Ah, the sacred atrium of St. Paul’s Episcopal Church in downtown Richmond. A place where, once a month, Virginia Commonwealth University’s preclinical medical students descend from their ivory tower of textbooks to bestow blood pressure checks, glucose readings, and earnest eye contact upon the “vulnerable” masses. Welcome to health care’s most wholesomely awkward cosplay: The Benevolent Med Student Outreach Clinic™.
Let’s be clear: the students mean well. And that’s part of what makes this both beautiful and hilariously ripe for commentary. It’s a heartwarming story, sure—but it’s also the kind of story that screams, “Late-stage capitalism needs a hug and some insulin.”
Medicine Meets Ministry: Or, How to Diagnose a Systemic Collapse With a Glucometer
The Emmaus Lunch Ministry is doing God’s work, literally and metaphorically. Free hot meals, social service referrals, and donated items all flow freely at St. Paul’s. And now, thanks to SFMA (Student Family Medicine Association), so does the sweet, sweet privilege of knowing your systolic and diastolic pressure on a Tuesday afternoon.
Let’s not pretend this isn’t a stark portrait of what passes for a “healthcare safety net” in 2025 America. Want your blood glucose checked? Better find Jesus. Or at least a church with some medical students and a pulse oximeter funded by a leftover diabetes lesson plan.
But hey, no co-pays, no surprise billing, and the blood pressure cuff isn’t trying to sell your data to an insurance algorithm—so it’s already doing better than half of U.S. healthcare.
The Preclinical Do-Gooder Pipeline
Meet Samara Shabon, a student who says interacting with the community gives her “energy and joy.” Translation: “After memorizing every branch of the brachial plexus, it’s kind of nice to meet a human who isn’t a multiple-choice question.”
Don’t get it twisted—this is no knock on the students. They’re earnest, idealistic, and genuinely trying to help. But there’s something deeply off-kilter about training the future doctors of America by sending them into a soup kitchen to take someone’s vitals in between ladles of chili and side glances about whether they’re really qualified to wield that stethoscope.
They are technically preclinical students, which means they’re just far enough into med school to know how terrifyingly little they actually know. So, imagine being unhoused, hypertensive, and suddenly having a 22-year-old named Bryce (who just finished a pop quiz on beta-blockers) telling you about your elevated BP. It’s both inspiring and mildly terrifying.
Diabetic Empathy by Saline Syringe™
Let’s take a moment to appreciate the surreal genius of the diabetes immersion session. As part of a lecture, med students are asked to inject themselves with saline (saline, people—not even the fun kind) to simulate insulin injections. They’re even encouraged to wear continuous glucose monitors for 10 days.
Because nothing says understanding chronic disease management quite like pretending to stab yourself in the stomach before going out for sushi.
Honestly, though, good on them. Trying to walk a mile in a diabetic’s Crocs is more than most politicians are willing to do before cutting Medicaid funding. Still, it’s a little wild that our solution to a failing system is: let's make students pretend they’re sick so they can better care for people who actually are.
Spoiler alert: no one pretended to be unhoused. That part of the curriculum remains mysteriously absent.
The Equipment Hustle: From Grants to Glucometers
Let’s talk logistics. These students aren’t just showing up—they’re running a small operation. Supplies like lancets, gloves, and bandages are either donated or paid for through a 2021 grant from the American Association of Family Physicians.
Yes, 2021. Remember that era? When everyone was still in “let’s fix healthcare” mode after COVID? And now, years later, we’re watching donated glucometers get MacGyvered into a monthly health pop-up for the underserved. A real win-win, as one student called it, because it keeps expired supplies out of landfills and gets them into—wait for it—actual people.
The bar is so low, we’re applauding recycled medical supplies like they’re solar panels.
Mentorship, Microaggressions, and Measuring Systolic Dreams
Older students pass down wisdom to the newbies like a sacred rite. “Use the small cuff for skinnier arms.” “Don’t freak out if you hear nothing.” “Patients know when you’re bluffing.”
The advice is priceless, because in a system where many community members have been abandoned by primary care, students are essentially being told: “You’re it. Try not to kill anyone. Also, smile.”
And the guests? They’re saints. They patiently let these baby doctors poke, prod, and fumble through consultations with the warmth of someone who knows their participation is more about training the next generation than getting actual care. One guest even reassured the students: “You all are going to be great doctors.” That’s not just encouragement—that’s emotional labor.
The Gospel According to Chronic Disease
Many of the people served at the clinic face chronic conditions like diabetes and hypertension—conditions that require long-term management, consistent access to medication, and, you know, housing.
Ashley Le-Pham, one of the original organizers, mentions how difficult it is to manage these diseases when your basic needs aren’t met. It’s a point that should be obvious, yet somehow sounds revelatory every time a med student says it aloud. Like: Ohhh, right. You can’t refrigerate insulin in a tent under the bridge.
And then there’s the stigma. Shabon shares a poignant story about a guest who thought seeing a doctor meant he was sick. That’s the level of mistrust we’re dealing with. People are afraid to know, afraid to be labeled, and—understandably—afraid of a system that’s often failed them. It's heartbreaking. And it’s a reminder that what the students are doing, while small, actually matters.
Free Clinics: The Duct Tape of the American Medical System
Let’s be blunt: this clinic is amazing, but it shouldn't have to exist.
You know things are dire when the best hope for healthcare access is a monthly student-run event powered by recycled glucometers, one-time grants, and the goodwill of an Episcopal church’s atrium. This isn’t a solution—it’s triage wrapped in a feel-good narrative.
It’s the Band-Aid on a bullet wound. The granola bar in a famine. The hand sanitizer at the end of a sewage line. It’s duct tape medicine.
The community deserves actual doctors, regular access, and consistent follow-ups—not just the occasional blood pressure reading from a well-meaning 24-year-old who’s still figuring out where the spleen is.
A Sermon for the System: What This Clinic Teaches Us
In all seriousness, the Emmaus Lunch Ministry clinic teaches us a few key things:
-
People want to care for their health – if they’re given a safe, judgment-free, and affordable way to do so.
-
Medical students are more than walking debt accumulators – they’re full of compassion, idealism, and a willingness to serve.
-
The American healthcare system is still as cracked as a CVS receipt code scanner.
-
Community partnerships work, but they work best when they’re not filling in for what should be basic government responsibilities.
A Final Blessing
So, here’s to the scrubs-clad students at St. Paul’s, taking pulses and names and awkwardly navigating their way toward a career in medicine while shouldering the moral burden of a broken system. You’re doing God’s work—and also the government’s.
To the guests of the clinic: you are the most patient patients, and the reason these students will grow up to be better doctors than the ones who never left their labs.
To the rest of us: let this be a reminder that free isn’t always free. It’s powered by sweat, donated glucometers, and the very real possibility that a student might drop a stethoscope mid-reading.
So next time you hear a politician say “We have the best healthcare system in the world,” point them to this clinic and say, “Yeah? Then why do I need to know a med student to get my A1C checked in a church?”
Amen.
