In the dark recesses of the night, I sometimes lie awake and contemplate questions which turn inside my head.  “What it means to be human” is at the forefront of my most recent pondering.  This question is a hot topic among various disciplines and I have decided to explore this question in my own study of bioethics over the next several years.  I find this particular question probing amidst the backdrop of advancing technology in fields such as science and medicine.  “What can be done with regard to humans?” is quickly being followed by, “What should be done with humans?”  The answers, in short, are myriad. 

As a Christian who is preparing to give a reasoned response to these questions, I am excited about the intellectual aspect of my journey.  I marvel over the fact that loving God includes engaging one’s mind.  But even at this juncture, before the tasks surrounding my studies begin, I understand that the exploration of what it means to be human occurs while living alongside humanity.  No matter how technologically advanced our world may become, I cannot escape the fact that people are at the heart of what it means to be human.  My upcoming intellectual pursuits are important, yet they serve to inform my living among particular individuals.  At the same time, there are certain individuals who will color my approach to the question of what it means to be human.  The two are inextricably linked. 

One of the individuals who will color my studies is a mother who recently lost her two-month-old child.  I stood with this mother at her daughter’s hospital bedside for the last several weeks of her life.  We talked about many things, some having to do with pressing medical decisions, others having to do with the ramifications of those decisions.   We broached the topic of death and how it’s reality would shape the coming years.  I saw the heart of a mother who had known that parenthood would be costly.  She just hadn’t known the extent of the cost.  She spoke of her hope rooted in faith and of seeing her daughter in a redeemed world where there is no more sickness or death.  We cherished the simple moments of her daughter’s care and talked of the way we would miss her tiny life.  I saw a mother’s courage as she cradled her daughter and watched her breathe for the last time.  We shed tears together as a grandmother’s soft words to “Jesus Loves Me” cut through the silence of an entire family’s grief and pain.  Here was a visible picture of life, death, hope and sorrow.  It was a moment when our present reality kissed the face of our future hope.  I emerged from this experience changed, heavy-hearted yet thankful to be a part of such intimate, even sacred moments.   

Part of what it means to be human is to live in the midst of stories like the one above.  Experiences like these can be hard to endure.  At times, we turn our eyes away and take time to cry and heal.  But a day comes when God’s staying presence provides enough grace to stare again into the brokenness of this life.  We do so as messengers of hope trusting that those who thirst will ultimately drink not from us but from the fount of Christ.  It is his wounds that have purchased the kind of life which we only now glimpse, but the glimpses are real and true.  And they ultimately speak of a place where we will live out our days as persons clothed in the fullness of redeemed humanity.  For this we watch, hope and wait.