Giving Blood

This past year I've gone back to donating blood platelets at Dana Farber. I took time off when I didn't have the time while taking care of my daughter. It feels really great to be back doing it, especially at Dana Farber. They have an excellent combination of professionalism and personal touch that makes donations a pleasure. So, first and foremost, this blog is an advertisement, an earnest plea, to donate blood, and if possible, donate platelets. If you are around Boston Contact the Kraft Family Donor Center at Dana Farber Cancer Institute.

I must admit that I felt guilty early on, taking time to do this when there are so many things that need taking care of. Even though I preach the need for sabbath for all, self-care and taking sabbath can be a very hard thing for pastors. For the most part, I justify the time it takes to myself by bringing a boat-load of professional reading to do. Over the hour and a half of donating, I've whizzed through plenty of material and actually got a lot out of it. It is tough to just sit down in the office and even read, but there it is.

Last donation was even better. My technician, who found out I was a pastor, asked me some questions that seemed to be lurking in the back of his head. I have a lot of fun talking to people with these questions. They develop into great times of sharing. I spent the next 45 minutes talking about matters of faith and other questions lots of people wonder about pastors, like, how do I go about constructing a sermon? Where do I get the ideas? What did I think about "The Passion of the Christ"?

The person next to me then heard the conversation and talked to me herself. She was an Episcoplean and we shared stories, too. The lady across the aisle was Jewish and regretted her donation time was through, she enjoyed listening to the conversation.

A lot a grace-filled conversation can happen in a room with reclining beds, machines that beep, tubes, vials and bandages. It was a real privilege.

They say that donating blood saves lives, and when you are doing it, you really don't get a sense that you are saving a life. I'm certainly not pulling a drowning boy out of a lake. As I finish, and look at the plastic bag of my platelets up there, I have no idea where they are going - who is going to receive them. I sometimes imagine how amazing it is that something that was inside me is now going to be inside someone else, helping them heal.

Although we didn't seem to mind talking about "The Passion of the Christ" in a blood donation center, I think there is some sort of connection. Sometimes when I donate, I do think of Jesus shedding his blood.

There are some pretty stark differences: Jesus' blood spilled on the ground as a result of the violence and brutality of the religious and political leaders who put him to death in such a cruel way. His blood was shed for the forgiveness of sins. It was the ultimate and singular act of forgiveness that cannot be matched or repeated. Our blood gets "shed" in the most comfortable and clean conditions, with machines that take out the platelets and give the rest back. It is done by caring, compassionate competent staff.

But the blood we shed does save lives. As a man, Jesus never personally knew the billions of people his blood was shed for (although he knows each one now). Unless the donor specifically donates for a friend or family member, we don't know who our blood goes to. It is just a person in need. In some ways, this is an anonymous act of love on the donor's part, and since it is anonymous, I think there is something special about this love.

I am so grateful for my parishioner who got me back to giving platelets. It is a quiet thing, but it matters.

Saved

It was an ordinary day at a nice, quiet sandy beach on Lake Winnipesaukee. We were having fun in the water. Near us were a few high school aged boys having fun, too. All of the sudden I heard - he's hasn't come up - he hasn't come up! One of the boys, a lifeguard rushes into the water. They pull up a friend. He and his friends were diving off a metal raft floating in our swimming area. They pull him onto shore and start CPR. Then, a man comes flying down the steps toward him, yelling "call 911." He takes over. He keeps asking, "how long was he down, how long was he down."

A fun vacation for a group of friends turns into a nightmare. You can feel the panic in the air. Several people have 911 on their cell phones. The friends are in total shock. They don't know what to do. They run up to the road to look for emergency vehicles and run back. You can just feel the desparation.

After a few moments the man beats the boy's back, getting water out of his lungs. A few more moments pass - the man says "we have a heartbeat and spontaneous breathing." A sigh of relief, for the moment. But where is the ambulance? It seems to be taking forever. Police come down. They really can't do much more. Finally, the ambulance comes, with the EMT. The man tells them he is a paramedic and what the situation is. They put an oxygen mask on him and raise his legs onto a chair. They eventually get him on a stretcher and to the hospital.

The boys are shell-shocked. Their friend was not breathing. Almost drowned. Even though he's in an ambulance, there must be questions. Will he survive? Has there been any damage?

From that moment and for the rest of the day, there was a part of us praying for this boy. Thoughts go through my head. What would have happened if he died? What about his parents? What about his friends? It is an absolutely horrifying thought. We all know that teenagers by nature have the illusion that they are immortal. Perhaps more so with boys than girls.

The next day, we go to the beach. The boy was there, looking fine, yet very shy and embarrassed. The man who saved him was there. He asked us if we were there during the incident. We said yes and told him that we were praying for him. The man thanked us. He wanted us to know that the boy was alright. They were going out to celebrate tonight. What a celebration. A celebration of life! He could have been dead, but thanks to the boy and the man, he is alive. He said the boy's body temperature at the hospital was 91 degrees. He was fine, now. He made a few jokes about keeping him away from the water. You could still hear the anxiety beneath the joke.

Afterwards, I remembered what a friend on the Cape Cod told me when I remarked on how beautiful the ocean looked. "Beautiful and deadly," he said. He talked about the drownings that can always be expected on the Cape during the summer season. Every year, people on vacation die.

The ancient Israelites were terrified of the ocean. It was the place where evil dwelt. Demons lived there. Being on a boat on the ocean or even on a lake was a dangerous proposition. Water represented chaos and evil to them. I never thought of Lake Winnipesaukee as a place of chaos and evil. It is far too beautiful. But it is deep. Chaos and death can and does happen.

Yet on further reflection I thought to myself, this is what it really means to be saved. Sure I have seen people saved in hospitals and other places. But these were places where emergency people were within minutes from saving the person. There did not seem to be the panic that we felt that day. On that beautiful somewhat remote beach on a lake, in a small town with limited emergency resources, the stakes seem higher.

The word "saved" is one of the most common in Christian faith. It is at the heart of the gospel. Jesus saves. Through Jesus, God gives us salvation. Are you saved? Jesus is our Lord and Savior. Think of the hymns with salvation in them. Unfortunately, the word saved can be used so much, it's real meaning often fades away. It can get so abstract, removed from daily life.

On that beach, I saw someone being saved. It was a terrifying incident. The fact that the lifeguard and paramedic happened to be there meant the difference between life and death for that boy. He could have been dead, but, thanks to them, he was alive. It was not a life cut short at 15 or 16. His potential, his future, his life was saved. His parents and friends were saved from grief too deep to know.

This is what being saved means. That is what Jesus our Savior is all about. We could have been - should have been- dead. But Jesus came and died so that we might live. It is absolutely amazing grace. Jesus came into our lives, perilously on the brink, and rescued us. That is cause for celebration - a celebration that should be happening every Sunday morning, every day of our life!

At the end of the parable of the prodigal son, the "good son" asks the father why he is giving a huge party for the "bad son," after he took his inheritance and wasted it away. The father replies, "your brother was lost, but now is found. He was dead, but is now alive." This is the celebration that happens in heaven every time someone is "saved." It must have resembled that party those boys had with the man who rescued them.