Have you ever wondered why a patient in the hospital is called, well, a patient in the hospital?

The word "patient" comes from the same root word as "passion." When Christians think about the Passion of Christ, they commonly, and correctly, think of his suffering. To suffer, however, did not mean then what it means now. We limit the word today to describe experiences of pain and loss. Then, the word was rather colorless, devoid of any judgment. Then, to "suffer" simply meant "to endure all things, both good and ill, when people and circumstances are beyond our control."

This meaning is captured by another word in our contemporary vocabulary derived from the same root: "passive." The Passion of Christ then is the term we use to describe the days of Jesus' greatest vulnerability: when he was "delivered over" to the authorities; when he ceased being the subject driving the activity and instead became the object of the activity. From action to passion. Recall the words from Hebrews: "Although [Jesus] was a Son, He learned obedience from the things which He suffered" (Hebrews 5:8). Jesus learned submission, in both mind and heart, from all he endured, whether good or ill, at the hands of another or of life itself.

Which is why a patient in the hospital is called, well, a patient in the hospital. He's been delivered over to the custody of another. From action to passion.

Some twenty-five years ago, my father was hospitalized with a mysterious neurological disorder. The symptoms included a sense that every nerve ending was exposed. The slightest touch of another, even the weight of a common bed sheet, elicited desperate cries from my father. When I arrived at the hospital in the Southern California suburb of Burbank, he was laying on his side, helplessly clutching the bed rail like an infant clinging to his mother, a frightened look in his eyes.

After a brief conversation, I stepped out into the hall to process what I had just witnessed. At that very moment, at the end of the long hospital corridor, a young orderly effortlessly hoisted a light metal chair over his shoulder, bound for another room. I recall thinking, "Yesterday, my dad could bear the burden of that chair; twenty-four hours later, he's incapable of bearing the weight of his own body. Overnight, my father had moved from action to passion, from a place of perceived strength to vulnerability, when he ceased to be the subject driving the activity and, instead, became the object of the activity.

As I write this, I was scheduled to fly to Kentucky to begin a week of teaching on spiritual transformation. Last night, American Airlines called and left a message that my flight had been canceled. I was re-booked by a computer on a flight tonight, resulting in the cancellation of the first session of teaching. And so I wait. From action to passion. How will my spirit respond when asked "to endure all things, both good and ill, when people and circumstances are beyond our control"? What will my disposition reveal? Will I "learn submission," or will I become impatient, frustrated, distracted, angry?  

Patience. It's yet another word from the same family: passion, passive, patient, patience. How might the disposition of either patience or impatience be the "miner's canary," either affirming or warning us of our spirit's direction?

Why do you suppose our culture and age admires action more than passion? What's the risk?

Here's an opportunity to go deep "see" fishing: how is waiting akin to loving? If you find it difficult to wait, do you find it difficult to love? What's the learning?