Transcending divisions (my column in today’s Greenville News)

This is my column in today’s Greenville News.

 Acts of Altruism and Goodness Transcend our Divisions. 

http://www.greenvilleonline.com/article/20130505/OPINION/305050013/Ed-Leap-Acts-altruism-goodness-transcend-our-divisions?odyssey=mod|newswell|text|Opinion|s

 

We all love a good story because its lessons endure; it penetrates into our hearts and minds.  For example, you can sit and tell your child why love matters, about how night-time is bed-time and that he should close his eyes and to go to sleep.  But you’ll make your point more clearly if you hold your child while you read ‘Goodnight Moon,’ by Marjorie Wise Brown. ‘Goodnight moon, goodnight air, goodnight noises everywhere,’ is pure sleepy-time poetry.  You can also discuss the dangers of jealousy till your eyes turn green, but a reading of Othello really speaks volumes.

We have innumerable laws to stop violence, hatred and discrimination.  We condemn hateful  speech and teach kids about fairness and equality by using the jargon of politics and law.  We try to explain the value of altruism by framing it in evolutionary terms.  But a story does the job.  And what better story to teach us love than Jesus’ Parable of the Good Samaritan?

It’s a tale set in ancient times about a man who is beaten, stripped, robbed and left for dead on a lonely highway between Jerusalem and Jericho, and about the unlikely man who stops to help.  But it requires some context.  The road the two were traveling was known to be dangerous, a place for robbers.  Stopping to assist a half-dead stranger was not what our moms would call ‘a good decision.’ It was, in modern terms and ancient, a little crazy. The two main characters, one a Samaritan and one a Jew, came from common ancestors.  However they came from cultures that had great animosity towards one another, based on historical events.

If you don’t know the rest of the story, it’s like this:  after two influential religious men walk by and ignore the wounded fellow, the Samaritan stops to help him, puts his bloody, bruised form on a donkey, takes him to an inn and pays the inn-keeper to take care of the stranger.  Then he promises more payment later if the costs exceed the money he leaves.  Jesus asked his listeners, ‘which of them do you think was a neighbor to this man?’

This is a parable that we can adapt for our times with relative ease.  But it requires us to think differently, and especially to think differently about those we dislike, or even hate.  For instance, what if the the event happened in ‘the bad part of town,’ or at 3 am on a busy highway?  What if the wounded man was a known member of Westboro Baptist Church?  And what if the man who finally stopped was a soldier, a groups roundly condemned by the odd folks of Westboro?

What if the wounded man was a wildly popular atheist author and two preachers walked by.  What if only an elderly Sunday School teacher had the courage to stop?

What if three liberal college students stopped to look at the wounded man, who was an influential conservative talk radio host?  What if they wanted to help, individually, but each was too committed to their views to risk acting with kindness in plain view of the others?

What if the wounded man was a wealthy industrialist, and he was passed by a news reporter who hated him, but a Communist stopped to help?  What if a Jew stopped for a Muslim? What if a Muslim stopped for a Jew?  What if two politicians walked by but a homeless man stopped and draped his only coat over the victim?  Here’s ‘what if.’  They would become, in Jesus’ words, neighbors.  Sometimes we believe that we cannot love our enemies. This is because we think feelings must precede actions.   But it’s quite the opposite.  The Good Samaritan may not have felt love for the man he helped.  But he acted in love, because it was right.  If we do this sort of thing enough, we see what he saw; the scars and vulnerability of even our most bitter opponents.  If we do it enough, we will pay a price, in criticism, in danger, in money or health. And if we do it enough, we may see that we are as likely to be the wounded man, or the careless passerby, as we are to be the Samaritan ‘hero’ we’d like to be.

The story tells us the truth.  Our actions, our acts of altruism, kindness, mercy and goodness, are the essence of love and transcend divisions.  And that’s how enemies become neighbors in God’s eyes.

Hateful words do damage; my column in today’s Greenville News

This is my column in today’s Greenville News.

Hateful words do damage.

http://www.greenvilleonline.com/article/20130421/OPINION/304210012/Ed-Leap-Hateful-words-do-damage?odyssey=mod|newswell|text|Opinion|p

Recently, two deaths shed remarkable insight into the human capacity for cruelty and hatred.  Early this month Matthew Warren, the 27-year-old son of noted American pastor and author Rick Warren, died by his own hand.  He had suffered from lifelong depression and had received extensive professional care.  He apparently spent the day with his family then shot himself that night.

A few days later, Margaret Thatcher, the Iron Lady, former Prime Minister of Great Britain, passed away of a stroke at 87.  Her policies were polarizing, to say the least. Progressives hated her and conservatives adored her.

In the wake of both deaths, there were voices of sympathy and mourning.  Kind persons said they were sorry were for the families of these widely separated, unrelated persons; one a broken young man, the other a venerable world leader.

Of course, there’s another side.  The side that believes in kicking a family when it’s down. The side that is gleeful at the death of an ideological foe.  The side that ignores the old axiom, ‘don’t speak ill of the dead.’

In response to a USA Today column about Matthew Warren’s death, some left comments that saying there was no heaven or hell, so Matthew’s Parents would never see him again. Others attacked his father, suggesting the tragedy was a kind of  ‘just desserts’ because of his conservative theology, particularly his stance against same-sex marriage.  Another explained that the Warrens should simply abandon primitive superstitions like their faith.  Obviously, there were many kind comments, many heart-felt expressions of grief. But there were plenty who felt that this was the perfect time to launch a verbal and emotional assault on Rick Warren, his family and his faith.

Those thrilled with Thatcher’s demise asked fellow supporters to buy copies of Ding Dong the Witch is Dead from the Wizard of Oz, to propel it up the charts so that BBC Radio would have to play it on their weekly Official Charts Show.  Street parties celebrated her death and assorted online comments mocked her state funeral, saying that it should have been privatized ‘the way she would want it.’  Not surprising, since some British artists have hated her for so long.  In 1987, musician Elvis Costello released a song with these unfortunate lyrics about Margaret Thatcher:  ‘I’ll stand on your grave and stamp the dirt down.’

Fast forward to the horrors of this week’s Boston Marathon, where a terrorist bomb left three dead, hundreds injured (many critically) and resulted in some 30 amputations.  As a nation we shake our heads.  World leaders say how sorry they are.  Sympathetic persons overseas, in places like Baghdad, express their concern…they know a few things about bombs in crowded places.  We check the television and the Internet, waiting for what we hope is an answer, a suspect, any bit of information to put the pain and suffering into some kind of category.  Hoping at least for someone to blame; for some face to attach to our fears that we might also be in a crowd, one day, when suddenly flames and shrapnel erupt.  We know what, when and where. We want the other W’s. Who and why?

We can’t imagine that anyone could be so cruel.  Why hate that much?  Why would anyone need to detonate a bomb in a crowd?  Who could despise innocent people and murder them? Who could feel such hatred towards free people on a lovely day in a beautiful city?

Here’s the thing.  The Bible says ‘From the fullness of the heart the mouth speaks.’  History is clear; ideas become words and lead to actions.  If we can hate the mourning, if we can dance with joy at the death of legitimately elected leaders, how far is it to violence?  If we can speak cruelly to the suffering, if we can laugh at misery, if we can write lyrics celebrating death, how long until we can laugh as we cause suffering? Until we laugh in the face of the miserable, rather than hiding online?  How long until we feel fully justified killing the persons whose ways of life, ideas or goals we find reprehensible?

St. John, the disciple whom Jesus loved, said this in 1 John 3:15:  ‘Everyone who hates his brother is a murderer, and you know that no murderer has eternal life abiding in him.’  If he’s right, and I believe he is, the line between hateful words and nail-packed bombs may be thinner than we like to believe.

Christians! Allow your children to ask hard questions!

My wife and I have been going through the Focus on the Family Truth Project with our four children.  It’s heady material but extremely well done.  Even as it educates, it raises vital issues of philosophy and theology, too often ignored by evangelicals.

Let’s be honest.  As Christians, we prefer easy answers. The problem is that the questions of life, the really important questions, don’t lend themselves to easy answers.  Sure, we can say ‘because the Bible says so,’ or ‘it’s what Jesus wants.’  But that sort of answer does not prepare our children.  And it leaves them wandering aimlessly into ambush by the world and by academics, media figures and cultural icons who on the whole consider Christianity an antiquated faith of blathering idiots, if not a hateful faith of fundamentalists.  While neither of those are true, it is imperative that we not assume our children understand the truth.

So here is my advice to my fellow Christian parents:  If you want your children to be life-long believers, to follow a faith that is both glorious and difficult, heart-changing and mysterious, simple and often confusing, you have to let them ask hard questions without judgment.  And you owe it to them to give honest, well-researched answers instead of Sunday School platitudes.

You need to read to them and with them.  You MUST pray for wisdom and insight.  You need to explore apologetics along with science, history along with evangelism.  You need to read the Word of God and read the words of God’s saints.  Not just the latest offerings at Lifeway Christian Store, or the most recommended book from the biggest church.  Read some Augustine, and some Aquinus, some Polycarp and some Luther, some St. Francis and some Wilberforce, some Jonathon Edwards and some G.K.Chesterton, along with C.S.Lewis and George MacDonald.  My list is woefully inadequate.  But I’m trying to say this:  your children need you to understand the reasonable, rational, historical and eternal nature of their Faith.  And they need you to listen as they ask about right, wrong, good, bad, sin, evil, warfare, sex, sexuality, drugs and every other thing that crosses their paths.  And you can’t answer all of those things by simply reading the Sunday School material and hoping for the best.

Let’s reclaim knowledge and wisdom.  Let’s make our sons and daughters not only evangelists but thinkers, philosophers, theologians, thinkers!  If we do, they’ll turn the world upside down for God.

Or, since it’s already upside down, perhaps they’ll turn it right-side up.

Edwin

Easter morning brings unbelievably good news!

This is my Easter column in the Greenville News.  May you have a deeper understanding of the message of the resurrection of Jesus.

http://www.greenvilleonline.com/article/20130331/OPINION/303310014/Ed-Leap-morning-brings-unbelievably-good-news?odyssey=mod|newswell|text|Opinion|s

Easter Sunday is the day we too easily make Jesus the God of good people, the God of nice boys and girls and proper men and women, with freshly pressed clothes and baskets of candy, who go home for nice dinners.  The people who know all of the right Sunday-School answers to life’s questions.

However, having spent my medical career seeing a lot of wounded, broken people, I have a message this Easter, whether you’ll be in church or not; whether you’ll have chocolate bunnies or just be happy for food. Whether you have a new dress or an old pair of jeans.  Because the miracle of Easter is for all; and especially for those who are longing for hope and love.

Here’s what you need to know.  The resurrection was for ancient alcoholics and 21st century Methamphetamine addicts.  It was for the prostitutes of antiquity and the sex-workers of the Internet.  That magnificent event was meant to heal the bitter slave holders and oppressors of times past and the manipulative money-launderers of modern banking scams.  The Man from Galilee died for physical sicknesses of the past that left men and women beggars, and for the schizophrenia that leaves people babbling beneath underpasses today.  He died for the grief, depression and anxiety that we now treat only with pills and more pills.

Jesus’ act was for all.  For the Roman soldiers who crucified Him and for the terrorist bombers of our time.  It was for the poor and rich, for the starving and the obese. He died and rose for environmentalists and litterers, for progressives and fundamentalists.  It was for those whose sin is pride and for those whose pride was long ago lost in professional failure.  It was for those who rob from the poor, and for the vicious poor who use poverty as an excuse to steal and murder.  It was for the married and divorced, the widowed and the engaged, the orphan and the beloved son or daughter.  It is for the believer, but it remains available for the ones who can’t believe; at least not yet.

Jesus came for scientists and simpletons; for academics and tradesmen.  He made no difference between them, for all were ultimately in need of the same saving work.  He came for the religious leaders who condemned him, for wayward pastors, embezzling televangelists, abusive priests, patient missionaries, non-committed universalists and the martyred founders of the Church.  Indeed, He came to give the same clarity to all.  The clarity that He was the way and that by believing and seeking Him they could find their longings answered and be re-born in Him and in His love.  His intent was for His followers to continue in kind, and embrace everyone else with the love they received, offering them not sterile, disinterested ‘tolerance,’ but much more.  They were to spread His offer of healing, forgiveness, redemption, transformation and eternal life.

Consider this.  In an age of endless demographic groups used for politics and marketing, there is no demographic for whom Jesus did not die and live again.  There is no sin or affliction, no shame or personal abuse, no history, no wound, no lie, no faithlessness, no cruelty endured or inflicted that did He did not take to the cross.  Nothing, and no person, that He neglected in His universe changing, soul-saving, death-ending, time-shattering, sin-atoning act.

This is harder for us to accept that we might like to admit.  It’s one thing for Jesus to die and return for me; but quite another that he did it for someone I dislike, disdain or with whom I share no commonality.  And yet, that is the salient point.  The bruised, bloodied and resurrected point.  He is our commonality, who unites us in redeeming our common sin.

Whomever we are, we bring our wounds and sins to this new day, this resurrection day; sometimes hidden beneath our pinks, greens and blues, suppressed (even in church) by the right words and smiles.  Happily, whatever we woke up bearing, whatever personal agony, whatever tomb we seem to dwell in or be destined for, this morning there is unbelievable news.

Jesus took our place, Jesus took our pain and guilt and sorrow and fear.  Jesus took our disease and wounds and very mortality and condemnation up to the cross, down to the grave, and left it behind.  And whatever we are, or did, or bear upon us, these words remain relevant.

He is risen.  So are we if only we desire and accept.

 

This morning brings unbelievably good news! Happy Easter!

This morning brings unbelievably good news!

My column in today’s Greenville News.

http://www.greenvilleonline.com/article/20130331/OPINION/303310014/Ed-Leap-morning-brings-unbelievably-good-news?odyssey=mod|newswell|text|Opinion|p

Easter Sunday is the day we too easily make Jesus the God of good people, the God of nice boys and girls and proper men and women, with freshly pressed clothes and baskets of candy, who go home for nice dinners.  The people who know all of the right Sunday-School answers to life’s questions.

However, having spent my medical career seeing a lot of wounded, broken people, I have a message this Easter, whether you’ll be in church or not; whether you’ll have chocolate bunnies or just be happy for food. Whether you have a new dress or an old pair of jeans.  Because the miracle of Easter is for all; and especially for those who are longing for hope and love.

Here’s what you need to know.  The resurrection was for ancient alcoholics and 21st century Methamphetamine addicts.  It was for the prostitutes of antiquity and the sex-workers of the Internet.  That magnificent event was meant to heal the bitter slave holders and oppressors of times past and the manipulative money-launderers of modern banking scams.  The Man from Galilee died for physical sicknesses of the past that left men and women beggars, and for the schizophrenia that leaves people babbling beneath underpasses today.  He died for the grief, depression and anxiety that we now treat only with pills and more pills.

Jesus’ act was for all.  For the Roman soldiers who crucified Him and for the terrorist bombers of our time.  It was for the poor and rich, for the starving and the obese. He died and rose for environmentalists and litterers, for progressives and fundamentalists.  It was for those whose sin is pride and for those whose pride was long ago lost in professional failure.  It was for those who rob from the poor, and for the vicious poor who use poverty as an excuse to steal and murder.  It was for the married and divorced, the widowed and the engaged, the orphan and the beloved son or daughter.  It is for the believer, but it remains available for the ones who can’t believe; at least not yet.

Jesus came for scientists and simpletons; for academics and tradesmen.  He made no difference between them, for all were ultimately in need of the same saving work.  He came for the religious leaders who condemned him, for wayward pastors, embezzling televangelists, abusive priests, patient missionaries, non-committed universalists and the martyred founders of the Church.  Indeed, He came to give the same clarity to all.  The clarity that He was the way and that by believing and seeking Him they could find their longings answered and be re-born in Him and in His love.  His intent was for His followers to continue in kind, and embrace everyone else with the love they received, offering them not sterile, disinterested ‘tolerance,’ but much more.  They were to spread His offer of healing, forgiveness, redemption, transformation and eternal life.

Consider this.  In an age of endless demographic groups used for politics and marketing, there is no demographic for whom Jesus did not die and live again.  There is no sin or affliction, no shame or personal abuse, no history, no wound, no lie, no faithlessness, no cruelty endured or inflicted that did He did not take to the cross.  Nothing, and no person, that He neglected in His universe changing, soul-saving, death-ending, time-shattering, sin-atoning act.

This is harder for us to accept that we might like to admit.  It’s one thing for Jesus to die and return for me; but quite another that he did it for someone I dislike, disdain or with whom I share no commonality.  And yet, that is the salient point.  The bruised, bloodied and resurrected point.  He is our commonality, who unites us in redeeming our common sin.

Whomever we are, we bring our wounds and sins to this new day, this resurrection day; sometimes hidden beneath our pinks, greens and blues, suppressed (even in church) by the right words and smiles.  Happily, whatever we woke up bearing, whatever personal agony, whatever tomb we seem to dwell in or be destined for, this morning there is unbelievable news.

Jesus took our place, Jesus took our pain and guilt and sorrow and fear.  Jesus took our disease and wounds and very mortality and condemnation up to the cross, down to the grave, and left it behind.  And whatever we are, or did, or bear upon us, these words remain relevant.

He is risen.  So are we if only we desire and accept.

 

Request from readers

Dear friends, dear readers,

You are very important to me!  In modern writer terms, you are my ‘tribe.’  Given that fact, I’m working on a project and I need your input.  Can you tell me the top five to ten (more or less) columns of mine that have meant the most to you?  Columns that have been entertaining, touching, relevant or educational?

I’m not looking for praise, mind you, but I want to put together a packet of my best works.

I need your input here, so any and all comments are appreciate!

Edwin

PS  I’ll keep you posted as it moves along.

Reading to your children will change their lives

This is my column in today’s Greenville News.  Read to your kids!

http://www.greenvilleonline.com/article/20130303/OPINION/303030006/Reading-your-children-will-change-their-lives?odyssey=mod|newswell|text|Opinion|s

I love bedtime.  As a husband and father, it’s just a time of absolute wonder.  Life winds down in the evenings.  The sun sets, the children slow down and become quiet. Even teens are less active; their texting fingers weary from constant communication.

The cats settle into the window-boxes, flower-free for the winter.  Weary dogs stretch out on the lawn, or in their large house under the porch as bold rabbits run across the yard in the twilight.  Or maybe, its a kind of truce, ‘live and let live.’  Quiet descends on our hilltop house as the sun slips past the Blue Ridge.

But my favorite part of bedtime has always been the time I read to my children. We’ve read board books and fairy tales, nursery rhymes and other poems.  We’ve shared Bible readings, myths and novels.  I’ve read the Book of Virtues, tongue twisters by Dr. Seuss, poems by Shel Silverstein and Edgar Guest and everything in between.

I found that bedtime reading was my time with the children.  Jan had spent the day with them and sometimes wanted a little well-earned mama time.  The books, the stories, were my special domain.  I would say ‘time to read!’  And as soon as I sat on the floor, a child was on my lap and the others crowded around, ready to hear another installment, a new book or an encore of a well-loved tale.

It served many functions.  First, when we read to someone we love, there is a kind of wonderful intimacy. Words are sacred and the passage of ideas, in the form of beautifully wrought words, is a kind of sacrament.

Reading to the children was also a time of learning.  Whatever the age, reading was a chance to comment on stories and characters, to shape their ideas of right and wrong. To hold forth, gently, subtly, on morality and virtue.  It was also a way to teach them pronunciation, vocabulary, syntax.  A time for me to read, and for them to read to me in due course.

It was a time for them to learn what genre’s of literature they loved, and to hear classic stories and poems from our culture and a few others as authors from exotic lands, with strange stories, visited us.  In essence, bedtime reading is a time in which the hearts and minds of children can be shaped and made both beautiful and useful.  A time to become civilized in pajamas. And a perfect segue to a night of dreams.

At Christmas I noticed many ads for books that would read to children.  Since then, I recently saw a commercial in which the mother of a toddler reveled in her peaceful cup of coffee, as her child watched his favorite video on her phone, over and over.  These technological developments are fascinating, but a little sad.  Whose schedule is so restrictive that they can’t read to their children, at least a little?  Unless afflicted by physical limitations or the inability to actually read (which is still a problem, though relatively uncommon in America ), every parent can make time to read, in the morning or evening or afternoon. We spend enormous amounts of time on worthless websites, toxic television shows and communicating nonsense on social media sites.  Surely, everyone can pick up a book, plop a child on his or her lap, and tell a tale

My children now spend far more time reading on their own. I can’t keep up with their reading, in fact, as they turn the tables and bring books to me that I should read, just as I still do to them.  Novels and science, short stories and theology, we read and recommend, and point out favorite quotes.

I still read to the kids some evenings. They are beyond laps, but their minds and hearts are still growing.  I still have nutrition to give their souls.  There are things for me to interpret for them, as their ideas mature. Sometimes what I read leads to discussions, or friendly arguments. But they still benefit.    Just as I benefit from their fresh visions.  It’s Socratic now; reading is more dialogue and less lecture.

I watch the news.  I contemplate the terrors, tragedies, dysfunction and disarray that stalk the world today.  But I can’t help thinking that far more than any law or program, the lives of generations could be permanently elevated for the cost of a few books, and a few minutes every night, spent reading.

 

 

The New Religion of Narcotics

I just finished reading Neil Gaiman’s fascinating novel, Gods of America.  Here’s a link to it on Amazon.  http://www.amazon.com/American-Gods-Authors-Preferred-Text/dp/0062080237/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1362266866&sr=8-1&keywords=American+Gods  I first learned about his work by watching the movie Stardust, then reading the novel.

One of the themes of Gods of America is that the deities of the old world came to America in the hearts of their followers, but over time lose their followers and thus their power.  A war is arranged between the ‘old gods,’ and the new ones that Americans have instituted.  In the story, media, technology, entertainment and others are the new deities for a new age.

I thought about it as I considered my work.  It seems that every day of my life is an endless discussion about narcotics in the emergency department.  Or is it a kind of liturgy to another new god?

‘Can’t I get no Lortabs?’

‘I can’t take Percocet, all I can take is Dilau, Dilaud, what is it called? Dilaudid? I don’t know anything about those drugs, you know!’

‘I’m allergic to the 5mg Vicodin, but I can take the 1omg Vicodin just fine!’

‘Somebody stole my Fentanyl patches and my Morphine pills, and all of my Oxycontin and all I have left is my Methodone, and I only have a few but I don’t see the pain doctor for another month. Now what am I supposed to do, doctor, just suffer?’

‘My nerves are torn up.  I’m out of Xanaxes and my brother’s friends came over and stole all of my Klonopin and Valium!  Sure, I still got some Ativan, but look at how I’m shaking!  Oh, and I’m out of Suboxone.’

‘See, doctor, I have the degenerating disc disease.  I guess I’ve had chronic back pain since I was, oh, 14.  That’s ten years I’ve suffered!  Nobody will do anything for me, so I just take pain pills wherever I can get them.  Can I get some Percocet?’

I could go on.  It’s dialog in a bad novel.  It’s a sonnet to somnolence.  It’s an endless homage to anesthesia.  It’s all but worship.

So it must be a religion.  The people I see are worshippers of pain medication and anxiety medication.  Or maybe, they worship pain and anxiety, and the offer up the drugs to their deities.  Or perhaps they are slipping into amazing dream states, sleeping all the time, and having ephiphanies of wonder and delight.  Scratch that.  They’re dreaming of television and snack food. Of reality shows and disability payments.

And the object, or objects of their worship are taking a terrible toll in lives lost, as epidemic prescription drug abuse sweeps across the land.  (http://oxywatchdog.com/category/surveys-statistics/.)  It’s enabled by a culture that in its own way worships disability and victimization, incapacity and the medicalization of all things.

It makes sense, really.  We cannot possibly suggest that anyone isn’t telling the truth, because a) truth is relative and defined by each person and b) to suggest that would be poor customer service, or discrimination or to be ‘judgmental.’   Furthermore, we reject anything that might suggest an individual take responsibility, or make good moral decisions because morality is relative and faith is irrelevant.

Thus, the internal discord and evil and even legititimate suffering of the human heart must be medical, must be made somatic and mechanistic so that it can be treated mechanistically, and so that no one need concern themselves with uncovering the layers of difficulty and untruth in the human heart, no one need ask hard questions or suggest that one may have guilt or fear for good reasons.  All we want to do is call it a ‘pain’ and offer it a ‘pill.’

Well there you are, America.  We worship at the feet of pain and pills.  We offer our young and our old and our middle aged and vital to the sleepy gods who accomplish so little and cost so much and offer only restless dreams and ultimately breathless deaths.

I will not worship them.  I hate them.  But I acknowledge their power.

Edwin

‘Scripting.’ Yet another scourge on medicine and nursing.

This is my March EM News column, regarding the mandatory scripting of patient encounters. 

 

Our nurses will soon have ‘scripting’ guidelines for their interactions with patients.  This is apparently widespread in many industries.  The idea being, patients will be more satisfied with their care if certain key phrases are repeated to them; phrases which might, possibly, just maybe find their way onto satisfaction surveys.  Wink, wink!

Whether I will have to engage in this tawdry bit of theater remains to be seen.  But bless the nurses and clerical staff!  Here are the early scripts, printed on yet another laminated card to go with the other assorted cards all the staff wear with their ID badges (predicted to weigh at least 5 pounds in total policy reminders before long):

 

“Hello, I’m (name, occupation)”

 

“I’m here to (Meds, Procedures, Clean)”

 

“Is there anything else I can do for your?”

 

Key words:  Safety, Privacy, Care

 

Our nurses and secretaries are wonderful people, and might have had careers in Hollywood if things had gone differently.  But one of the last things they really want to do is act.  Nevertheless,

I know the game.

Someone will read this and think that I’m a Luddite, a curmudgeon, a stick in the mud of progress.  Others will say, as they do about every new customer service initiative, federal ruling, Joint Commission rule or state nursing board policy: ‘It’s only a little thing, so stop being a baby and get with the times.  Sheesh!’

Indeed.  It may be the case.  Only today I was reminded, in a meeting about STEMI, that my group is tragically, woefully lax.  We are failing to use a key phrase that explains why thrombolytics might be given instead of percutaneous intervention.  In order to meet quality indicators (and get paid appropriately), we must write, in the chart, the following magical incantation:  ‘The patient received thrombolytics because his time to cath lab would exceed 90 minutes.’

Silly, lazy doctors, trying valiantly to reach the bedside and touch a patient, make a good decision and save a life when we could be populating data fields!  Bad, bad doctors!  To quote Monty Python and the Holy Grail:  ‘You must spank us!  Yes, spank us all!’  I digress.

Let me bring it round again.  Scripts are about patient satisfaction scores, which remain quite the rage despite some rather damning suggestions that they might not be good for doctors or patients.  Scripts come to us from firms hired, using hospital budgets, to teach us how to increase satisfaction scores in order to put more money in the budget…and on and on it goes.  How much we lose on consultants in order to make enough increased money to pay for consultants is a bit of a mystery to me.

Still, progress marches forward.  So let me suggest how I might find scripts useful:

 

‘Hello, I’m Dr. Leap.  I’m here to take care of you while you’re sick, not do data entry.  Is that OK with you?’  Key words:  care, sick, data.

 

‘Hello, I’m Dr. Leap.  I’m here to preserve your airway and rescue you from your own alcohol toxicity. Is that OK?  Is there anything else I can do for you?  Sorry, I can’t understand when you vomit.’  Key words:  airway, sick, alcohol, toxicity, data, scores…vomit.

 

‘Hello, I’m Dr. Leap.  I’m here to decide if your pain score is really a ten, since you look uninjured. Is there anyone I can go ahead and call to take you home?’  Key words:  ten, uninjured, call, home.

 

‘Hello, I’m Dr. Leap.  The last time you were here you stole an entire drawer of dressings and a dirty needle box.  I’m here to report that.  Is there a parole officer I can call for you?’  Key words:  stole, drawer, needle, parole.

 

‘Hello, I’m Dr. Leap, I’m here to commit you to a psychiatric hospital to help you obtain disability at 30.  Is there anything else I can give you besides my time and my tax dollars to help perpetuate your life of inactivity?’  Key words: commit, psychiatric, disability, 30, tax, inactivity.

 

‘Hello, I’m Dr. Leap.  I’m here to ease your suffering, my dear, stoic little lady.  Whatever you need is fine.  Is there anyone bothering you because I will shut them down!’ Key words:  suffering, dear, stoic.

 

‘Hello, I’m Dr. Leap, I’m here to find out why you’re smoking in the emergency department, and ask you to leave.  Is there any way I can make that happen faster?’  Key words: smoking, leave.

 

‘Hello, I’m Dr. Leap.  I’m here to explain to you that you can’t speak to our nurses that way.  Is there a bar of soap I can shove in your gullet, you nasty man?’  Key words: nurses, speak, soap, gullet, nasty.

 

‘Hello, I’m Dr. Leap.  I’m here to explain to you that you will not be receiving Valium, Ativan, Klonopin or Xanax for your panic attack.  Just like the last four times.  Can I get you a cup of coffee with caffeine?  Key words: Valium, Ativan, Klonopin, Xanax…not.

 

‘Hello, I’m Dr. Leap.  I’m here to protect you from your neglectful parents, little one.  Would you like a coloring book?  Look!  Your parents are too busy texting to hear us talk!  Funny, funny parents in orange jump-suits!’  Key words:  neglect, parents, little one, texting, orange jump-suit.

 

‘HELLO, I’M DOCTOR LEAP!  I DON’T SPEAK YOUR LANGUAGE.  I’LL FIND SOMEONE WHO DOES, OR A TELEPHONE!  IS THAT OK?  IS THERE ANYTHING YOU NEED?  Key words:  LANGUAGE LINE!

 

‘Hello, I’m Dr. Leap.  I’m here to talk to you, not to text you.  Let me know when you put it down.  Is there any other means of communication I can get for you?  Until then, I’ll ignore you.’  Key words:  text, communication, ignore.

 

“Hello, I’m Dr. Leap.  I’m a health-care professional who does great job.  I won’t always follow the script, but then, you won’t always follow the text-book.  I’ll do my best.  If you’re unhappy, tell me and we’ll work it out.  But let’s not play word silly games.  Let’s make you better, shall we?”

Key words:  professional, better, best.

 

Silly game.

 

PS  Send me some samples of your own scripting!  If we have enough, we can write a screen-play!

 

Cataracts and clear vision

I had my second cataract surgery today.  I tolerated it for about two years, but it just became too difficult to see.  I was, essentially, using my good eye for everything.  I became pretty adept at mono-vision, thank you very much.  But enough was enough.  Jan finally wearied of watching me hold things too close, or fiercely squint at the television.

Cataract surgery is surreal.  I lay there, fully awake, as my eye was prepped, anesthetized, opened and the cataract vibrated into tiny bits then gently removed.  Before I knew it, I had a shiny new lens where before I was seeing the world through cellophane; wrinkled at that.

When I left the surgery center, it was with a face painted in yellow betadine, and enormous black, wrap-around sunglasses.  I had to stop and wait in Wal-Mart while my wife and kids helped load boxes for our church food-bank.

There I sat, 48 years old, sitting in giant wrap-around glasses, waiting on the bench just inside Wal-Mart, an unlikely impersonator of a retiree (with all due respect).  The only thing lacking was any sort of anesthesia hangover.

It’s about 12 hours after my surgery now.  My vision is remarkable.  Despite a little swelling and blurring, to be expected, I have clear sight where before there were blurry shapes.

Oh, I have been the recipient of gifts.  The gift of my wife Jan and her concern. The gift of access to a skilled surgeon(thanks to Dr. Scott Massios of Blue Ridge Eye Center in Seneca, SC) .  The gift of technology that is, in its own way, a kind of miracle; diffused slowly through science rather than suddenly via Messiah or saint.  Miraculous nonetheless.

And I have the gift of insight and new sight.  While I’ll need reading glasses for life, while I had to undergo surgery, I know what it is not to see.  I comprehend the blurring uncertainty of bad vision.  I grasp the spiritual metaphor as well.

The Bible says it so beautifully in 1 Corinthians 13:  ‘for now we see through a glass darkly, but then face to face.’  You can also understand that to say, ‘but then with utter clarity.’

Of course, John Newton had a similar experience, whether or not the old redeemed slaver ever had cataracts.  ‘Amazing grace how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me.  I once was lost but now I’m found, was blind but now I see.

In the end, our physical ailments are perhaps best understood as the hammers and chisels that shape and carve away the excess and unsightly, and give us the eternal shape hidden beneath by our artist.  Or, more to the current point, they are the scalpels that remove the blindness from our eyes forever.

If I gain nothing else from my cataract surgeries, that is enough.

A snowstorm brings the gifts of solitude and silence

A snowstorm brings the gifts of solitude and silence

This is my column in today’s Greenville News.  Happy Winter!

http://www.greenvilleonline.com/article/20130217/OPINION/302170007/Ed-Leap-Snowstorm-brings-gift-solitude-silence

When I was in medical school in West Virginia, I was also in the Air National Guard.  One drill weekend, when I was scheduled to drive to my unit, a blizzard blew into town. And I mean the real kind, officially designated by the weather service and properly pedigreed.

I had every legitimate reason to call my Chief Master Sergeant, explain the situation, and stay in Morgantown, tucked in my apartment.  I didn’t.  I decided that I had to make the three and a half hour drive.  Was I patriotic?  Yes.  Was my girlfriend, and current wife, also at the end of the drive? Absolutely.

So off I went, in my little red Dodge hatch-back.  I slid into a guard-rail on the way out of town,  but the damage was cosmetic.  I continued on my way. The snow was thick, and the wind blew it in great gusts across I-79.  It piled up along the way, and at various points I recall that it was difficult to see the lights in business by the side of the road, difficult to make out the lights of other vehicles.  I could barely see road signs until I was very nearly next to them.  I drove behind, and by, snow plows and salt trucks.

As I drove further on my journey, I saw fewer and fewer vehicles, testament to the potential of the storm.  I pulled over at a fast-food restaurant for a break.  My hair and coat were wet with snow just from the walk into the building.  I grabbed a large Coke and a snack, then settled back into my car.

Not much further down the road, I spilled the entire drink in my lap; a sure way to stay awake when it’s below freezing and snow is swirling all about.  I stopped, next, at a shopping center and changed clothes.  Just in time, because wise managers were sending employees home for their safety.  Foolish and intrepid, I pressed on, my clothes dry and my drink refilled.

In the end, it took about six hours or more to reach home.  I made it to drill, and I visited with Jan.  It was a foolish, wonderful, thing to do, traveling in weather like that.  If my children did it, I’d be furious, and worried.  And at least they would have cell-phones, which of course almost no one had then.

But there was something about it that I can’t describe.  There was a beauty in that snow, that solitude, that uncertainty.  Maybe it was spending so much time with so many people in classes and in the hospital.  Maybe it was that fact that as a child, I liked to wander in snowy woods alone, and hide in snow-banks, listening to the wind in the trees.  Sometimes, loneliness is just the ticket.

A few weeks ago I was traveling in Indiana.  A snow-storm came up as I drove towards Evansville.  It was just a few flakes in Louisville.  But as I drove west on I-64, the flakes became more frequent, and ultimately, the roads became slick, the lights dimmed by the enveloping white.  Finally, the snow was blowing horizontally across the road, and cars were fewer.  I found my way to my hotel and settled in for the night.

Mind you, I had a cell-phone, and a more reliable (and likely safer) vehicle than back in my medical school days.  And I’m a better driver than I was then.  And unfortunately, I was driving away from my wife and children, rather than towards them.  But there was a similar emotion, a familiar sense of delight.

The highways of the Midwest are long and often straight.  Even when they snake up and down hills, their vistas are impressive.  Seeing the snow come across those highways, seeing the black clouds coalesce, sitting quietly in my car with the dash-board lights and radio, well that was a kind of quiet treasure; a gift of travel and solitude.

But it’s a gift we rarely receive these days.  Our phones are never at rest, and never leave us at rest. Screens are everywhere, in offices and waiting rooms, in homes and even in vehicles.  We clamor for more information, more entertainment, more people, more connection.  The lights of social media are never dimmed by weather.

It’s a pity, because solitude is often magnificent.  And silence is spiritual.  And few things bring them together like driving alone in a snowstorm.

 

 

 

 

Yes I do need a night capacity magazine. Here’s why!

Yes I do need a hight capacity magzine.  Here’s why!

 

Who needs a high capacity magazine? Who needs a weapon capable of firing more than ten rounds?  These questions echo across the airwaves and in the pages of magazines, newspapers, blogs and every conceivable outlet.  Well guarded politicians and cultural figures wring their hands in safety and newspaper offices post guards as they debate the merits of regular people with scary weapons.

For what it’s worth, I don’t like the tactic of anyone appealing to what I ‘need.’  It conveys a false concern at best, and at worst a terrible paternalism; the sort of paternalism that the American Left has railed against for decades, whenever fathers told daughters, husbands told wives, churches told believers or government told citizens what they should ‘need.’  But now, it’s positively fashionable to tell gun owners what they do, or don’t, need.

So, since ‘need’ is all the rage, let me explain why we ‘need’ those magazines and those rifles and handguns that use them.

First, our Leftist friends have been misled by media.  I fear that they believe the movies and television shows in which the intrepid, rebellious, foul-mouthed detective always comes out smiling when he uses his snub-nosed .38 caliber revolver to take down bad-guys with automatic weapons.  He pushes the female lead out of the way and fires a snap-shot at the roof-line, and Voila!  The cartel member with the AK-47, 100 yards away, plummets to the ground.  He was dead before he fell.

In short, gun-control advocates like to think that every gunshot wound is the end for the person shot. However, let me lay a little medicine down.  It isn’t true.  While being shot is sometimes fatal, very often it isn’t.  And even if it is ultimately, the ‘shootee’ often has time to a) call 911 for help b) drive away or c) continue to do terrible things to the object of his or her rage and violent impulses.

Many years ago I was privileged to help teach a class on wounding.  The students were a sniper class, which was mixture of city police officers, FBI hostage rescue team members and SEAL team members.  I was an emergency medicine resident then, and it was a hoot.  They were some of the nicest people I had ever met, and after the talk my fellow instructor and I were allowed to ‘play’ with their toys,  such delightful treasures as suppressed sub-machine guns and sniper rifles.  It was, in short, a gun-lover’s dream come true.

But before we went to the range we discussed some important points.  Mainly, for a shot to be instantly incapacitating, it has to do one of three things.  It must either cause complete vascular collapse; for instance, it must cause the heart to cease to function or a large blood vessel like the aorta to be penetrated and cause sudden, massive hemorrhage.  Or, it can strike the central nervous system in such a way that complete neurologic incapacitation occurs.  For instance, it must strike the brain-stem, which is the lower portion of the brain behind the mouth and ears.  If this happens, the heart stops beating and breathing ceases.  Other brain shots may, or may not, immediately incapacitate the individual so injured.  Finally, the wound can cause sudden structural failure; for instance, shattering a femur or pelvis, or shooting away a spinal segment that causes the individual to be unable to support his or herself.

Short of these situations, a person may be shot and continue to fight, continue to kill, well after a wound is inflicted.  The FBI learned this the hard way in Florida, in 1986, when agents found their service weapons inadequate in the fight against two bank robbers, resulting in the deaths of two agents, and ultimately of both criminals.  And in the re-arming of the entire agency.

Now, the average person defending hearth and home may be able to inflict a fatal wound on an assailant. But their odds go up dramatically with a larger number of rounds fired.  Five or six rounds from a revolver might look good in a Western, but the Duke is gone (rest his soul) and Jose Wales has retired, and it’s up to regular folks to do the work of protecting the ranch from marauders.  A rifle with ten, twenty or thirty rounds available might be necessary.

Why is this?  In part, it’s because the kind of practice necessary to make those incredible, one shot incapacitating wounds is not easy to get.  Life is busy.  Suburban and urban shooters can’t go into their back yards and fire off rounds the way rural dwellers, like me, can.  And it requires good coaching from skilled teachers.  A Marine marksman or sniper takes time to create.  In fact, one reason the M-16, and its civilian brother the AR-15, came into the US military arsenal is that it is easier to give soldiers a light weapon, with light ammo and lots of it, capable of semi-automatic and (for the military) automatic fire, than it is to train them to be long-range marksmen.

In addition, those well-placed shots are difficult because of duress.  As an emergency physician, I’ll attest to the fact that stress makes seemingly simple physical skills more difficult.  So when we are afraid, when we are stressed, when we are worried about protecting our spouses and children, when we are fearful for our own lives, it can be tough to keep that weapon on target.  Tough to get the correct sight picture.  Tough to pull that trigger without moving the barrel too much.  Thus, having extra rounds is a good thing, not a bad thing, for lawful citizens.  The police understand this.  Most city and county police officers are no more at war than the people they protect.  But they want weapons that can fire lots of bullets.  Even they are subject to the vagaries of training and the physiology of stress.

But there’s more.  Drugs, and even alcohol, change the equation.  Having seen a 90 pound woman on drugs bite and kick her way through several security guards, having seen the crazy look in the eye of quietly menacing mental health patients whose violent impulses are escalating, having met people in custody for murder and rape, having lived in a county where home invasions have resulted in terrible deaths, I feel that I can safely say that while the world has lots of good people, bad people are more dangerous than ever.  Not only so, home invasions are often accomplished by more than one assailant.  Bad guys have no sense of honor, and aren’t interested in even odds.  More than one bullet, more than one magazine, may be necessary. Especially for those who live in areas further from police protection.

In addition, as drug addiction rises not only to Methamphetamine but to narcotics like Vicodin, Klonopin, Oxycontin, Fentanyl, Morphine and everything else imaginable, (including ever new drugs like Bath Salts being manufactured in clandestine labs), people become more desperate than ever to feed their addictions. They rob pharmacies and break into homes.  They steel from the chronically ill and the dying and they will not hesitate to kill you to obtain money or drugs.  And if you doubt me, ask your friendly local narcotics officer, ER nurse, physician or paramedic about the level of crazy out there these days.

Finally, however, there’s another reason.  You see, we now live and move in a world in which we have ceased to believe in right or wrong.  A society that rejects not only God but natural law; that finds it moralizing or fundamentalist to suggest that we inflect (God forbid) our values on young minds.  Far better if Hollywood (known for its peaceful, gun-free films), or college professors teach our young how to behave.  Well we have sown the wind, and now reap the whirlwind.

The Left has won the debate over morals so far.  They are busily expunging faith from the public square and happily teaching the young that the individual is the only arbiter of right and wrong.    My liberal friends, you got it.  The least you can do for creating generations of violent criminals with no fear of God or man is to allow the rest of us the tools with which to defend ourselves.

In all honestly, I don’t have a black rifle with all the protruding bits that give Leftists nightmares. But if, and when, the price ever drops again, and ammunition and magazines are available again, (thank you Mr. President for stimulating that bit of the economy!) I’ll likely buy one.

Because I do, in fact, need a high capacity magazine.  If you don’t want one, don’t bother.  But my life, and the lives of my wife and children, are worth protecting in the best way I know how.  And as far as I’m concerned, if I should have to protect them with a firearm, I want lots of bullets; which translates into lots of reasons for addicts, psychopaths and every other dangerous nut to leave me alone.  And if they won’t, lots of chances to make them drop where they stand.  That’s what I need.

What you need is for you to decide.

 

When leading is following; my latest EM News column.

Here is my latest column in Emergency Medicine News.  I hope you enjoy it!

http://journals.lww.com/em-news/Fulltext/2013/02000/Second_Opinion__When_Leading_is_Following.8.aspx

My wife just built a pergola in our yard.  Mind you, a pergola is a thing I never knew existed until it was pointed out to me by my darling.  If I had been asked, ‘what do you think of her pergola,’ I might have thought, ‘well, it certainly fills out that dress nicely,’ or perhaps, ‘I remember that from pathology.  It incubates for four weeks, causes fever and weeping skin sores and is common in the Pacific islands.’

Turns out it’s that structure you see in elegant yards, or in the sacred pages of our Dixie Holy Book, Southern Living.  A pergola is the wooden framed structure that ladies of taste have in their yards, and on which assorted vines grow for shade, and beneath which said ladies and their charming children have cakes and lemonade in oppressive summer heat.  Incidentally, I have explained to my wife that Southern Living is merely house porn…images of things that one desires but which do not actually appear in nature and which are not actually available to mere mortals.  I now stand corrected, though our pergola may have wild animal carcasses dragged beneath it, unlike those in Southern Living.

Our pergola is almost finished. Thanks to the skill and vision of my Jan (who probably should have been an engineer), and thanks to the strength and agility of my children, the tools and experience of my various in-laws, it has risen from the ground behind our house.  Its posts are set in concrete, its beams securely nailed.  It’s tall posts and well-measured intervals caused me to ask Jan if it were aligned with the summer and winter solstice, and if we’d be dancing naked beneath it.  She smiled and said, ‘maybe!’

Pergola entered my vocabulary because it was something my wife desired; something of interest to her.  I’ve learned other things from that girl.  I’ve learned about leadership skills, which she used to teach to college students and still teaches to our church youth.  I’ve learned about volunteerism, and historical romance.  About Japanese words and her love of Ireland, land of her ancestors.  I’ve even learned things I can’t discuss here.

But she isn’t my only teacher; not at all.  From my children I learned many things as well.  If not for my son Seth, I wouldn’t have my deep love of the bag-pipe.  Many years ago, when he was small, we heard the band Albanach play a show.  They are a group of Scots who play pipes and drums the way Ted Nugent plays the guitar.  Watching their show, one understands why the English viewed Highland combat with a certain reluctance.  But they inspired my son.  And he has played the pipes, better and better, for years.  It was also Seth who led us down the path of learning the ancient art of blacksmithing.  A smithy sits in our yard, and we fire it up whenever we need to shape metal and feel the heat, see the sparks and ‘get our iron on.’

My daughter Elysa taught me the fine art of playing dolls, and endlessly teaches me about fashion and contemporary culture.  She makes me dance in the dining room, and asks me questions about my past, and her mothers.  She shows me how to make movies on an i-Pad and how to do all of the things on my computer I should understand, but don’t.  She also teaches me to see inside the hearts of others, for she is a born healer, all compassion.

Elijah, my 13-year-old, forces me to learn.  I am always behind his vocabulary, and interests, as he quizzes me on German words (I don’t know any, I try to explain), relativity (zoology degree, not physics), Norse Mythology and ancient combat.  (OK, I know a little.)  But his passion for knowing forces me to read, to learn and to never stop loving the act.

And my oldest, Sam, teaches me that there’s always a reason to laugh, always a new ‘Meme’ online that I need to see, always a new idea on BBC news or somewhere else that we need to discuss.  He introduced me to the band Muse, and is my guide to the modern music scene.  In fact, his enthusiasm for his favorite band led his mother and I to drive family and friends to see the band in Indianapolis in the summer of 2011.

What’s my point here, you may be asking?  Not to catalog my family hobbies, certainly.  My point is this.  We physicians can be a focused bunch.  We work, we study, we write or do research, we speak.  For so long, we’ve listened to our own interests and followed our own requirements.  We get lost in education, then in continuing education and in the vagaries of practice.  So lost, in fact, that we lose touch with the very interests and tendencies of the people we love.  And we forget that love is more than an emotion.  Love involves engagement in the lives of others, and sacrifice of some our time, some of ourselves, for their good.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned as a husband and parent, and not always done well, it’s that we have to open our eyes, ears and hearts to the passions of the people we love. I could have devoted my entire life, and all of my time, to me.  But what a loss.  I have learned so much more by being led by my dear family!  Lead on walks, lead to play X-Box, lead to imagine, lead to dance, lead to build a coal smithy and make things, lead to play airsoft, to listen to concerts, to read widely and always embrace life in its wonders.

In the process of following, of letting go of my own agenda, I was lead deeper into the hearts of my wife and kids.  I am safely ensconced there now, and their interests and joys have been welded to my own.  I couldn’t undo it if I wanted. But I don’t.

Because in the process, we have had laughter and love, games and trips, learning and adventure.  I have become so much more than a physician, so much wider in scope, wiser in life, richer in knowledge and skills.

And we have a pergola, for crying out loud!  How cool is that?  And I for one can’t wait to sip lemonade beneath it.

 

Bagpipes and anvils and music from alt bands

German and physics and myths out of Iceland,

Pergolas, dancing and daughters with bling,

these are a few of my favorite things!

Deciding who needs what…my latest Greenville News column.

Deciding who needs what can be risk business!

http://www.greenvilleonline.com/article/20130203/OPINION/302030022/Ed-Leap-Deciding-who-needs-what-can-risky-business

What do you need?  It’s an interesting question, much discussed in the wake of the current gun debate.  I frequently hear this statement:  ‘no one needs a rifle with a magazine that holds more than ten rounds.’  One caller on a radio show said, ‘nobody needs more than six bullets.’   Others have said, ‘I can’t see why anybody needs more than one gun; it’s ridiculous.  I certainly don’t need one!’

Obviously, there are millions who take the opposing view.  But gun-control aside (as if that were possible in the current political climate), it’s time we start to ask ‘who decides who needs what?’

I can tell you a lot of things I don’t think anyone needs.  Nobody, in my opinion, needs Methamphetamine. Well, not at first, anyway.  In the big picture, it isn’t essential to life.

Of course, having cared for countless intoxicated individuals, young, old, male, female, rich, poor, comic and tragic, I can say that I don’t need alcohol, so perhaps nobody needs alcohol.  Yes, some research suggests a health benefit to certain amounts of alcohol consumption.  But it’s likely that humans were healthy before the first one found a container of fermented fruit juice, drank it inexplicably and woke up with the first hangover.

Cigarettes come to mind.  Who needs them?  Not me.  They cause enormous suffering and death, even though many find them relaxing and pleasurable.  But then, over-eating causes harm as well.  Do we need access to endless calories all day long, as much as our prosperity and ingenuity provide?  Nobody needs cheeseburgers or fried mushrooms.  Of course, I love them just the same.

Americans love their pets.  But are pets necessary?  Who needs a Pit-Bull? Who needs a Burmese Python? I’ll take the former over the latter any day, but I would never feel that I needed either one.  And really, as much as I like cats, who needs a house full of them?

Advocates against over-population often suggest that no family needs more than one or two children. Polygamists might feel that they need more than one wife.  One man feels he needs to leave his wife for another; one woman is confident she needs to hit her husband with a ball bat.  Need is a little subjective, isn’t it?

Is the Church necessary?  I think so, although I wouldn’t impose it on anyone.  I find it necessary for me and for my family.  I’m certain I could find those who would suggest that it is a remarkably destructive force and not only unnecessary but dangerous.  They would say I don’t need it.

Who needs a fast car?  Who needs a large house?  And what about money?  How much money do the rich need? Or the poor, for that matter?  So much of our economic debate hinges on the idea that some people have more than they need, and some have less, and that some transfer based on need has to be effected.  But who can decide such a thing as financial need?  Oh, right, the government.  But is it based on some algorithm?  Some formula?  On dated, failed economic and political philosophy?  Or perhaps on future votes…

Unless by ‘need’ we mean only the most common and basic things like food, water, clothing and shelter,  the rest of our attempts to determine need are often based on ideology and emotion.

You know the perennial argument that ‘ you can’t legislate morality?’  Well, we do it all the time; sometimes wisely and sometimes poorly.  But seldom do we legislate morality more than when we discuss who needs what; whether it’s money, vices, food, weapons, freedom or family.  Because when you tell me what I need, or I tell you, it’s a ultimately a moral judgment about what one of us ‘ought to do.’

We all have different motivations and different reasons to try to shape society and culture in the way that seems best to us.  But whether the issue is taxes, guns, relationships, free speech, school prayer, or any other hot-button topic, we should remember something important.  That is, our claim to know exactly what another free citizen needs only leads to frustration, bitterness and ultimately revenge, once the pendulum of opinion, or power, swings the other way.

Evil is restrained by the courage of armed citizens

Here’s my column in today’s Greenville News.

‘Evil is restrained by the courage of armed citizens.’

http://www.greenvilleonline.com/article/20130113/OPINION/301130016/Ed-Leap-Evil-restrained-by-courage-armed-citizens?odyssey=mod|newswell|text|Making

 

Despite the assertion that gun-owners like me are dangerous Neanderthals, we do have a few good points to make in the current debate.  So allow me to ‘fire-off’ some reasons the current initiative is, quite frankly, stupid.

Gun control advocates are typically ignorant of the objects of their disdain.  Most of them don’t know the difference between automatic and semi-automatic; nor that you need a special FEDERAL permit for automatic weapons. (You know, the kind of weapons used by the body-guards of important politicians, businessmen and celebrities, and used in every violent film vomited from endlessly sanctimonious Hollywood.)

And few of them know the difference between a pistol and a revolver, a 12 gauge and a .38.  One of them wrote on my blog, ‘I suppose I could see having a .22 for hunting, but I don’t understand why you need anything else.’  Which .22 is that, ma’am?  Because there are a boat-load of them, and some are meaner than others.

I suppose her reasoning is that if you don’t understand, just ban all of them.  They’re guns, after all!  Of course, I don’t know why anyone needs more than one type of beer or wine.  They’re all alcohol, and lead to drunk-driving!

Another ridiculous part of the current media fire-storm over gun control is the deeply held belief that concealed weapons permit holders are especially dangerous and that gun owners should be ‘outed’ to the public. In a kind of homage to the much detested (by Communists) witch-hunts of ‘tail-gunner’ Joe McCarthy, gun-owners have been ‘outed’ by some newspapers.  Painting with a broad-brush, they’ve been ‘profiled.’  A thing which we x-ray, grope and strip to avoid in the nation’s airports.

The uncomfortable reality is that states with concealed weapons permits have seen decreased crime rates.  And even if they hadn’t, the permit holders aren’t committing crimes.  A person willing to have fingerprints and background checks, and even take a class, is not the guy we need to fret about, or identify.  (Unless it’s to make friends.)

But there’s more from this conservative curmudgeon.  And this is more personal.  I’ve seen people who have been killed and cruelly attacked.  I’ve seen them killed with guns, of course, but more killed and maimed with knives, blunt objects, boots to the throat and assorted other weapons. Death is death.  (Hammers and ball-bats killed more Americans than rifles last year, incidentally.  Even black, scary rifles!)

The thing is, the enlightened UK (which indeed has a lower gun-crime rate than ours) is one of the most violent nations in Europe.  It turns out, you don’t need a gun to be violent.  Who knew?

Sadly for civilization, in such ‘gun-free’ settings the strong and brutal thrive.  Small women or men, senior citizens and disabled individuals are all victims ripe for picking.  Abused spouses or single parents, citizens with alternate lifestyles, late-night clerks and all kinds of others are sacrificed on the altar of ‘safety.’  Darwinian survival of the fittest at it’s most despicable.

A gun in the hand of a physically weak person makes that person safer…in evolutionary terms, we could say it gives them a ‘survival advantage,’ maybe the chance to live and reproduce, or protect their young.  Unfortunately, victim-hood is the new religion of our elites.  (Who often have body-guards, incidentally).  It’s better for everyone if a mother and child are murdered, rather than a firearm be in the hands of anyone outside the military or police.  Ideology trumps biology.  And ethics.

I understand the desire to keep firearms from the mentally ill, so long as we’re careful about that determination.  But are we really ready to use emotion to trump logic, fact, evidence, tradition, law and culture?  Is the President prepared to instantly criminalize millions for owning something that had been legal all along?  To confiscate property and prosecute people who never harmed anyone with their weapons?  Especially when our own government has been supplying the same weapons to criminals in Mexico?  (And can this nation even afford such an initiative?)

I hope we can come to our senses.  I hope we can realize that new laws don’t change the hearts of law-breakers.  That collective punishment is tyranny.  That since about 47% of US adults own a firearm, the numerator of criminals is tiny compared with the denominator of the lawful.

And I hope to heaven we can embrace the fact that evil is not restrained by law, but by force of arms and the courage of free, and armed, citizens.