Wise Counsel

Do no harm.

That simple vow defines the work of every practicing physician, but it could well be applied to every human existence. What more powerful good could we accomplish? What better counsel before undertaking any activity or project? What wonderful guidance to consider before speaking to anyone! Think of all the trouble that could be averted. Think of all the damage avoided if this simple counsel led us more often. Think of all the hurt, turmoil, and regret that could be nonexistent if we followed this dictum.

Do no harm.

Yet, for a lot of folks that makes it too simple. It does not go far enough or deep enough. To simply avoid doing harm does nothing for the plethora of already existing problems. It is kid of like buying health insurance after the horrendous diagnosis—a little too late (and no insurance company would take the risk, either). To do no harm is an assurance that at least we won’t add to the troubles all around us, but it could also release us from feeling any responsibility or direction to do anything about them. 

I suppose, but that vow doesn’t lead a physician to bar the door against the sick who come into the office—“I’m sorry, I would have seen you before you got sick, but not now—the harm is already done.”

Instead, what the vow does is lead to the work of healing. That directive against doing harm shapes and forms the physician’s response—she will do nothing to make things worse, but rather all actions will be aimed at making things better. Healing comes as harm is nullified. 

Now we begin to see how this dictum can shape our practice of faith.

We readily acknowledge the world’s need of and hunger for healing grace. As I have said many times, John Calvin’s most realistic and profound doctrine was Total Depravity. Sure, it seems to completely disparage human life and potential, but the truth is that Calvin was far more interested in grace than condemnation. A physician can do nothing if the patient refuses to admit an illness; likewise, God can do little with a heart loudly proclaiming its health. Here, we fully understand Christ’s dismissal of the Pharisees who could not understand his predilection for the hopelessly lost in their eyes. They know their illness; they are open to healing. The Pharisees, contrarily, proclaim their spiritual wholeness and well-being, blinded to their frailty, failure, and feebleness—something obvious to Christ who stands as the Son of God completely anonymous to these self-sanctified saints of God. So, Jesus dismisses them, “The well have no need for a physician…” So, as we recoil from Total Depravity, we do so at our peril. What Calvin was trying to do was to keep us from harming ourselves—another vital expression of the dictum of doing no harm. He knew we needed to see the reflection in the mirror for what it was—a true depiction of a human being in dreadful need of grace.

Accept the diagnosis.

Then realize that it applies to all of us everywhere, all the time.

We can now begin to move into doing something about all of those problems that beset us. We are all healers in the presence of Christ, becoming the embodiment of his healing love as we meet one another in kindness, acceptance, and compassion. As we do so, we find that grace works both ways—both for the gracious and the recipient of it. As we care for others, we find ourselves fuller, richer, and more alive. We find our own breaks mending, our own hurts fading, and our weaknesses made into strengths (note—this is why AA uses only recovering alcoholics to help active alcoholics—it takes one healing to help others to heal). 

So, yes, it is an absurdly simple dictum—do no harm. 

But as with so many simple thoughts, it only becomes more and more profound as we put it into practice.

Try it.