Helpful Advice for the Dentist and the Preacher

It was fitting that I had to go to the dentist yesterday, being in the mood I was, and continue to be. The sovereign providence of God does stuff like that to me all the time. An appointment is made six months in advance, in an innocence of ignorance–for we know neither the day nor the hour about anything–and then I am surprised to find myself in the wholly appropriate place, and have to concede that God does know everything.

I say fitting, but I am over exaggerating the amount of suffering I experience at the dentist any more. Where once it was a trauma to eclipse all other traumas, now it is Not That Big A Deal. I just go in and accept the humiliation of good gum health and walk away without having my soul crushed. Go back into the archives and look up Root Canal to understand my sordid past.

No, it’s not that big a deal any more. But there is each small indignity. The chair, for one thing, being as it is in the power of the diminutive hygienist. Her nervous banter and interrogation distracts her control of its going up and down. And then there is having to cope with a steady flow of questions without the power of the mouth to respond. I am always asked thirty or forty questions about homeschooling, which I try to answer in nods and grunts. Every dental hygienist that I know (and that would be a total of three) wishes she could homeschool. I always lie back, my throat numb so that I won’t gag and throw up, and wonder why this might be so. Is it the schools? Or is it the desire to be doing something besides digging around in my broken mouth?

But really, the thing that I wish could be completely different about the dentist, besides having to go at all, is the lecture at the end about brushing and flossing. Look, I get it. I am a failure and a sinner. I have a bad mouth and an exhausting schedule. I don’t brush as well as I should, and I floss only, if I’m perfectly honest, every second or third day. And, I know this is hard to believe, I am honest with my dentist. I do floss, but I don’t floss as often as I should. I do brush, but not as well as I should. That’s why I’ve come in to the dentist. I came because I can’t get my own teeth perfectly clean. I came because I know that if I ignore them, they will go away. I know very well that I have not the mouth that I should have. The sorrowful shaking of the head over the quantity of plaque is not going to produce any kind of difference in my mouth the next time I come in. That’s Why I Came.

Which is how I feel about a lot of Christianity. Don’t keep telling me to get my life together. Obviously I can’t. Please tell me about the one who promised to help get it together for me. The reason that I need the Holy Spirit scraping at my insides is because I cannot fix everything myself. I’m doing all the work that I can do, and we all very well understand that it is not enough, and that I should try harder. Dear sorrowful lovely teeth lady, you must understand that even if I did try harder, it wouldn’t be any better. And oh foolish preacher on the Internet (not Matt, praise God) don’t keep flinging listicles at me of the seven ways to be holier and happier. I can’t do it. I am admitting to needing help. Stop chiding me. Do you yell at the person who comes sick to the hospital and tell her to go home and get well? Well, I suppose maybe sometimes that does happen. But it’s not traditionally the point of the hospital.

When a person shows up admitting to needing help, I’m sure congratulations should be in order. ‘It’s so wonderful that you came in! Let’s sort this out! Now, isn’t that better? See you next time!’ Or, if we’re talking about church, how about a sermon that includes, ‘God so much wanted to save and help you that he died so that you wouldn’t have to kill yourself with a list. Say you’re sorry for your sins and go home and have a nap.’

I will now get up and brush my teeth. Pip pip.