Stoos Views

Who am I? Why am I?

(The Anguish of a Human Clone)

“So God created man in his own image, in the image of God created he him; male and female created he them.” [Gen. 1:27 KJV] 

   “I can guarantee to a 99 percent certainty that I will not give birth to any monsters.”[Dr. Severino Antinori, on his project to create the first human clone.] 

              I was an experiment—the first of my kind. Am I supposed to be happy about this? To revel in the glory of being the first? Others, who gave no apparent thought to me, believed that it was important for me to be created. Who and what gave them this right, I will never know. Their scientific curiosity, their self-righteousness, their vanity and their unbridled arrogance were my genesis. Their foolish notion that the creation of Man by Man was a good or noble thing, an inevitability; that persons such as I should be created simply because it was possible—this is what brought me here. What did they really know? No one thought of me—not in the least. I did not ask to be born—not in this way. Neither did I choose to look this way. “Imperfections,” they called it. After all, I was the first. Am I supposed to be grateful that I was not more hideously deformed?

            My donor “parent,” my paternal source [my father? twin? duplicate?]—I am told I look somewhat like him. Except, of course, for my disfigured face. I never knew him, but they told me that I act like him, talk like him and that I possess the same keen intellect. My father/twin/donor—what was he like, really? What was I to him? Was he proud of me? Did he love me? Did he care for me at all? Or did he view me merely as a thing produced by technology? Did he agonize one moment over me, or worry what sort of life I, his creation, would have? Was love involved in the process in any way? My mother/donor/twin—who was she? They never told me. She loaned them an egg and the egg was filled with my father/twin/donor’s DNA. And here am I—living proof that Man can duplicate life and tempt God. Love did not create me—Science did. And this leaves me with an imponderable that I wrestle with every day: Who am I? Why am I?

            Did they ever think of this? Did they ever look past their blasphemous, selfish, thoughtless desire to play God and create life for the sake of creating it? Did they once think of me—these scientists, these father/mother donor units? They could not have. I hate them for this. How was I supposed to relate to the world, interact with the world? Long after they all died, and the experiment that was me continued to live in the world, how was I—the duplicate of lives already lived—supposed to think, and act, and survive? Did they once consider how I would view myself? How I would live without roots? Did they even remotely consider the torment they would inflict upon me?

            My parent/twin/donors were lucky. They had roots. They had parents who loved each other and produced their own kids through the act of love. Love played a part in that process; so did God. My parent/twin/donors, they lived original lives with all the possibilities that life offered and that their original DNA allowed. They did not live a duplicate life, as I do, here in this place. I am limited by this space to which they confine me. I live less than a life. I live lives already lived. There is nothing original about me—except for the fact that I was the first of my kind. This is no comfort. What they did all seems so sterile, so ignoble, so passionless. It shakes me to the core.  My creators cheated me, limited me, and destined me to live with limits, imperfections and torturous questions that haunt me every day. Imponderables race around in my head until I rage—“Who am I Why am I?”  I wish that I could confront them in their old age, grab them, shake them and make them answer these questions that plague me. However, they died early in my life. My parent/twin/donors and the scientists who created me are all gone. Now it is just me and these four walls. And the keepers who watch me, medicate me, and care for me.

            They give me books to read. They have kept me here all my life—here at the institute where I was manufactured. There were no laws to prevent them from doing this. I have no real parents except my donors and I do not even know what I was to them or they to me, really. I was raised here in this place, by my creators. They study me, and they care for me—as one would a valued possession, or an artifact. As things did not exactly go as planned, they keep me here in this prison that passes as a room. I am well aware of my surroundings—at least in my lucid moments. They say I am a genius. I read every thing I can. I was highly educated by them. But things are not exactly right with me. This I know full well. My mind is never at peace—until the medications. My mind races inside me like a dog chasing its tail. It never shuts down. I sleep sometimes, and it is welcome. Sometimes I never want to wake up. Mostly, I rage at my existence and wrestle with the imponderables they left me with. I am a duplicate, a freak, “unstable” they say. They do not let me out. I am a danger to the public they say. I am an embarrassment. I was not supposed to develop in the way that I did. It is easier to keep me here; there are fewer questions that way.

            I have read about this Frankenstein. I can relate to him. I understand him. Sometimes, when the Rage in my heart takes over, I want to kill them—my parent/twin/donors, the scientists who caused me to be created, and my keepers. They are my “roots,” such as they are. I hate them all because they cannot answer the imponderables. Why should they care? They were born; they lead original lives. Someone wanted them to be born. They are not curiosities. I get crazy and confused about things. They bring me medicine, and it makes me calm for awhile—until the Rage comes again. It is a strange life I lead—and not one of my choosing, or God’s either I think. I think of God often. I read about him—in one my books. The words comfort me and I want to believe them. They give me hope. What does He think of me? He did not create me as the others were created. Does He nevertheless love me as other men who were born into original lives? Do I have a soul like those into whom He breathed the Breath of Life? I hope so. I cannot wait to go to a better place. I want my creators to go to a bad place. I have read about that too. They created Hell on earth for me. I want them to experience it too.

            Where was the human race when my creators first openly bragged about creating life? Where was the moral outrage? Was no one concerned about this affront to God the Creator? Where was the revulsion? Where was the fear that God would simply point His finger at the world and say: “You have gone too far!” and decimate all of Creation by a simple wave of His hand? Did no one speak out? Did no one fear God’s wrath in the least? Was humanity so indifferent to this that no one lifted a finger to stop it? Did not one voice cry out, “Stop”?  I have never stopped paying for a sin that I did not even commit; I am sure that humanity has not even begun to pay for it. Who am I? Why am I?

Deo Gratias–Copyright (c) 2008, William Kevin Stoos

[As Appearing in the Adventist Review, (U.S. and Europe)]

            Four years ago I started my own business. It was the scariest thing I have ever done. Reinventing myself at the age of fifty, leaving a secure and lucrative position to start my own firm was a challenge that I was not strong enough to tackle on my own. Of that I was certain. So, I turned my professional and personal life over to God, went to church daily and prayed a lot. I asked Him for guidance and for strength. I did not ask for wealth or riches or to be the most successful guy in the world. I just asked for the strength to get me through and to guide me along the way. Since then, I can say without reservation that He has blessed me every day in every way and allowed me to succeed beyond my wildest expectations.

            For what my small gesture was worth, I told Him that I would give Him the credit and the praise for blessing my venture, each and every day. He guided me every day, through troubling and challenging times, never failed me and reinforced my faith that “I can do all things in Him who strengtheneth me.” So, when people would ask me how I did this, I simply tell them: “I say my prayers, because I am not strong enough to do this on my own.” The answer often surprises people, but it is the truth.  I stand in awe of what He has done for me and how my blessings have multiplied. There are times when I am overcome with a sense of gratitude so overpowering that I feel the need to do something more, to give Him more thanks and praise.  I wondered how I could better fulfill my promise to give Him credit every day, in every way.

            It dawned on me that I send out scores of letters each day, to clients, friends, opponents, vendors and a host of others. As this opportunity was given to me in the first place, why not use it to minister in a very small way, by thanking Him in writing? So, I added to the firm letterhead a simple phrase that said it all: Deo Gratias.  It was unobtrusive, and set out in small case, but you could not read the letter without reading the phrase. Latin for “Thanks be to God,” it was my small way of saying each day, every day, thanks. I do not want to be a pious person. It was not meant to be pious. It was meant simply to say, thanks, and to let people know that I am not ashamed to be weak or uncertain or to rely totally on my faith to get me through.

            I did not know what, if anything, to expect from this gesture. Frankly I did not expect anything at all. However, the response from people to this insignificant gesture has been interesting. Once a close family member asked me if I should have my three Jesus paintings on the wall of my office. After all, she said, mine was a business office. Did this fit? Was it appropriate?  Well, I liked the paintings. They inspire me. They are classics, and I like to look at them now and then. She asked me if they would offend clients. I did not think so; however, if anyone was offended by them, I probably did not want to work for them anyway. I felt the same way about the new letterhead. It was not an in-your-face gesture; it was not meant to offend anyone and it was not really an offensive thing. Most people would not even know what it meant. They just knew it was Latin and a lot of legal terms are derived from Latin, so most people would not pay much attention to it.

            I have found that, indeed, most people don’t know what it means, don’t care, and don’t say anything about it. Some people call me or write me with the message: “Way to go!” or “Deo Gratias—yeah!” Some people actually think it is cool. Some people read it and ask my staff or me what it means. I view this as a small opportunity to tell them what it means and why I use it. It was simply a way of giving Him credit and reaffirming my faith. If anyone had been offended by it, I did not know. However, one call stood out from all the others, and remains etched in my memory.

            Not long ago, I received a call from an attorney whom I barely knew. He was peripherally involved in a case with me. It was a strange call, which began with: “Boy are you brave!”   This odd greeting caught me entirely off guard. What did he mean, I asked. The tone of the remark was cynical and derisive. “You know,” he said, “Deo Gratias.” He had apparently just received a letter from me. I replied forthrightly, “Thanks be to God; it means thanks be to God. I thank Him every day for what I have been given.”  After an awkward pause, he replied, quietly, that he knew what it meant. Basically, he said, no one does that. Apparently, I was not politically correct. Then, he said curtly, “Well, God has not been good to me.”  I told him I was sorry he felt that way–just before he abruptly hung up the phone. I am not sure we even conducted any business. The whole bizarre conversation seemed to revolve around my letterhead.  Something about this brief dialogue bothered me.

            The conversation caused me to wonder, since when is it “brave” to simply say “Thank God” in public?  “Brave” is such an inappropriate adjective to describe the simple act of thanking the Creator. This country was settled by people who came here to thank God without fear of persecution. It was given birth by men and women who risked everything to create a country in which each could thank God in his or her own way. It bothered me to think that anyone in this country would consider it “brave” to simply thank God in public. I shudder to think that this small gesture would be considered odd, unusual, inappropriate, or daring in any way. I would not like to live in a place where it is brave or risky or daring to thank God in public. I know of such places, and I do not want to live in them.

            “Brave,” is allowing yourself to be tortured, humiliated before your family and friends, nailed to a tree, gasping for breath as you endure a hideous death. Brave is going out into the world like sheep to the slaughter, spreading the Gospel in hostile places, being tortured, hung upside down or eaten by wild beasts, for the sake of your faith. Brave is a missionary in a foreign land who is kidnapped and shot for his beliefs. Brave is being a Christian in Africa, and the Middle East, where you can be tortured and killed for simply being a Christian.  Brave is being a Christian in China where you must hold church in secret, hide your faith and are arrested if the Government catches you thanking God or praising His son. To suggest that publishing a simple phrase on a piece of paper thanking God for what He has done for you is brave, is just wrong. And it is an insult to suggest this, in light of the true bravery exhibited by those people in the world who actually suffer for their faith every day–unlike us. If it has become politically incorrect for private persons to publicly thank God for His blessings, then I fear for us and what we have become.

            America is the easiest place in the world to be a Christian, or anything else for that matter. It is the easiest place in the world to go to church, practice your faith, thank God, and live in the certainty that no one will harm you or think you odd if you do. It is the easiest place in the world to say Deo Gratias. And no people on earth have more reason to do so.

 William Kevin Stoos, P.C.

Deo Gratias

3737 Grandview Boulevard, Sioux City, Iowa 51104