RICH MAFFEO
It is a big deal

From the moment our 15-year-old son walked into the house after a weekend trip to Mexico, he rambled on about his experience with an enthusiasm I thought he reserved only for computer programming. His excitement continued through dinner as he painted vivid word pictures of the homes he and other members of his youth group built for two impoverished families, the children they met, the food they ate, the bugs they chased. Then, as we left the dinner table, he added, “Oh, by the way, I cut my leg two days ago.” He pulled at his pant leg to give me a look. “What do you think?”

I’ve been a nurse a long time, but I have never seen such a mass of angry, reddish-blue pustules as those covering his shin. It was hard to know where infection stopped and healthy skin began. A thin, yellow fluid seeped from an inch-wide blister and traced down into his sock. I bent closer and caught a faint whiff of foul odour.

“Put on your coat. We’re going to the emergency room.”

Shortly after we arrived, a physician examined Nathan’s leg. He prodded, poked and murmured an occasional “That’s interesting” to no one in particular. Then he looked at us and announced the bad news. Nathan needed intravenous antibiotic therapy to prevent the infection from spreading to his bone or his blood. If that happened, he would require hospitalization. Nathan’s “by-the-way” nonchalance suddenly transformed into an “uh-oh” anxiety.

After the IV therapy, we drove home with a two-week supply of antibiotics and other medications to help his leg heal. The physician also told me to keep Nathan home from school for a few days.

When Nathan went to bed, I sat at my computer to unwind from the day’s events. As I stared at the blank screen, I thought about the incident. I relived my gnawing fear as the doctor probed, prodded and attended to Nathan’s infection. Under different circumstances, Nathan’s “Oh, by the way” could have ended in disaster.

It’s been more than a year since that evening, and I still wonder how Nathan could have been so casual about something so serious. Maybe it’s because he is so much like me – and the rest of human-kind. We often deny reality, hoping the chest pain is indigestion and not a heart attack, making believe weeping sores will get better by the morning. The problem is, many of us also deny our spiritual wounds with a similar nonchalant “It’s not that bad.”

When I talk about my faith in Jesus Christ to others, I’ve heard the response “I’m not that bad” so often I wonder if people are following a script. What people most often mean is, “When

I die, God will weigh my good deeds against my bad. I think I’ll do OK.” Coming from the lips of men and women whose spiritual wounds sometimes defy description, I shake my head in bewilderment. In the face of overwhelming spiritual injuries such as drunkenness, drug abuse, sexual addictions and uncontrollable anger – why do we believe we need nothing more than a bandage?

Perhaps we have heard the message “God loves us” so often that the words lose their significance. Yet, it’s God’s love that prompts His warning: “Get to the Emergency Room.” There, God, the Great Physician, prods, pokes and tells us, “You need a new heart. You need to be born again.” Yet, some people still wonder, “What’s the big deal? It’s only a little sin.”

Nathan’s physical injury was a big deal. Untreated, it could have killed him. Spiritual injuries are also a big deal. Untreated, they will kill us and separate us from God for eternity.

Nathan didn’t have a choice the evening he showed me his leg and said, “Oh, by the way . . . ” If he had refused to come to the hospital, I would have dragged him there. But you and I have a choice about going to Jesus for forgiveness and healing. God won’t drag us to the hospital. We can bring our wounds to God, the Great Physician, or we can shrug our shoulders and tell Him, “I’m OK.”

“I’m OK” is a bad choice.