“Whether this is your first shutdown, your tenth or ___________ fill in the blank…
Here we are again. Semi-permanent residents in the land of the unexpected.”

Those probably aren’t words many of you say or hear from the pulpit often — maybe ever. They show the contextuality of where I live and where I’ll have the privilege of pastoring for the next 6 months.

This is the fifth shutdown since our family moved to the DC area in 2006. Some have been more eventful than others, but each difficult and demoralizing in their own right. Because whether exempt, excepted, or furloughed, the dear civil servants all around me are moved around like pawns on a chess board, in a gridlock game of power and control.

What’s that like for them — your dear siblings in Christ who live and work in this city? This is the best way I could think to answer that question; by sharing a narrative I wrote several years ago for a preaching course from the perspective of a worker. 

Regardless of how you feel about this particular round of shutdowns, my hope is that this acts as a “zoom lens” of sorts. You don’t just pray for an issue, you pray for real people. You don’t just pray over the chaos, you pray for those who are deeply disrupted. Zoom in with me for a few moments today. Lord, hear our prayer. 

***

I have wept both tears of sadness and tears of relief into the keys of my laptop. My chair has served as support for my body through tension and toil, and also my platform as I excitedly finished the final steps in a process that will help many. My pen has scribbled critical meeting notes, chemical structures, and also a reminder to fill in my child’s field trip form. My wall contains certificates of achievement and matriculation, proving I have studied my craft in detail and am deemed competent to make decisions that still terrify me with their complexity and broad impact. My ID card gives me access to high-security documents, which if inappropriately accessed could be catastrophic. I arrive at my desk with a steaming cup of coffee and a hopeful prayer in my heart as I begin my work each day.  I am a regulator for the United States Food and Drug Administration.  

I grew up in a faith tradition that impressed upon me from a young age that vocations matter. I can quote ‘Every square inch” and I read Plantinga and Niebuhr during my reformed liberal arts education. I know that the work I am called to do matters to the God who equips me to do it. 

That formational foundation is like a well I repeatedly return to as I struggle to make decisions about a drug that could save thousands or even millions of lives. I have spent years studying the complexity of the human body down to the microscopic level, and I am still amazed by how much more there is to know. I have come to  understand what happens when there’s a shift so small in manufacturing that it only shows up in a single piece of data, but the effects can be catastrophic for the human body. This understanding, coupled with countless hours in scientific labs aids me as I read hundreds of pages of drug applications each day, examining tables, scientific notes, and case studies. 

I have come to learn that people have no idea the countless hours of work and study that goes into each medication that they put into their body. Brilliant scientists create these therapies, targeting a specific mechanism in the body. They test and test again. They sign up participants for clinical trials, sometimes giving people a shot at hope they thought had long passed. Teams of quality specialists use specialized equipment to manufacture sufficient material to support a clinical study. Doctors oversee administration and scientists gather data.  Maybe they pray over their work as well. Once they are satisfied that what they have produced will be for the public health of the people, they submit for FDA approval. 

It lands on my desk, a tome of hundreds and hundreds of pages of raw data, of missteps along the way, of brilliant breakthroughs, and finally a finished product demonstrated to be consistently and safely manufactured.

The clinical trial stories bring me to tears. The pressure mounts to approve a drug that saves children the same ages as my own. I see faces of patients who are willing to take a new drug, even if it might not necessarily be exactly right. I see my own son as I work to approve an insulin, similar to what I have taught him to inject in his body everyday to keep him alive. There is a crushing pressure to approve, but that is held in tension with the need to ensure safety in each step of the process. It has to work. It has to be safe. It has to go through multiple hands and multiple scientific minds before it gets that FDA approval and can be disseminated to the public. 

I pray throughout my day — not down on my knees with a Bible in my hand. But at my desk, with scientific graphs on my screen and patients needs in my heart. I feel the presence of the Holy Spirit as I hit “submit.” I remember God’s calling on my life in the face of public mistrust and ridicule. I thank God for giving me this important work and for equipping me with the skills to do it. I am humbled. I am sometimes fearful. I am always a child of God. I am an FDA regulator.

Psalm 23-ish

The Lord is my regulator

I trust that my imperfect decisions will be made perfect through him

He makes me certain in the face of my uncertain recommendation in situations that may not have obvious answers

He provides contentment with review of data that is often insufficient, incomplete and sometimes difficult to interpret

He soothes my nerves and provides me calm

He leads me as I navigate new opportunities that provide both stress and excitement and I trust the right answer will be made obvious

Even when I struggle to know the right decision, namely to reject or approve a medication that may save lives but that may not be manufactured safely enough to reproduce for patients – I will not fear in incomplete information or my own limited understanding for your hand guides me and you are the great physician

You offer the warm embrace of a happy hour with colleagues at the end of a week filled with difficult decisions.  You fill a community table with good friends, easy laughter and a hoppy brown ale

Surely your reassurance and calm presence will remain with me and I will dwell in that presence wherever I go.