Soon after I made my “deal,” I began to ask the question, What is God like? I took classes and began to study the Hebrew Scriptures, listening to lectures and reading the books of the Torah—Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, and Deuteronomy—for myself. I skipped over the genealogies but could not get enough of the wisdom contained in the stories. I alternated between these and the New Testament stories of Jesus, also asking the question, Who is this? My appetite for wisdom grew, and soon I looked forward to taking time out of my schedule to read from the Bible. I would receive insights about my current circumstances and felt that God wanted to help me with his wisdom, which was far superior to my own. A new habit was forming, and after several weeks I truly enjoyed getting up early to spend the time in silence and solitude.
God came to a place of primacy in my life. As with any other relationship, the more time I spent with God, the more I got to know him—and not just as God the Father. Previously, my concept of Jesus had been that although he was a nice guy and loved children and the poor, he was unfortunately weak; it was his weakness that allowed the powerful people of his day to kill him. This is why I had been reluctant to follow Jesus before: I did not want to be weak, and I believed that Jesus had nothing of significance to say to a neurosurgeon like me who had the world at his disposal.
As I studied him now, I realized that Jesus had tremendous power, but what impressed me more was his restraint. He rarely used his power. I would have used that kind of power all the time, especially to heal people. I would have made myself a popular favorite as a healer—for the sake of healing but also in order that everyone would idolize and respect me. Just like the cure for cancer I wanted to discover—for the patients, of course, but also for myself. Jesus, on the other hand, was not trying to be famous or popular. He offended the people in control and broke their rules. I also saw something Jesus could do that I could not: love people who could do nothing for him. I generally cared for people when there was some benefit to me. I was nice to everyone, but Jesus actually saw value in everyone. I saw value primarily in the beautiful, the wealthy, and the intelligent. I would help the poor only as long as it was noticed by people I wanted to impress. I couldn’t remember doing anything for someone less fortunate without telling people about it. Jesus’ life shone a light on the gaping holes in my own.
Though I was going through a personal transformation, I still believed, stubbornly and arrogantly, that I didn’t need a church. I liked my individual approach. I didn’t see why church was necessary, at least for me. Playing volleyball or surfing was my “church.” There was also another reason I avoided it: fear. I was still living in my identity as a Jewish doctor. I still attended synagogue. I wanted to have a private relationship with God without threatening my professional reputation or my social relationships.
Over the next several years, the curious desire to attend a church became stronger. It humbled me. Finally, I summoned my nerve one Sunday morning and drove to a nearby church. I sat in the parking lot, consumed with fear. What if someone saw me? What would my colleagues say? What would the patients say who spoke to me as a Jewish doctor? I had never corrected them. To build up my courage, I repeated to myself, “I am a free man. It’s a free country. I will not live in fear of what others think—I am going in.” Pushing my fears aside, I walked in and participated in my first Christian church service in twenty years.
I thought I had been free by not being chained to church, but in reality I had been living in a prison of fear of what others would think or say. Even my choice of churches was based in fear: I chose one with a pastor who was a Messianic Jew, who believed that Jesus was the Jewish Messiah. That way I could claim that the pastor was Jewish if any of my Jewish colleagues confronted me about it.
I began attending church regularly. The fellowship with others who followed Jesus became an important part of my life. One day the reaction I had feared from my colleagues came. A physician who had invited me over to his house for Jewish holidays in the past called me to his office. He was older than I was and had always been kind to me. I respected and enjoyed him and his family. We were chatting about a patient we shared when suddenly he interjected, “I understand you have changed your religion.”
I was taken aback. He had obviously heard that I was attending church and was offended. There was an uncomfortable silence. I felt defensive, unsure what to say. This was the very situation I had been avoiding for twenty years.
I wish I had come up with something profound, even courageous. But like a scared schoolboy I blamed my mother.
“My mother is a Christian,” I said, shrugging my shoulders, embarrassed and seeking to deflect the accusation.
“What do you think?” he asked.
I still wanted to be invited for holidays and feel loved in the Jewish community, but I couldn’t betray my own conscience anymore. If I wanted freedom, I had to speak the truth.
“There is so much wisdom in the teachings of Jesus,” I said. “I have great respect and admiration for what he did and said, for the way he treated people.”
I was stalling. We both knew I hadn’t really answered his question. Then I found the courage of my father and continued, “I believe that Jesus is the Messiah.” I stated it with a new conviction that I was speaking the truth and that it would cost me, as it had cost my father. In that moment I knew I had altered my relationship with that physician and with many other people in my life forever. He looked chagrined but did not say anything. His message to me was clear: this was not okay with him. Our meeting came to an awkward end.
It wasn’t pretty, but somehow I had survived the kind of confrontation that had struck fear in my heart for decades. In the following months and years I was no longer invited to his home or to other Jewish homes on holidays, something I had long enjoyed. Of course, if my Jewish colleagues knew about my faith, it made no difference in our professional relationships within the hospital. On a personal level, though, some relationships turned distant. I felt the pain of these losses.
At the same time, I was experiencing the peace, energy, and freedom that come with integrity and authenticity. I had begun to break with past patterns of people pleasing and was learning to follow Jesus, who embodied authenticity and freedom. I was also learning that God has a purpose for every life—a purpose that may be vastly different and infinitely more worthwhile than the one we envision for ourselves.
Chapter 7
Forgiveness as a Cure
When I first began praying for patients, I had no idea that it would lead me to discover the power of forgiveness. The idea that bitterness was the source of health problems would not have made sense to me earlier in my career, but over time I became convinced that one of the greatest thieves of joy and health is the unwillingness to forgive the people who have hurt you.
I had confronted this lesson in my own life. After years of being critical, judgmental, and even envious of people I blamed for my shortcomings and failures, I came to realize that bitterness and envy were affecting my health and my enjoyment of life. When I forgave these people, I felt empowered to truly live. I became freer and happier, less driven to perform, less anxious, less insecure. As long as I held onto resentment, I felt compelled to achieve more and more in my field, mostly to prove that I was better than the people who had hurt me. The result was always dissatisfaction, no matter how much I succeeded in my professional life. When I forgave—beginning with my father but not stopping there—I ended this destructive cycle and began to change. It allowed me to see how to care for people in a new way, more selflessly than before.
I knew others needed to experience forgiveness as well, not just for psychological reasons but for psychosomatic ones. Emotions affect your immune system, for better or worse. Happiness heals like a medicine. Bitterness kills like a disease.12 Releasing bitterness can dramatically help the underlying causes of many physical ailments, often more than any pill or procedure. I began to see harboring bitterness and resentment like smoking cigarettes:
a lot of people smoke, but not every smoker gets lung cancer. Nevertheless, if you smoke, your doctor will ask you to stop. It is a deadly habit. In the same way I was convinced that resentment and bitterness caused some diseases outright and inhibited healing in others. I decided to bring it up with more patients and see what results I got.
I had no idea it would be so effective.
* * *
Ron was a tall, muscular man of about forty years, with cropped blond hair that suggested a military background. He worked for the U.S. Border Patrol, and he obviously lifted weights regularly. He wore a black T-shirt that revealed a massive chest and enormous arms, each the size of one of my legs.
Ron had a dangerous tangle of vessels in the dura mater, the covering of the brain. The technical term for his problem is dural arteriovenous fistula, or DAVF, which means there is a direct connection between the arteries and the veins in the brain. Normally, the two halves of the human circulatory system—the high-pressure arteries and the low-pressure veins—are kept apart by the much smaller capillaries. Capillaries act like transformers, stepping down pressure so that the arterial pressure doesn’t overload the veins. Sometimes, for reasons nobody understands, rogue vessels form directly between arteries and veins, often in groups of twenty or more, creating a nest of high-pressure, thin-walled vessels that bleed easily. These high-pressure arterial vessels overload the thin-walled veins, causing them to dilate and become congested and engorged. This can lead to seizures, bleeding, and other problems.
DAVFs are a major headache for my patients and for me.
Ron’s DAVF was causing him to hear the sound of rushing blood in his head, which was keeping him up at night. As he sat in my office, I explained his treatment options. Dural AVFs are complicated to fix because there are so many connections to block, and even getting into position to do the procedure can be difficult. He was quick to grasp everything I said and agreed with me that we should go forward with treatment. We scheduled the surgery for the next available date.
Before our appointment ended, I took the conversation in a different direction.
Ron had also complained of arthritis in his neck that was affecting his career and his enjoyment of life. He was unable to work because of neck pain and was out on disability. The arthritis was unrelated to his DAVF and is rare in people Ron’s age. I could not explain why this young and physically active man had such debilitating disease in his neck. When things don’t make sense to me, I begin to think about the possibility of emotional causes.
“Ron, there is something else I want to talk to you about,” I said, clearing my throat and calling forth my boldness. “I want to make sure that you have every chance of healing from the surgery, and that means having good emotional health as well. Emotions can significantly affect the health of our bodies, for good or ill. Stress, anger, and resentment can have powerful negative effects on the body,” I told him. “Bitterness is like an acid that eats its container.”
He raised an eyebrow.
With my heart pounding, I looked this massive man in the eye. “Is there anyone you have not been able to forgive?” I asked.
He looked directly at me now, stunned. His eyes grew big and serious. An angry look passed over his face. He opened his lips, but no sound came out.
I was scared. It was the first time I had asked this, and it represented a new frontier beyond prayer alone. I was convinced that some health problems are spiritual and emotional in nature, but I didn’t know which ones. Now I was testing the approach on a real, live patient—who happened to be about twice my size.
I studied Ron carefully. He had begun to puff up with emotion. It looked as if he was ready to launch out of the chair and come across the room at me. I scooted my rolling stool away from him, just to be safe, wondering why I was always pushing the limits and getting myself into new forms of trouble.
After a few long, painful seconds he deflated in his chair, dropped his head to his chest, and said something I didn’t expect.
“My mother.”
For a moment I thought I had misunderstood him. I was expecting him to say “father,” or maybe “drill sergeant.”
“Excuse me? I couldn’t hear you,” I said.
“My mother—I can’t stand my mother. We haven’t spoken in years,” he repeated.
This man, who looked every inch the fearless marine that he was, had just acknowledged being poisoned inwardly by bitterness toward his mother.
“Do you want to tell me about it?” I asked.
Without hesitation, he began to talk, describing a sad tale of abuse and abandonment by a number of different people. Ron had felt rejected when his mother did not take his advice and chose instead to remain with a physically abusive boyfriend, a man who had hit Ron as well.
I was in new territory here, but I knew where I wanted to go next.
“I can understand your feelings,” I said. “You have suffered injustice and you have every right to be angry. I do think that this is hurting your health and stealing much of the joy from your life. Bitterness is like poison that you swallow hoping that someone else dies. I am going to ask you to do something very courageous.”
I paused for a few moments.
“I think you need to forgive,” I said. “I don’t want to push if you are not ready to let it go, but if you are ready, I would be happy to help.”
He nodded.
“Yeah. What do I do?” he said.
“Do you have any religious background?”
“I was raised Baptist, but I left that long ago.”
“Do you have any problems with my using the name of Jesus?”
“No.”
“I like to use his name because he told us to forgive. He also loves to help us forgive, especially when it seems too difficult for us.”
“Okay.”
“Jesus made a very serious statement. He said that if we forgive others their offenses, God will forgive us. If we don’t forgive others their offenses against us, God will not forgive our offenses.”13
He looked genuinely surprised.
“I didn’t know that,” he said.
“I would like you to repeat a declaration of forgiveness. Think about what I am saying. If you agree, say it as your own words.”
“Okay.”
I began to declare, “I choose to forgive my mother for the things she did and didn’t do that hurt me. Specifically, I forgive her for . . . Now you continue. What do you want to forgive her for?”
Ron spoke. “I forgive her for making poor choices.”
As soon as the words left his mouth, he began to weep. I got up and scrambled to find a box of tissues.
“I forgive her for thinking only of herself and not her kids,” he continued. It was as if he’d been waiting to say it for years.
“I forgive her for drinking and not taking care of herself,” he said with fresh tears, “and for rejecting me and choosing her boyfriend over me.”
Ron went on to forgive his mother for not being there to support and help him when he needed her, and for emotionally and physically abandoning him. He was now crying so loudly that I hoped nobody in adjacent rooms or the waiting room could hear him. I handed him the whole box of tissues.
“Is there anything else you need to forgive her for?”
He thought a moment and wiped his eyes and nose.
“No, I think that’s it.”
“Would you like to ask God to forgive you for holding these feelings of resentment and bitterness against your mother?” I asked.
He was so ready that he didn’t wait for my words but offered his own.
“God, please forgive me for holding this bitterness toward my mother,” he said. It was as though a long silence between him and God had been broken. A sense of relief came over the room.
“If you have done anything that you would like forgiveness for,” I said, “God would love to forgive you.”
He nodded to affirm my words and asked God’s forgiveness for some of his own
failings.
“How can God forgive our sins?” I asked, drawing on Ron’s church background.
“Jesus,” he said simply.
“Would you like to thank him?” I asked.
“Thank you, Jesus,” he said. “Thanks for paying for my sins.”
We sat silently for a moment. I was still marveling at how the scene had played out.
“Very courageous,” I said. “How do you feel?”
He dried his eyes and looked up with a big smile on his face.
“I feel like calling my mother,” he said. “I can’t wait to talk to her. Doc, I feel great, like a brand new man.”
He hardly looked like the same individual who had walked in. His countenance had gone from stone to sunlight. There was a bounce in his step as we exited the exam room.
Three weeks later I operated on Ron. It was a difficult but successful procedure. It took six hours to plug up the large collection of arteries and veins that comprised the DAVF in his brain. Immediately after surgery he stopped hearing the annoying rushing sound, and we were both relieved. I saw him several times post-surgery, and he said his newfound joy was so strong that nothing could dampen it. He also said that the arthritis pain in his neck was so much better that he needed none of his pain medicine. He could hardly have been more different from the first time we’d met. He smiled constantly—it made me smile just to see him. His mother had recently turned her life around and had started attending church, and his family was planning a reunion. Much healing was taking place between her and previously estranged relatives.
This was my first experience with offering to help a patient forgive, and I have never seen a drug or an operation with that kind of transforming power. Forgiveness had turned a tough, angry, ex-marine into the portrait of childlike joy.
Gray Matter Page 11