Chapter One: I’m stumbling through my presentation about a young man I’ve just seen, a patient with thick red hair and a kind voice who has Marfan syndrome. A key feature of the syndrome is cardiac valve abnormalities, and I’m struggling to describe them. The attending physician at the clinic smiles, asks me a few questions, and then walks back to the patient’s room with me. Introducing himself, he asks the young man if he can listen to his heart with me. And then, sound by sound, he explains — to me and the patient — what I’m hearing, and what it tells us about the heart valves. The attending physician’s name is Francis Collins.
I am a 21-year-old medical student at the University of Michigan. Dr. Collins is already internationally recognized for his discovery of the major genes that cause cystic fibrosis, and for the chromosome jumping technique that allows him in the next few years to identify genes responsible for other major diseases. I learn that scientific giants can also be master clinicians. I learn that the best doctors treat medical students as colleagues, and patients as treasured people worthy of respect.
Chapter Two: I’m in a small group of medical students who have invited Dr. Collins to talk about the intersection of faith and science. He insists that faith and science are compatible and synergistic. That doesn’t sit well with some other scientists. His science is unimpeachable, but some want to add an asterisk to it — this comes from that guy who insists on talking about his faith. When he presents the overwhelming evidence for evolution in his books, there is derision and rejection from the other side. Evangelical churches say he can’t be a Christian and embrace the theory of evolution. Yet he presses on, talking to both groups in what sometimes seems like a quixotic quest to keep faith and science in dialogue in a world that feels they must be kept apart.
Chapter Three: Years after we last met, Dr. Collins becomes director of the NIH. I am now a junior faculty member at the University of Minnesota. I send him a brief email of congratulations, not expecting a reply. To my surprise, he not only replies saying that he remembers me, but invites me to visit him if I am ever on the NIH campus. I do meet him early one morning, in a slot he clears before his usual heavy slate of meetings. He is as warm, thoughtful and funny as ever. We talk about interesting books we’ve recently read. He pushes back, gently but firmly, on my contention that the NIH is emphasizing very large awards at the cost of the traditional single investigator R01. The man who is now director of the most powerful scientific institute in the world makes time for a student who met him only a handful of times years before, and engages with me now as a colleague.
Chapter Four: A decade later, COVID-19 hits the country. As Director of the NIH, Dr. Collins leads the country with grace and courage through the public health and scientific challenges caused by a completely new virus. His commitment to rigorous science to combat COVID-19 saves hundreds of thousands of lives, but brings on criticism as well as acclaim. At a Braver Angels forum — an organization dedicated to bridging America's political divides — he says that he and his colleagues should have considered more carefully how pandemic interventions like prolonged school closures would affect child well-being. His honest assessment turns into headlines: “Francis Collins admits mistakes during COVID-19.” As if honesty about failure is a weakness, rather than the hallmark of good science. I wonder, again, why he insists on trying to have dialogue across what seems to be an impassable political divide, particularly when some of his inquisitors seem unconcerned with actual data or evidence.
Chapter Five: Dr. Collins retires in 2025, after a trailblazing scientific career of more than 40 years. I wonder, as I have often over the years: how do we measure the impact and contributions of this man? Should we focus on his individual scientific contributions — the discovery of numerous disease-causing genes and the mapping of the human genome? His research output as one of the most cited scientists of his generation? His leadership at the NIH through multiple administrations and the COVID-19 crisis? His work in building bipartisan support for research? His obstinate insistence on bridging faith and science? When I was working at a mission hospital in Nigeria as a resident, colleagues there told me that during Dr. Collins’ month-long visit a few years before, he had saved the life of a man by draining the fluid that was compressing the man’s heart. Years later, I invited Dr. Collins to have a conversation with graduate and medical students at the annual conference of the American Society of Tropical Medicine and Hygiene. In that discussion, I reminded him of this incident. It stuck with me because it showed how this great scientist was always, at the core, a great doctor as well. Dr. Collins smiled and said he remembered that patient well because the next day, the patient asked him, “Do you know why you came here?” Dr. Collins said he felt a little annoyed, because of course he knew why he came to the hospital, but before he could respond, the man said, quietly, “You came here for me.”
Those of us who have learned from him — thousands of us — could say the same thing. You came here for us. We learned from you that a life of quiet integrity is a life well-lived, and that staying true to one’s principles, no matter what the cost, is an accomplishment bigger than any award. And that may be the best measure of this remarkable man.
