005- Bad Medicine

October 2004

As I’ve spoken with others walking through grief, I’ve noticed something consistent: it often hits hardest in the quiet moments. When the noise of life fades, when the distractions subside, we feel the vacuum left by loss. We glance backward and realize the distance from our loved one is growing. Time keeps moving, and with it, some things begin to fade—things we wish would never be forgotten.

That fading has made me wonder:What will remain when the process is done?

Which memories will last?

And why do some vanish while others stay rooted?

Reflecting on these questions, and how grief has reshaped me, I’ve come to recognize something: many of us don’t appreciate the complexity of life itself—not the world around us, but the life within us. I’m talking about identity, memory, personality… the essence of who we are. Where is all of that truly stored?

Think about that for a moment.Most people, myself included, instinctively answer: “the brain.”

But in light of Scripture, that answer seems incomplete. Consider the Gospel account of Lazarus and the rich man in Luke 16:

Even without his physical body, the rich man could speak, feel, reason, and recall. His memory, emotion, and identity persisted—even in Sheol. Science teaches us that memory, thought, and personality are functions of the brain. So… which is correct—science or Scripture?

That question should feel uncomfortable. And yet, most people I’ve asked simply shrug.

I think that’s because many have given up trying to reconcile the supposed divide between science and faith. They no longer feel the need to. Science, we’re told, is the only rational framework for understanding the universe. Stories like Lazarus and the rich man are reduced to symbolism and fantasy, as are Jesus' commands. His identity. His mission.

And yet, even as we trust science to explain the how, we still carry questions science admits it cannot answer or simply denies matter: Why am I here? What is my purpose?

That’s the one area where many turn to religion. Many choose Buddhism for its focus on the alleviation of suffering. Catholicism for its ritual. Christianity for its hope. But all that does is reduce them subjectively and turns faith into tool for managing feelings.

But Christianity isn’t just another subjective belief system. It claims something no other religion can: a foundation of objective, historical, and logical truth. When we treat Christianity as a matter of emotion or experience alone, we undermine that truth and the very ground beneath our feet.

Experience without reason is fragile—because when tragedy outweighs our emotional “highs,” what are we left with?

That’s where this ties into grief and memory.

When my dad died, the experience was devastating—strong enough to flatten any “positive” spiritual emotions I had. If my faith had been based solely on feelings, I would have walked away from it entirely. But I didn’t—because my faith is grounded in more than emotion. It’s rooted in evidence. That doesn’t mean science proves God. But it does mean faith and reason aren’t enemies.

Faith, biblically defined, is belief in what is not yet seen—not belief in what is irrational.

And that’s why I believe memory is part of the soul. Our brain, like the rest of our body, is the tool through which the soul interacts with the world. The mind processes, stores, and recalls—but it’s not the origin. This view has helped me make sense of what happens when memories begin to fade—through age, disease, or even grief. We live in bodies that are dying, and those bodies interfere with the clarity of something eternal.

But those memories aren’t lost forever.I believe I’ll get them back.When I pass on—when I’m no longer bound by this body—my soul will remember again.

Holding that belief helps me better discern the difference between physical and spiritual problems. If we treat spiritual wounds with physical remedies, we’re just numbing symptoms. If we treat physical wounds with spiritual platitudes, we’re ignoring the broken leg for the broken heart. Both matter. But we have to diagnose correctly to heal effectively.

So I’ll ask you:

Do you know what’s really causing the problems in your life?

Are they internal or external?

Are they rooted in body—or in soul?

Naturalism (the philosophy underpinning modern science) tells us we are animals, nothing more. That our thoughts, feelings, memories, and desires are just biochemical reactions. But if that were true, we’d be justified in blaming every problem on a physical cause. We wouldn’t need to ask deeper questions. But Scripture teaches that we are more. And if that’s true, we can’t ignore the spiritual.

Before we can treat spiritual wounds, we have to start with the soul. The Bible tells us we are born separated from God—spiritually dead because of sin. But it also tells us that God made a way to restore life. Through Jesus—His perfect life and death—we are offered forgiveness. If we accept that gift, we are made alive again—spiritually now, and eternally in the life to come.

I never knew for sure if my father accepted that truth. That uncertainty is hard. But early on in my grief, I made a choice to believe that he did—not just because I wanted to, but because his life bore signs of it. I had the chance to share the gospel with him, and he heard it. He saw it in me. That gives me peace.

There was a simplicity to my father that I admire deeply. He had a quiet ability to tune out distractions and focus on what mattered. In today’s world—so full of noise and endless input—that’s a rare and invaluable skill. Maybe that's why we struggle so much to think about questions like:Where are memories stored? What is the soul? Who are we, really?

Getting through this grief has required a brutal kind of honesty. I’ve had to admit things I didn’t want to—some of which have made their way into these journals. If we can’t be honest with ourselves, we’ll end up chasing the wrong solutions. We’ll take bad medicine for spiritual wounds. And we won’t be able to help others either.

I’ve wrestled with how to end this journal entry. Even now, I’m not sure. It’s a complex subject. One I’m still trying to understand.

But I’ll leave you with this:G.K. Chesterton once wrote, “The problem with Christianity is not that it has been tried and found wanting, but that it has been found difficult and therefore left untried.”

I think he was right.