It was supposed to be an ordinary, six-month dental cleaning. I’ve done it countless times. I can almost sleep through the whole thing at this point. Walk in, trade a few mindless observations with the hygienist, lay back, get my teeth scraped, pray she doesn’t hit my gum line with that pointy thing, get polished, rinse, take my new toothbrush, and head home.
Interspersed throughout this routine would be the usual reprimands for not flossing correctly or brushing more frequently. Displaying sincere penitence, I would vow to do better in the future. I knew the drill (no pun intended).
However, something was said in the early moments of my most recent appointment that flat-out messed with my mind. My hygienist was new and eager to make a positive first impression. Draped in a blue-green floral smock suitable only for dental visits and high school art classes, she adjusted the headset of the seat to maximize my comfort. We began with some dental x-rays. Forgive the tangent here, but am I the only one who wonders whether these energy beams that have the ability to penetrate skin and bone are entirely safe? One only needs to be the recipient to wonder. Have you noticed that when you’re the one being tested, after the technician gets you and the lens in the perfect position, s/he runs out of the room quicker than if someone just released the Ebola virus, and practically hides undercover before activating the equipment?
Meanwhile, the only thing separating me from radiation sickness is one of those little chest protector things that Little League home plate umpires used to wear. Expecting a mushroom cloud to form over my torso, I am relieved when it’s over and I can still form sentences.
After being properly nuked, I was handed a small remote and told I could watch whatever I wanted on the small monitor attached to the chair. (And they had cable. Hello, ESPN!) She naked that napkin/bib thing around my neck and clasped it in the back. Awaiting the first scrape, I settled in. That’s when she said it.
Standing behind me, I heard the disembodied voice of my hygienist announce, “And according to your file, you drove up to Akron to spend Thanksgiving.”
Innocuous on the surface, I have to admit this kind of knowledge of my personal life from someone I had only met minutes before was a tad bit unsettling. “What’s it any of your business?” I inwardly wondered. “Are you wondering how my bicuspids held up with the sweet potato pie? Did you see trace amounts of cranberry sauce on my canines?”
It took me a few beats to answer. Why was this small piece of minutia so crucial to my overall dental health that it made it into my hallowed chart? This led to the next obvious question: What else is in there? “Matt enjoys long walks on the beach, watches generous amounts of public television, frequently listens to jazz fusion, favors Italian cuisine, collects Norman Rockwell memorabilia, roots for the Chicago Cubs, and has a tattoo of a Bible on his left ankle”? (This, of course, isn’t entirely true … I don’t really like jazz fusion.) Was this the Patriot Act run amuck? Has the American Dental Association covertly become absorbed into the department of Homeland Security? Am I a security risk–part of the Axis of Evil? Was I being labeled an enemy combatant?
Not quite. It was just a random bit of information from my conversation with my hygienist last November–and some latent paranoia running wild–but you have to admit it would freak you out a bit. It’s kind of scary to be known.
In my brief time of ministry, I’ve come to realize most people love to have information but don’t want the responsibility of stewarding it. Nobody knows what we know about these kids, and outside of anything illegal or harmful activity, the information is ours and ours alone. That’s a spiritual burden of leadership few can carry. Be Christ-like in your acquiring and holding of information.
If handled with integrity, we build a bridge with a student that lasts a lifetime. Show your kids they can be known without being penalized. They¹ll realize they have a Lord who does the same.
