through hyperviolence. Yet these events, small on such a savage scale, in some way troubled me more than most.
One wants to rail at a society gone mad, at a civilization which has lost its bearings and moral compass, at a decadence fed by materialism and secularism, force-fed with the rotgut wine of postmodern relativism, drunk with the notion that ideas have no consequence and idols worshiped bring no destruction.
Yet the time for such anguished mourning seems long past, its passing but a point in a pitiful past history. We have, it seems, entered the post-human age.
Our secular prophets have heralded the Good News: there is no God; we are but accidental apes. We have been liberated from the bondage of religion and morals; we are, at last, in this twenty-first century, at the pinnacle of human achievement and potential. The shackles of superstition are broken, the potential of man unbounded, his glory unlimited but by the constraints of his imagination.
Yet as we celebrate our exalted humanity, the technology we worship brings glimpses of a darker reality, flashed in some subliminal message quickly dismissed as aberration or sideshow.
We may reflexly think of those who partake in such ghastly exhibitionism to be but beasts– but to think thus insults the animal, whose nobility far exceeds our own. For the animal kingdom is violent, brutish, and predatory — but it is so with purpose, its violence constrained by the drive to survive, or mate, or protect its territory. It is only the human animal who ventures into the subhuman, in glorification and gleeful pursuit of perversion for pleasure, of violence as theater. It is this theatrics of barbarism so prevalent in our age which bespeaks something far darker, more sinister, more terrifying. For to be human is to share the beautiful and the good with the hideous and evil; it has been so since the dawn of history. But to celebrate perdition, to promulgate a pornography of barbarism, to cast it abroad over media and message seems the unique and chilling characteristic of our current reckless age.
Civilization has always withstood the barbarians with low walls lightly guarded. It has depended far less on strength of force than strength of character, a consensus among the civilized that certain behavior and unrestrained license threaten its very existence. Laws and the power of enforcement cannot long resist the dark demons of depravity unleashed from within; the power of Rome proved feeble when there became no difference between the citizens within and the barbarians without. The Dark Ages which thus ensued seem now long forgotten, even as we arrogate the privileges of freedom while destroying the self-control and restraint on which it depends.
Our own Dark Ages seem soon upon us. The knowledge and technology which have brought us to such great heights will document in vivid color the breaching of the walls and the slaughter of the children.
VDH takes on airlines, universities, and modern illiberal liberalism: Liberalism—a Strange Thing Indeed. Maybe someday, before they all go bankrupt, airlines will discover something call customer service...
Still trying to stay one step ahead of the snapping alligators, so here’s another older post, hopefully worth your time — Dr. Bob
Damn!, I hate these calls…
Lying on my desk, clipped to a yellow manila binder, is a single sheet of paper. Its pleasant color format and sampled photomicrograph belie the gravity of its content:
Adenocarcinoma, Gleason grade 9, involving 60% of the specimen.
How do you deliver a death sentence?
Your first impression of Charlie is his sheer mass: 50 years young, healthy as a horse, built like a tank, a former football player turned popular coach at a local high school. He arrived at my office after seeing his family physician for an acute illness, with fever, chills, and problems urinating. His doctor had diagnosed a urinary tract infection, placed him on an antibiotic, and drew a PSA–a screening test for prostate cancer. It was markedly elevated: over 100, with normal being less than 4. I grumbled to myself as I reviewed his chart: Those damned primary care docs shouldn’t draw PSAs when patients have prostate infections — it just muddies the waters.
PSA (prostate specific antigen) is a test which measures a protein in the blood stream released by prostate tissue. It has greatly improved early detection of prostate cancer in the 20 years it has been in widespread use — but it is not, strictly speaking, a cancer test. It is noisy — often abnormal in other conditions, including benign prostate enlargement (BPH), inflammation, and prostate infection. It is virtually always elevated in the presence of an acute prostate infection — often markedly so — and can take months to return to normal. The high PSA alarms the patient, however, who is told he may have cancer. But most do not — and Charlie looked like a classic case of infection.
His history was typical, and his response to antibiotics appropriate, so this seemed at first glance like so many other similar cases I had seen. His prostate exam was alarming, however: rock-hard and irregular, unlike the typical soft, boggy texture of an infected gland. Experience and training kicked in, and I knew exactly what we were dealing with: a relatively uncommon form of prostate infection called granulomatous prostatitis. I had seen dozens of cases — always alarming on first exam, with very high PSA values — and always responding to long-term antibiotics. Charlie was started on a one-month course of high-powered, high-priced bug exterminator, and came back for follow-up after its completion.
He was feeling better, and his PSA had dropped markedly, to 45. His prostate exam also seemed improved, but still quite abnormal. I remained quite confident in my diagnosis — after all, cancer doesn’t get better on antibiotics — but was unwilling to wait much longer to know for sure. I scheduled a prostate biopsy, reassuring him after its completion of my optimism that the results would show only infection.
The report was a blow to the gut. I sat silently, staring at it, in stunned disbelief.
In the age of PSA screening, most prostate cancers are detected at an early, curable stage — although their slow-growing nature makes treatment less important in very elderly patients. The chances for cure at diagnosis are determined by an estimate of the size and aggressiveness of the tumor. Size is determined by exam, ultrasound findings, and total PSA values; aggressiveness by the Gleason score — a value indicator (between 2 and 10) of the aggressive appearance of the cancer cells under the microscope. Higher is not better: Gleason scores of 9 and 10 indicate rapidly growing cancers which tend to spread early and are difficult — if not impossible — to cure. Charlie had drawn a pair of deuces in a high-stakes poker game: large volume, high-Gleason score cancer. The statistics were dismal: he would likely be dead of cancer in 5 years, regardless of treatment. And as cancer deaths go, this one’s not pretty: pain is a huge management problem in many, as the cancer infests and erodes the spine and long bones, breaking even the strongest of men. One learns to hate this disease before very many such cases have been seen.
And now I had to call him with his biopsy results.
The actual call will be brief: I will inform him that, unfortunately, the biopsy has shown cancer, that additional tests will be needed to determine its extent and the best way to manage it, and arrange for a follow-up visit in the office. The real bad news will be transmitted then, face-to-face, with more than enough information for its gravity to sink in. To do this — without robbing hope — will require more inner strength than is readily at hand.
But for now, I simply need to tell him he has cancer.
The word cancer encapsulates the deepest fears and anxieties of man, embodying in one small word pain, suffering, loss of control, hopelessness, dependency, death, the fragility of our dreams and hopes, and our uncertainty about the hereafter. To inform a patient that he has cancer is to shatter the illusion, the daily denial that death may yet be outmaneuvered, forestalled, kept on hold for some future date of our own determining. It is an illusion which dies hard — surprisingly so, as we alone among all creation are cognizant of its inevitability and certainty.
Perhaps the cruelest wish a man might be granted — were there some bottled genie passing out such favors — is knowledge of his own future. Yet, in some small measure, that power has been granted to me, and others of my profession. Not in any specific manner, of course — not of days or years, details or circumstances — but in knowledge deep enough to see the broad strokes: shadowy figures through rippled glass, of pain, and loss, and shattered dreams, of desperate grasping at the frail straws of fading hope, as the drumbeat of mortality pounds ever louder toward its dark crescendo.
Patients receive the call in different ways. Most accept it with seeming stoicism, and little expressed emotion — yet it is not hard to imagine — and sometimes to sense — the tight grasp of fear that grabs the throat and grips the heart. When wives are listening, the fear is more immediate, more palpable, as voices tremble with panic despite every effort to control it. A million questions will arise — but almost never on the initial call. On rare occasion, there is a casual indifference to the news — prompting reflection on what strength of spirit — or dense denial — such men possess.
I often wonder how I would receive the call. As a Christian, I am confident of a life hereafter, eternal, spent in the presence of Him who loves me. Some call that arrogance, or self-righteous; it is not. God alone knows better than I the darkness of my heart, the depravity that makes me uniquely unsuited to be in the presence of the Holy One but for one moment, much less eternity. But I have been adopted — an unworthy child by an unspeakably loving and merciful Father, who only asks submission to His tender guidance and direction, and transforms a lost fool into something useful, something cherished, someone with purposes aligned — though poorly so — with His own.
But the call of death — so confidently faced from the comfortable vantage of good health and cheap grace — will strike fear into my heart when it arrives, for far smaller challenges have brought dread in larger measure. There will be the fear of the ordeal, the journey of suffering, the loss of things now treasured but instantly made worthless. There will be the pain of watching the loss of those close to me, struggling to make sense of a relationship, undervalued while unthreatened, yet now more precious while counting down inexorably to its end. I know - -by the tutor of past and bitter experience — that faith will sustain me and mine through it all. But one cannot know what that day will be like — nor should we wish to ever know.
But for Charlie, the battle will now be enjoined — the weapons and wherewithal of modern medicine in all-out war against its implacable foe. Perhaps by some miracle or unexpected grace he will be given a reprieve, a window to revalue and reassess life’s course, its priorities, its purpose. For even when we are cured, we are healed to face death again: Lazarus, once risen, will revisit the stony crypt. Yet the Voice which called him forth calls us also, beckoning toward a painful light from the cold terrors of death.
How difficult to be the herald of another’s mortality — it is a burden no man should have to bear. Some will deliver it through the steely detachment hammered hard by years of training; some avoid it altogether where possible, through choice of profession or abdication of responsibility. But for those who must speak this hard truth, may there be grace and wisdom, empathy and compassion.
Another older post, as my friends at the IRS seem to be demanding an extra dose of torture this year.
A link from Glenn Reynolds hooked into something I’ve been ruminating on in recent days: the endless pursuit of longer life.
Here’s the question I’ve been pondering: is it an absolute good to be continually striving for a longer life span? Such a question may seem a bit odd coming from a physician, whose mission it is to restore and maintain health and prolong life. But the article which Glenn linked to, describing the striking changes in health and longevity of our present age, seemingly presents this achievement as an absolute good, and thereby left me a tad uneasy — perhaps because I find myself increasingly ambivalent about this unceasing pursuit of longer life.
Of course, long life and good health have always been considered blessings, as indeed they are. But long life in particular seems to have become a goal unto itself — and from where I stand is most decidedly a mixed blessing.
Many of the most difficult health problems with which we battle, which drain our resources struggling to overcome, are largely a function of our longer life spans. Pick a problem: cancer, heart disease, dementia, crippling arthritis, stroke — all of these increase significantly with age, and can result in profound physical and mental disability. In many cases, we are living longer, but doing so restricted by physical or mental limitations which make such a longer life burdensome both to ourselves and to others. Is it a positive good to live to age 90, spending the last 10 or more years with dementia, not knowing who you are nor recognizing your own friends or family? Is it a positive good to be kept alive by aggressive medical therapy for heart failure or emphysema, yet barely able to function physically? Is it worthwhile undergoing highly toxic chemotherapy or disfiguring surgery to cure cancer, thereby sparing a life then severely impaired by the treatment which saved that life?
These questions, in some way, cut to the very heart of what it means to be human. Is our humanity enriched simply by living longer? Does longer life automatically imply more happiness–or are we simply adding years of pain, disability, unhappiness, burden? The breathlessness with which authors often speak of greater longevity, or the cure or solution to these intractable health problems, seems to imply a naive optimism, both from the standpoint of likely outcomes, and from the assumption that a vastly longer life will be a vastly better life. Ignored in such rosy projections are key elements of the human condition — those of moral fiber and spiritual health, those of character and spirit. For we who live longer in such an idyllic world may not live better: we may indeed live far worse. Should we somehow master these illnesses which cripple us in our old age, and thereby live beyond our years, will we then encounter new, even more frightening illnesses and disabilities? And what of the spirit? Will a man who lives longer thereby have a longer opportunity to do good, or rather to do evil? Will longevity increase our wisdom, or augment our depravity? Will we, like Dorian Gray, awake to find our ageless beauty but a shell for our monstrous souls?
Such ruminations bring to mind a friend, a good man who died young. Matt was a physician, a tall, lanky lad with sharp bony features and deep, intense eyes. He was possessed of a brilliant mind, a superb physician, but left his mark on life not solely through medicine nor merely by intellect. A convert to Christianity as a young adult, Matt embraced his new faith with a passion and province rarely seen. His medical practice became a mission field. His flame burned so brightly it was uncomfortable to draw near: he was as likely to diagnose your festering spiritual condition as your daunting medical illness — and had no compunction about drilling to the core of what he perceived to be the root of the problem. Such men make you uneasy, for they sweep away the veneer of polite correction and diplomatic encouragement which we physicians are trained to deliver. Like some gifted surgeon of the soul, he cast sharp shadows rather than soft blurs, brandishing his brilliant insight on your now-naked condition. The polished conventions of medicine were never his strength — a characteristic which endeared him not at all to many in his profession. But his patients — those who could endure his honesty and strength of character — were passionate in their devotion to him, personally and professionally. For he was a man of extraordinary compassion and generosity, seeing countless patients at no charge, giving generously of his time and finances far beyond the modest means earned from his always-struggling practice.
The call I received from another friend, a general surgeon, requesting an assist at his surgery, was an unsettling one: Matt had developed a growth in his left adrenal gland. His surgery went deftly, with much confidence that the lesion had been fully excised. The pathology proved otherwise: Matt had an extremely rare, highly aggressive form of adrenal cancer. Fewer than 100 cases had been reported worldwide, and there was no known successful treatment. Nevertheless, as much for his wife and two boys as for himself, he underwent highly toxic chemotherapy, which sapped his strength and left him enfeebled. In spite of this, the tumor grew rapidly, causing extreme pain and rapid deterioration, bulging like some loathsome demon seeking to burst forth from his frail body. I saw him regularly, although in retrospect not nearly often enough, and never heard him complain; his waning energies were spent with his family, and he never lost the intense flame of faith. Indeed, as his weakened body increasingly became no more than life support for his cancer, wasting him physically and leaving him pale and sallow, there grew in him a spirit so remarkable that one was drawn to him despite the natural repulsion of watching death’s demonic march.
Matt died at age 38, alert and joyful to the end. His funeral was a most remarkable event: at an age in life where most would be happy to have sufficient friends to bear one’s casket, his funeral service at a large church was filled to overflowing — thousands of friends, patients, and professional peers paying their respects in a ceremony far more celebration than mourning. There was an open time for testimony — and such a time it was, as one after another took to the lectern to speak through tears of how Matt had touched their lives; of services rendered, small and large, unknown before that day; of funny anecdotes and sad remembrances which left not one soul of that large crowd untouched or unmoved.
A journey such as his casts critical light on our mindless pursuit of life lived only to live long. In Matt’s short life he brought more good into the world, touched more people, changed more lives, than I could ever hope to do were I to live a century more. It boils down to purpose: mere years are no substitute for a life lived with passion, striving for some goal greater than self, with transcendent purpose multiplying and compounding each waking moment. This is a life well-lived, whether long or short, whether weakened or well.
Like all, I trust, I hope to live life long, and seek a journey lived in good health and sound mind. But even more — far more indeed — do I desire that those days yet remaining — be they long or short — be rich in purpose, wise in time spent, and graced by love.
Been quite busy of late, so I’ve resurrected an OBG (Oldie But Goodie) in lieu of actually writing something new and intelligible. Back soon, God bless.
Recently, in an e-mail exchange, Gerard Van der Leun brought up the issue of prayer, and how it was a difficult learning experience for him. Like so much in the world of web logs, a seed gets planted which starts you thinking. Well, Gerard’s been thinking — and writing — while I’ve had this post sitting in my drafts box for a month. Seems like one of those pokes in the ribs that awakens you when you’re in the blessed arms of Morpheus — and snoring…
The subject of prayer is a fascinating one for me in many ways, not only because of its effect on my life, but because — as a logical-sequential scientist by profession and disposition, I want to understand how it works — and I don’t, and I can’t. But it does. And that cognitive dissonance drives me a little nuts.
Billions of words have been written on prayer, by foolish and wise, scholarly and simple. For the secular skeptic, baptized into the random meaninglessness of a life accidental, it must seem odd — if they stop to think of it, which I suspect they rarely do — that mankind throughout eons and cultures has devoted so much time and energy to a pointless litany of words directed to the non-existent. Even among we who confess to the existence and significance of a Being higher than ourselves, prayer confounds and frustrates us, as we search for some formula, some talisman to garner the attention and blessing of the invisible, inscrutable deity.
But this does not keep us from trying. The drunk asks God to help him out of this jam, promising not to drink again. The agnostic pleads with God that the biopsy not show cancer. The unhappy spouse prays that her husband change to her liking. We pray for money, for success, for jobs, for relief from emotional agony and physical pain. We pray ritualistically, hoping that by repetition an indifferent or annoyed God will throw some crumb our way to get us off His case.
Prayer, perhaps more than anything else, reveals what we think about God and about ourselves in relationship to such deity. If our God is remote, abstract, indifferent, then our prayers will have the character of whistling through the graveyard — hoping against hope that the very act of addressing this unknown force will ward off fear of some greater evil closer at hand. If we serve an angry, judgmental power — vengeful and quick to accuse — then we will pray from fear, pleading nervously for mercy while recommitting ourselves to the required perfection we have no hope of achieving. If we worship Santa Claus, then endless lists of self-gratifying demands will appear, as we hope we have been less naughty than nice. Continue reading: The Prayer of Java →
Dr. Bob is a physician in the Pacific Northwest, the fortunate husband of his wife of thirty years and father of three remarkable children. Blessed by the grace of God with the great privilege of knowing His Son, and having experienced the limitless depths of His mercy, patience and forgiveness, he desires to serve Him and others well.
... every now I find a new blog (new to me, anyway) and see something there so resonant and stirring that I can honestly say that I feel a thrill of excitement at the discovery ... Dr. Bob can surely write, but he can also think and feel, and he can write eloquently about what he thinks and feels ...
The doctor was indeed in touch with a number of important things that rise and fall within the soul of America, but can never die. The page contains the essays, ever growing in strength and clarity, of Dr. Bob ... Of those “voices rarely heard,” Dr. Bob's is among the best.
Dr. Bob ... is one of the smartest, most disciplined and most intense people blogging today. When he takes up a subject he makes it melt with the intensity of his concentration. The quality of his blog is perfect, and he is a person who won't settle for anything but the best. All of this, and good character as well. It's a rare and admirable combination.
This book reveals an extraordinary insight into the mind-set as well as the teachings of Jehovah's Witnesses, and provides a valuable reference to the cult apologist as well as laymen and pastors ... a long overdue treatment
The blogs are all abuzz about Obama and his mentor-cum-pariah Jeremiah Wright, who through weekend comments espousing his crazy conspiracy theories and bizarre anthropology have thrust them both into the headlines and into the headlights of an oncoming freight train. I have 
I am not easily shocked anymore.
Recently, in an e-mail exchange, 
