“I haven’t figured out how to tell which ones will make it and which ones won’t . . . just part of the job.”
Russell, a Veterinarian
I had a unique opportunity this afternoon to watch a family friend perform surgery on a small dog. The Chihuahua had entered into a no holds barred match with a dog ten times its size and got knocked out in the first round. It had severe lacerations to its abdomen, some of those even rending internal organs. By the time I entered the operating room, the procedure was almost over. However, in the few moments in which I had the privilege to observe my friend in action, a few things become quite clear: this was serious business (life or death), the animal that lay lifeless on the table was completely dependant on the vet to save him, the vet possessed the necessary knowledge and skill to provide assistance, and more importantly he was willing to give it.
I watched him as he skillfully sewed back together the entrails of this tiny creature with speed and precision much like a grandmother would crotchet, knit or do counted cross-stitch. He fielded my questions, chuckled at my quips and even offered a few of his own, yet tended to keep his eyes focused on the job set before him. He knew that this animal’s life was in his hands. After some time had passed, not wanting to be in the way, and really because I had had my fill of looking at intestines and other organs, I said I needed to get going. So we said our farewells, and I was off.
Later that evening, Russell called to see how my dog, Libby, was doing after her procedure earlier that day. (We had dutifully taken the advice of that wise old sage, Bob Barker, and had done our part to “help control the pet population”.) I said she seemed a little lethargic, but she was doing well, all things considered. Out of curiosity, I asked how the surgery turned out for the little guy I had seen on the operating table. He told me the surgery went well and the dog made it through fine. But after the surgery he needed to transport it to another facility for recovery and observation. Sadly, it had died en route; the trauma had simply been too much for the dog to endure. I asked him if that was frustrating. Then he answered with something that struck me as incredibly profound. “I haven’t figured out how to tell which ones will make it and which ones won’t . . . just part of the job. It’s what I do.” He had spent hours doing all within his power to bring that animal back from the grave. Years of experience had taught him that the odds were against him, but he also knew that many overcome the odds. He knew that little dog might not make it, but he also knew that it was his job to give it every chance.
Strangely enough, the Christian life is more like this situation than most of us care to admit. We, as Christians, have been given the life saving knowledge of Jesus Christ, and it’s our duty to share it with the “least of these.” Many will tangle with the big dogs of this world and will end up critically wounded, teetering on the brink between eternal joy and endless weeping. Jesus said, “Go ye therefore and make disciples of all.” Not some, not the ones who you like, not the ones who are nice to you, not the ones who fit the mold, not the ones who wear the right cloths and shop at the right stores, not the ones who have all the right talents and abilities, not the ones that attend the right schools, and not the ones that we think “will make it,” but ALL. And yet for reasons I’ll never know many of us sit in judgment, picking and choosing who should be brought to the Great Physician for treatment. Somewhere along the line, we’ve forgotten Jesus’ words recorded in Mathew 9:12, “It is not those who are healthy who need a physician, but those who are sick.”
We were all sick once. Don’t you remember? We were so sick that we died, but then the Savior came and changed everything. Do you recall the day that it happened for you? They wheeled the gurney into the ER. The staff took one look at you and knew that sin had destroyed your heart. They had seen this too many times before and they knew that if they didn’t get you to the Great Physician, you were sure to die. As they placed you on the operating table you flat-lined and were pronounced dead. Hope was lost. Then He stepped in and placed your heart in His hands, and started to massage it. Some of them said, “Why him? Why now? He’s dead. He doesn’t deserve it. He’s not worth the time or the effort. He’ll probably be ungrateful.” But the Surgeon simply smiled and said, “I know, but it’s what I do.”
I had a unique opportunity this afternoon to watch a family friend perform surgery on a small dog. The Chihuahua had entered into a no holds barred match with a dog ten times its size and got knocked out in the first round. It had severe lacerations to its abdomen, some of those even rending internal organs. By the time I entered the operating room, the procedure was almost over. However, in the few moments in which I had the privilege to observe my friend in action, a few things become quite clear: this was serious business (life or death), the animal that lay lifeless on the table was completely dependant on the vet to save him, the vet possessed the necessary knowledge and skill to provide assistance, and more importantly he was willing to give it.
I watched him as he skillfully sewed back together the entrails of this tiny creature with speed and precision much like a grandmother would crotchet, knit or do counted cross-stitch. He fielded my questions, chuckled at my quips and even offered a few of his own, yet tended to keep his eyes focused on the job set before him. He knew that this animal’s life was in his hands. After some time had passed, not wanting to be in the way, and really because I had had my fill of looking at intestines and other organs, I said I needed to get going. So we said our farewells, and I was off.
Later that evening, Russell called to see how my dog, Libby, was doing after her procedure earlier that day. (We had dutifully taken the advice of that wise old sage, Bob Barker, and had done our part to “help control the pet population”.) I said she seemed a little lethargic, but she was doing well, all things considered. Out of curiosity, I asked how the surgery turned out for the little guy I had seen on the operating table. He told me the surgery went well and the dog made it through fine. But after the surgery he needed to transport it to another facility for recovery and observation. Sadly, it had died en route; the trauma had simply been too much for the dog to endure. I asked him if that was frustrating. Then he answered with something that struck me as incredibly profound. “I haven’t figured out how to tell which ones will make it and which ones won’t . . . just part of the job. It’s what I do.” He had spent hours doing all within his power to bring that animal back from the grave. Years of experience had taught him that the odds were against him, but he also knew that many overcome the odds. He knew that little dog might not make it, but he also knew that it was his job to give it every chance.
Strangely enough, the Christian life is more like this situation than most of us care to admit. We, as Christians, have been given the life saving knowledge of Jesus Christ, and it’s our duty to share it with the “least of these.” Many will tangle with the big dogs of this world and will end up critically wounded, teetering on the brink between eternal joy and endless weeping. Jesus said, “Go ye therefore and make disciples of all.” Not some, not the ones who you like, not the ones who are nice to you, not the ones who fit the mold, not the ones who wear the right cloths and shop at the right stores, not the ones who have all the right talents and abilities, not the ones that attend the right schools, and not the ones that we think “will make it,” but ALL. And yet for reasons I’ll never know many of us sit in judgment, picking and choosing who should be brought to the Great Physician for treatment. Somewhere along the line, we’ve forgotten Jesus’ words recorded in Mathew 9:12, “It is not those who are healthy who need a physician, but those who are sick.”
We were all sick once. Don’t you remember? We were so sick that we died, but then the Savior came and changed everything. Do you recall the day that it happened for you? They wheeled the gurney into the ER. The staff took one look at you and knew that sin had destroyed your heart. They had seen this too many times before and they knew that if they didn’t get you to the Great Physician, you were sure to die. As they placed you on the operating table you flat-lined and were pronounced dead. Hope was lost. Then He stepped in and placed your heart in His hands, and started to massage it. Some of them said, “Why him? Why now? He’s dead. He doesn’t deserve it. He’s not worth the time or the effort. He’ll probably be ungrateful.” But the Surgeon simply smiled and said, “I know, but it’s what I do.”
