Brent Pollard
A Providential Conversation Beside a Ventilator
Circumstances recently brought another respiratory technician into my home to check my ventilator and oxygen equipment. Since he may be assuming my case permanently, he took time not only to inspect the machinery but also to understand the man attached to it. He offered practical advice—small adjustments that might improve life with a ventilator, supplemental oxygen, tubing, alarms, and all the quiet burdens that come with depending on breath delivered through machines.
As we finished the adjustments, our conversation moved from technical matters to deeper themes, gradually shifting from respiration to faith.
Learning that I was a Christian, he asked, “Have you ever heard of laminin?”
I had not.
He told me to look it up on the tablet beside me. What I found was fascinating. Laminins are proteins that help hold the body together. Like an internal glue, they bind cells to the basement membrane, interact with collagen and other extracellular matrix components, provide strength and elasticity to tissues, and even help guide cell growth, migration, differentiation, and repair. When laminins malfunction, serious disorders can result. When they function properly, they serve quietly and faithfully, supporting the body’s structure from within, much like hidden scaffolding holding up a house.
As I read, I noticed what had prompted my technician’s smile.
Laminin has a cruciform shape.
The “molecular glue” that holds the body together resembles a cross.
Christ the One Who Holds All Things Together
The mind naturally runs to Paul’s words: “He is before all things, and in Him all things hold together” (Colossians 1.17, NASB95).
That verse is not a sentimental caption for a science poster but a thunderclap—a realization of Christ’s active role. He is not merely a comforting figure outside creation. He is the eternal Son through whom all things came into being (John 1.3), and in whom atoms, stars, cells, breath, memory, mercy, and meaning find their coherence and unity.
The world is not a machine Christ occasionally repairs; it is a creation upheld by Him. Scripture says He sustains all by His word. Creation is held at each moment by divine command.
That does not mean laminin proves Christianity. Faith does not rest on the shape of a protein. The resurrection of Jesus Christ is not dependent upon molecular diagrams. Yet creation is full of hints, echoes, and parables for those with eyes to see. The heavens declare God’s glory (Psalm 19.1), and apparently, even the microscopic world may whisper of His wisdom.
The Cross Beneath the Surface
There is something fitting—almost too fitting—that a cross-shaped protein should be associated with bodily cohesion. For the cross is where the brokenness of all things meets the reconciling love of God.
Sin tears apart. It separates man from God, neighbor from neighbor, soul from body, desire from holiness, and creation from its intended harmony. We feel that tearing in hospitals and homes, in grief and guilt, in strained relationships, in bodies that refuse to work as they should. Mutation, decay, disease, and death all testify that creation groans (Romans 8.22).
But Christ does not merely observe the groaning. He enters it.
The Creator stepped into His creation. The One through whom the world was made became a man within that world (John 1.10, 14). He breathed our air, felt our fatigue, touched diseased skin, wept at a tomb, and allowed Roman nails to fasten Him to wood. The One holding all things together permitted Himself to be torn apart.
There is the wonder: the sustaining Lord became the suffering Lamb.
When Weakness Becomes a Window
Living with illness and machines can make the body feel less like a temple than a frail tent. Paul described this as groaning under mortality, longing for life (2 Corinthians 5.1–4). He also learned that weakness allows grace to shine: “My grace is sufficient for you, for power is perfected in weakness” (2 Corinthians 12.9, NASB95).
That does not make suffering pleasant. Christianity is not the art of pretending pain is beautiful. A ventilator alarm at three in the morning is not romantic. Shortness of breath does not become poetic because one can attach a theological lesson to it.
But suffering can become holy ground when it brings us face to face with our dependence. By “holy ground,” I mean a place where God’s presence and our need meet. Every breath has always been borrowed. Every heartbeat has always been mercy. Health can disguise this truth; weakness reveals it. The man on oxygen is not uniquely dependent on God. He is merely less able to pretend otherwise.
God’s Glory in the Hidden Places
We often look for God in the dramatic—in parted seas, burning bushes, opened tombs, and thunder from Sinai. He is there, surely. But He is also present in the hidden architecture of ordinary life—in proteins, tissues, lungs, cells, and breath. By “architecture,” I mean the underlying structure that supports everything. He is no less glorious because He also works quietly. A whisper may reveal majesty as surely as a storm.
The lesson of laminin is not that we should build doctrine from biology, but that we should receive creation as a theater of divine glory. The microscope does not replace Scripture. It kneels beside it. Scripture tells us who holds all things together. Science lets us glimpse some of the means by which that holding appears in the created order.
And if one of those means happens to bear the form of a cross, perhaps we may be forgiven for pausing in worship.
The Practical Faith of Being Held
So what do we do with such a reflection?
First, we remember that our lives are not held together by our strength. That is good news, because our strength often fails.
Second, we entrust our bodies to the Lord without making health an idol. We seek treatment, listen to technicians, take medicine, use machines, and thank God for every skillful hand. Practical care is not a lack of faith. It is one of the ordinary channels through which God shows mercy.
Third, we let the cross interpret our weakness. The cross tells us that God’s love is not proven by the absence of suffering but by His willingness to enter it and redeem it. Calvary does not answer every question we ask in pain, but it answers the deepest one: “Is God for me?” In Christ, the answer is yes (Romans 8.31–32).
Resting in the One Who Holds Us
Long before microscopes revealed the body’s hidden structures, the apostles proclaimed a greater mystery: Christ created, sustains, reconciles, and will one day renew all things (Colossians 1.16–20; Revelation 21.5). Laminin may hold cells in place, but Christ is the true support, holding together the soul, the body, the church, the cosmos, and the future.
I do not know what early Christians would have thought had they seen a cross-shaped protein through a microscope. Perhaps they would have smiled. Perhaps they would have bowed their heads. Perhaps they would have said what faith has always said when creation gives up one more secret of its Maker: “This, too, belongs to Him.”
And so do we.
Whether breathing freely or with assistance, whether strong or frail, whether standing in sunlight or lying beside humming machines, the believer is not held by accident, biology, or willpower alone. We are held by the crucified and risen Christ. Beneath us are the everlasting arms (Deuteronomy 33.27). Before us is resurrection. Within us is His Spirit. Above us is His glory.
And at the center of it all stands the cross—not merely as a shape hidden in the body, but as the saving truth by which God holds together everything sin tried to tear apart.
