Our Children and Their Children

Only be careful, and watch yourselves closely so that you do not forget the things your eyes have seen or let them fade from your heart as long as you live. Teach them to your children and to their children after them. (Deuteronomy 4.9)

The Photo That Brought AIDS Home

About a year ago, I crossed paths with Therese Frare, a staggeringly gifted photographer in the Pacific Northwest. I was part of a team working on a new HIV product launch to occur less than a month before the 30th anniversary of the first AIDS diagnoses. The serendipitous timing opened the door to include a retrospective of the extraordinary leaps in HIV/AIDS treatment and reaffirm our client's contributions as a major leader in the field. We wanted Therese to photograph the event for a number of reasons. Her talent spoke for itself, and when we approached her about taking the job, the conversations revealed her to be an ebullient, sharp-minded person—someone we’d enjoy working with. Her role on this particular job would be particularly significant, though, as she holds a unique position in HIV/AIDS history.

In 1990, during graduate studies in photography at Ohio University, Therese volunteered at Pater Noster House, an AIDS hospice in nearby Columbus. An assignment for a visual storytelling class led her to ask one of the patients, David Kirby, and his caregiver, Peta—an AIDS patient himself—if she could document their experiences with the affliction. After some justifiable resistance from the hospice (due to patient privacy concerns), Therese was cleared to shoot David and Peta’s interactions. David was in end-stage, meaning Peta’s main concern was making his final days as comfortable as possible. On one occasion, Therese was at the hospice when Peta was called to the young man’s bedside. Seeing his parents there, she discretely waited in the hall. His mother asked Therese to come in, telling her, “We’d like you to photograph the family saying their final goodbyes to David.” As the heart-wrenching scene played out, Therese stood in a corner, capturing it moment-by-moment. While proximity to the event muted her appreciation of her photographs’ power, David’s expressed desire that his story be told inspired Therese to mail copies of one shot to the World Press and Life magazine. Life immediately picked it up and published the picture in its November 1990 issue. It’s now known the world over as “the face of AIDS” and “the photo that brought AIDS home.”

Dark Shadows

When Therese’s photograph appeared, we were ending the AIDS crisis’s first decade. We’d seen a multitude of images of the virus’s emaciated victims—from iconic celebrities like Rock Hudson to nameless African children—and heard hundreds of agonizing stories. Those of us cursed to witness AIDS’ ravages up-close and personal were emotionally depleted, but for seething anger at how little concern was shown for the lives devastated by the disease. Like every other catastrophic illness, an AIDS diagnosis triggered a ripple effect that emanated from the patient to loved ones nearest him/her, then on to more casual friends and acquaintances, and finally into her/his various professional and social circles. Because its first US targets were gay men—many with long histories of casual promiscuity—it was all too easy to minimize AIDS suffering as a minority issue. The public at large felt safely insulated from its threat and, therefore, not responsible for its treatment, containment, or cure. This false sense of security was further enhanced when the virus began surfacing in other specific populations: blood-transfusion patients, IV drug abusers, sex workers, and so on. AIDS was a “not-us” sickness, and hence “not our problem.” Therese’s photograph changed that.

For the first time, people removed from AIDS’ realities stepped into its dark shadows. Fathers felt Mr. Kirby’s anguish, as he cradled his son's gaunt face and clung to his rail-thin arm. Mothers perceived the stormy emotions raging behind Mrs. Kirby’s stoic expression, while she pulled David’s kid sister—confused, frightened, a child too young to know such sorrow—to her bosom. The emptiness in David’s eyes led one to imagine, for all practical purposes, he was already gone before this final farewell. It pierced the heart of every mother’s child. The anonymous hand reaching into the scene softly spoke of someone outside the family with compassion and courage to touch the dying man—of someone who chose to be there. Above them, the outstretched, nail-scarred hands of Jesus beckoned David into His eternal care, promising to hold the wounded hearts he left behind. This was too real—too personal—to ignore. Therese’s photograph allowed millions around the world to see what we who’d had sat at far too many bedsides had seen. Never again would they look on AIDS in any other way.

Sacred Duty to Remember

Twenty years later, our hearts overflow with gratitude for God’s mercy and provision. Medical breakthroughs have diminished AIDS’ savagery. How thankful we are that horrific scenes like David Kirby’s are rare exceptions and no longer the rule. We no longer speak of an “AIDS holocaust” and rarely do we see images of AIDS-related suffering. Yet in our rejoicing, we must not confuse AIDS’ disarmament with decisive defeat. Its status as a treatable condition on par with hypertension, diabetes, and other chronic illnesses introduces the peril of assuming AIDS is no longer a grave disease to be avoided at all costs—that it can be “lived with” and its threat has decreased. Worst of all, we can never conclude that its relative invisibility in the media and our daily environment means AIDS has “gone away.” It is present to the point of prevalence. It is very real and, until it’s completely destroyed, it’s not going away.

We who survived AIDS’ initial onslaught have a sacred duty to remember, honoring the thousands of precious souls prematurely torn from our midst. Yet our sacred duty to remember extends to never forgetting our children—and, now, their children—have not seen, felt, or known what we experienced. We’re fools to expect they'll independently ascertain the gravity of what they’re playing with when they put themselves at risk of contracting the virus. As Therese did, we must reveal to them AIDS in all of its heartbreaking ugliness. We must tell them stories of its unbearable suffering and sorrow. We must keep it before them, even though they look away. In Deuteronomy 4.9, God commands, “Be careful, and watch yourselves closely so that you do not forget the things your eyes have seen or let them fade from your heart as long as you live. Teach them to your children and to their children after them.” May hearts of compassion and desire to please our Creator compel us to obey.

Amen.

Not Unnoticed: World AIDS Day 2010

The woman, seeing that she could not go unnoticed, came trembling and fell at his feet. In the presence of all the people, she told why she had touched him and how she had been instantly healed. Then he said to her, “Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace.” (Luke 8.47-48)

Perils of Invisibility

June 5 of 2011 we will enter our fourth decade of fighting HIV/AIDS. It boggles the mind that we’ve been at it for so long—for most of us, more than half our lives. We who witnessed the battle’s commencement find it impossible to imagine a second generation will soon come of age never knowing a world free of the virus. It frustrates us that many younger people are less concerned about HIV/AIDS than we’ve been. This is the dark side of progress we’ve made to disarm the virus. HIV is now a “manageable” disease like hypertension or diabetes. We thank God it is. Yet there’s no ignoring the disconnect between what “living with HIV” means to anyone who survived the plague’s devastation versus those who’ve grown up since the discovery of how to contain and treat it.

The invisibility of HIV/AIDS in the Western world unleashes new perils. Chief among them, of course, is our blunted sense of vulnerability to infection and vigilance against its spread. Safe sex is now widely viewed as a choice. In the gay community, “bug-chasing” is on the rise, with people intentionally seeking high-risk sex with HIV+ partners, presuming infection will end the need of protection. It’s heinously selfish—naïvely so for risk-takers, and downright criminal of anyone who obliges them. Such stupidity was inconceivable before medical advances commuted HIV/AIDS’ death sentence to life without parole. Seeing the virus devour its victims turned unsafe sex into cultural taboo.

With visibility among us reduced practically to nil, HIV/AIDS is mistaken as nothing to fear. That’s the myth we now battle. That’s our new frontier. And the reckless shift in our culture perpetuates further perils of invisibility by blinding us to the plague’s rampage in Africa, India, and Southeast Asia. There—where customs, superstitions, and ignorance impede prevention, while poverty, access, and shortages frustrate treatment—HIV/AIDS sightings are all too common. Breathing skeletons walk the land. Orphans and widows beg alms in the streets. Exhausted healthcare workers stagger beneath unbearable loads. But even when we’re shown what full-blown AIDS looks like there, we don’t really see it, because that’s not how HIV/AIDS looks where we are. Since driving this villain underground, comfort in living with it has dampened fervor to conquer it. Every grateful prayer for learning to defuse HIV/AIDS’ violence should include an earnest plea for renewed courage and commitment to defeat it once and for all.

Unafraid of Being Seen

In Biblical times, the relationship between disease and invisibility is the reverse of today. No thought is given to suppressing symptoms so the sick can live without detection. Raising barriers against disease and offloading non-productive family members holds primary importance. The Law banishes afflicted people from their communities. The lame, blind, deaf, mute, mentally ill, and lepers line city walls or huddle in designated areas, surviving on the charity of passers-by. Those with internal sicknesses languish at home, explicitly banned from public gatherings and worship. Ignoring these restrictions constitutes a felony, in some cases a capital offense. And so, as we observe World AIDS Day by revisiting the story of the hemorrhaging woman, it’s essential we understand the huge liabilities she assumes to be cured of her condition. Ongoing relief and concealment of her symptoms aren’t viable options. Her only hope rests in defeating the disease that plagues her once and for all.

For twelve years she’s agonized with abnormally heavy and prolonged menstrual periods, which classifies her “unclean.” Because her flows are unpredictable, she’s not at liberty to move about when well. Once her period begins, she closes her door, sparing visitors the cleansing ritual and daylong quarantine required of anyone who contacts her. Those who know her obviously know she’s sick—which is why simply leaving her house when Jesus visits her village amazes us. Although she’s currently bleeding, she’s unafraid of being seen. Anyone she touches will be contaminated, raising the prospect of being exposed to the whole village. Suppose she reaches Jesus. What will she say? “I’m hemorrhaging” would be social suicide. Even if He heals her, disregard for everyone she bumps into will breed contempt. Hope of regaining freedom she lost to sickness will be futile; she’ll still be a pariah. She devises an ingenious strategy, investing all her faith in it. “He doesn’t need to see me, hear me, or speak to me,” she tells herself. “If I can touch His coat’s hem, I’ll be cured.” Her predicament puts her in the strange position of avoiding notice to benefit from Jesus’s attention.

Standing with Christ

While the strategy ultimately fails, the woman’s faith carries the day. The bleeding immediately stops when she catches Jesus’s coat. In what must be a most alarming, unforeseen complication, she also stops Jesus. “Who touched me?” He asks. Everyone backs off. Peter tries to break the tension by reminding Jesus He’s swarmed with people jostling Him. “Somebody touched Me,” He insists. “I felt power leave Me.” Luke 8.47-48 tells us: “The woman, seeing that she could not go unnoticed, came trembling and fell at his feet. In the presence of all the people, she told why she had touched him and how she had been instantly healed. Then he said to her, ‘Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace.’” Her confidence is why she’s cured. Compassion is what stops Jesus. He knows the woman is healed. He felt it happen. It’s vital to Him that she’s not unnoticed, so He can rid the stigma of her disease as well. He calls her His daughter. “Go in peace,” He says—an overt warning to anyone who might ostracize her in contempt. And He ratifies her freedom by ignoring the cleansing and quarantine ordinances for anyone touched by a menstruating woman.

Normally, we enter miracle stories in the shoes of the sufferer. Today, as we focus on HIV/AIDS victims and the critical issues swirling around the virus, there’s much to gain from standing with Christ in this story. We possess power to feel the tug of HIV/AIDS, to rid its stigmas, to warn anyone who ostracizes its victims, to ratify their freedom by ignoring phobic reactions to their touch. Healing and health are matters of personal faith; they’re beyond our reach. Our primary concern is ensuring HIV/AIDS is not unnoticed, for the benefit of those it afflicts, as well as current and future generations at risk. Living with HIV is an advance, not final victory. The war must not end until the virus is irrevocably defeated.

We stand with Christ in compassion for more than 40,000,000 people afflicted by HIV/AIDS and its stigmas—and millions more oblivious to its dangers. They cannot go unnoticed.

Postscript: "Hidden Faces of AIDS"

If you've not seen this powerful intro to World Vision's "Acting on AIDS" video, it's well worth the one minute, eleven seconds of your time.

Silence = Death

I was sick and you looked after me.

                        Matthew 25.36

Surprise! Surprise!

Jesus makes this statement as part of a provocative picture of Judgment Day. He says He’ll identify everyone and divide them as a shepherd does: sheep go right and goats go left. In this scenario, He welcomes the sheep into heaven by reviewing their compassion, hospitality, and generosity.  It takes them by surprise. When did they do all this? Loving their neighbors had become first nature to them; they never gave it a second thought.

But their surprise pales in comparison to the goats on His left. He turns to them and recites the same list, only in their case He says they failed to do these things. This outrages them and they become defensive. “Lord,” they protest, “we always helped you!” They quickly discover serving God means nothing if we fail to serve others. “By neglecting the least of these, you neglected me,” He replies before sending them away.

In Attendance

This story came to mind with early reports from Mexico City, where 22,000 people are gathered for the 17^th annual World AIDS Conference. Scientists, healthcare workers, activists, advocates, ministers, and other concerned global citizens are there in attendance on behalf of the least. And, whatever religious beliefs they do or don’t have, our faith assures us their sacrifices and care won’t go unnoticed or unrewarded.

This pernicious virus continues to stalk the weakest, most vulnerable victims it can find. It exploits fear rooted in ignorance, superstition, and discrimination. This turns our attention to sub-Saharan Africa, where over 22 million people are infected. But no culture is safe from unfounded fright. Just this week, two news items prove this: China refuses to lift its ban on HIV-positive tourists for the upcoming Olympics and the Centers for Disease Control increased its previously announced US infection rate by 40 percent. In America, AIDS persists by coercing silence and shame from its victims and denial from society at large.

Disease and Dis-ease

As gay people, we’ve got used to living with AIDS. Some of us actually embrace it. We abandon any effort to protect others or us, mistaking recklessness for defiance. And we defy anyone to tell us what to do with our bodies and our lives. Whether or not we’re actually spreading disease, we’re undoubtedly spawning dis-ease. Accepting AIDS as a fact of life and then ignoring it is a deadly proposition. Anyone should understand the alarm and discomfort this causes.

By all means, GLBT Christians must attend to the sick. With AIDS, however, we should enlarge our scope of those we look after. While we extend ourselves to the physically ill, we can’t overlook the spiritually weak. If we choose to “understand” our brothers and sisters who endanger themselves and others and don’t try to steer them gently to safety, we’re like the goats in Jesus’s story. We neglect them and Him. People may love us for being polite, but are we really loving them? Might we be killing them with kindness? It’s as true now as it was almost 30 years ago: Silence = Death.