rMag

Becoming Bereans Learning to Care

Karen Kovaka

But seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all these things shall be added to you. (Matthew 6:33)

“How about if I say, ‘I have fought for my whole life a long defeat.’ How about that? How about if I said, ‘That’s all it adds up to is defeat…’”

“A long defeat.”

“I have fought for the long defeat and brought other people on to fight the long defeat, and I’m not going to stop because we keep losing.”

This is a piece of a conversation between Paul Farmer, a medical doctor whose life has been given to treating infectious diseases among the world’s poorest people, and Farmer’s biographer and friend, Tracy Kidder. Farmer lives with the reality that millions of people are infected with AIDS and tuberculosis but have virtually no access to adequate medical care. Against every conceivable challenge, he has given his time, resources, and genius to healing all those that he can. The blossoming AIDS epidemic and increasing infection rates of TB around the world are unable to daunt him. He is fighting, if only for the long defeat.

Required to Care?

I read about men like Paul Farmer, who barely sleep at night, who rarely see their families, and who live daily with pain and suffering, and I find myself mystified by this question: What makes someone care that much?

Think of it this way – what makes the difference between the masses of people whose lives say, “I’m too engrossed in my own pain and lack of security to even begin to think about others,” and the example of sacrifice and compassion set by the all too rare Paul Farmers of the world? Is it just a personality fluke, or can anyone care that much? More importantly, should everyone care that much?

This is a question I have to ask myself. Is “caring” something I can just smile and nod about, along with almost everyone else, or does it require more from me?

The Problem of Self Motivation

This passionate concern for a cause is inspiring, of course. Any of us, after reading some story of sacrifice and generosity, is moved to consider issues of inequality and suffering more deeply than before. However, we also have to admit that we don’t all feel called to give away our possessions, to live among the destitute, or to spend our afternoons in community service. To be brutally honest, most days I don’t even feel like getting up early. I know myself, and I know that unless I feel truly called to a life that involves radical sacrifice, I’ll never be able to give up what I want for the sake of others. It just won’t happen.

So, if that mystical concept we refer to as “calling” is missing, maybe it’s okay that I don’t care as much as Paul Farmer. Maybe the huddled masses of the world are better off without me and my selfishness. Maybe I don’t need to worry about this anymore.

Except, I know none of that’s true. Deep down, even though I understand I can’t will myself to care about anything, I feel that I should, and there’s a sadness in me that won’t rest until I do. I believe that I need to care, but … why?

Aligning My Affections to God’s

Very simply, it’s because God cares, and I know it. God is a Father to the fatherless. He’s the Protector of widows and slaves. He is the Author of liberty, the Dispenser of justice, and the Defender of truth. I know He hates oppression, poverty, sickness, sadness, and lies, and if He hates them, I know that I should, too.

I should care, genuinely and deeply, about what God cares about. I believe this as firmly as I believe anything else, but then I catch myself not caring, and I don’t seem to know what to do about my shameful heartlessness. For the longest time, I thought I could tell myself to care, and then the feelings would come. Fortunately, though, I realized that I was looking at the issue in the wrong way.

We aren’t really supposed to care about the world and all its creatures just because God does. At least, that’s not the primary reason. It’s more accurate to say that we should care because we are like God, and so we can’t help caring for the same things He cares about. The solution, then, isn’t the self-imposition of a crushing burden of compassion because of some mental knowledge of what God thinks is important. It’s more a matter of aligning my heart with God’s heart, and then the caring isn’t forced. Instead, what I care about and want comes to resemble more and more closely what He cares about and wants. It’s so natural that I can’t imagine it being any other way. We have a word for this: sanctification.

This is what Paul means when he says in 1 Corinthians 2 that what separates God’s people from the foolishness of the world is that they have “the mind of Christ.” Our job is to be “conformed to the image of his son” (Romans 8:29). Then the rest falls into place.

Winning the Long Defeat

What does this mean, practically and specifically? Bob Pierce expressed the idea well when he wrote: “Let my heart be broken with the things that break God’s heart.” Not only is this the only way to guarantee I’ll care about the right things, it’s the only guarantee I’ll care about anything at all, besides myself. When I am like God, I will react to the world the way He does. I will care, and I will be moved to action. The sacrifices will be small when measured against the burning compassion that has become a part of me. Then, no matter what pain rocks my life, it won’t crush the place in my heart that is tender and compassionate. Nothing will be able to destroy the strength with which we care.

I am comforted by stories which prove to me that it is possible to look into the center of the world’s pain, to care about it, and not be broken. Paul Farmer’s life is one such story. The life of Whittaker Chambers is another. Chambers’ struggle took place on the political front in the 1950s after he chose to leave the Communist underground and pursue political convictions that were rooted in the Christian faith. One night, he said to his wife: “You know, we are leaving the winning world for the losing world.”

And then he wrote:

Almost nothing that I have observed, or that has happened to me since, has made me think that I was wrong about that forecast. But nothing has changed my determination to act as if I were wrong – if only because, in the last instance, men must act on what they believe right, not on what they believe probable.

For Whittaker Chambers, the strength to care enough to do the right thing, despite pain and almost certain defeat, came from his commitment to becoming like Christ.

The long defeat. Learning to care. Men acting on what they believe right. Genuine compassion. Willingness to sacrifice. It is all made possible by the extent to which we become imitators of Christ. For all of us who wish desperately that we might be granted the mercy of doing something good and meaningful in the world, but who know how unlikely it is, given our tendencies toward weakness and inertia, I think this simple little plea of a prayer is our best hope: Let my heart be broken with the things that break God’s heart.

“God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise.” Which means, He can make a Paul Farmer or a Whittaker Chambers out of me. I just have to seek Him first.