January 22, 2009 - Method in the Madness?

I’ve been in Bradenton Beach, Florida this week, attending The Homiletical Feast – a preaching conference I attend each year. Not that Florida has offered any balmy weather: it’s been as low as 32 degrees here this week. The exegetical papers we’ve considered in the group have been high-quality, as usual, and the discussion and mutual support has been more valuable than words can say.

These 16 or so ministers are among my most valued colleagues. Over the years, they’ve become friends as well. We only meet once a year, but the four days we spend together are a time of talking, sharing and supporting one another, as we reflect on this demanding occupation.

Earlier today, one of my colleagues shared a poem by Larry Smith called “What You Realize When Cancer Comes.” He found it on Garrison Keillor’s The Writer’s Almanac program on American Public Radio. Here’s an excerpt:

“You will not live forever – No
you will not, for a ceiling of clouds
hovers in the sky.

You are not as brave
as you once thought.
Sounds of death
echo in your chest.

You feel the bite of pain,
the taste of it running
through you.

Following the telling to friends
comes a silence of
felt goodbyes. You come to know
the welling of tears.

Your children are stronger
than you thought and
closer to your skin.

The beauty of animals
birds on telephone lines,
dogs who look into your eyes,
all bring you peace.”

The poem ends with these words:

“You are in a river
flowing in and through you.
Take a breath. Reach out your arms.
You can survive.

A river is flowing
flowing in and through you.
Take a breath. Reach out your arms.”

The poem causes me to reflect on many of the things I’ve lived through, these past three years or so. One of the things I’ve struggled with, off and on, is the question: “Why?” What purpose is there in all this?

Smith’s poem captures the transformational aspect of cancer. When those of us who undertake this journey – however unwillingly – complete it, we are not the same people as when we began. Every step we take along the road changes us.

Thinking theologically, I’m led to ask once again what long-term purpose God may have in mind for my ministry. In allowing me to get this disease, curing me from its aggressive variety, then miring me in the interminable limbo of indolent lymphoma’s “watch and wait,” what’s God’s point? If it’s true, as we Presbyterians are inclined to think, that God calls men and women to ministry, then what call could there possibly be in cancer?

The Larry Smith poem suggests some possible reasons. “You will not live forever.” I have a visceral awareness of this truth, now, that has hitherto been a mere abstraction. “You are not as brave as you once thought.” No, indeed I’m not. I’m learning to live with uncertainty, and still rise to the challenges of daily living. “You can survive.” Yes, I can. I’m doing it. One day at a time.

I’ve had some difficulty sensing God’s will in the midst of follicular lymphoma. Aggressive cancer I can understand: it’s a challenge to be met, or die trying. Cured cancer I can likewise understand: it’s a triumph to be celebrated. But, this neither-here-nor-there, neither healthy-nor-unhealthy limbo, stretching on into the interminable future: what’s God up to?

Maybe the purpose is to nurture my empathy, my ability to connect with others. I’m not the only person whose life is fraught with ambiguity, is lived out in the gray country of uncertainty. Maybe I’m meant to be a fellow-traveler and accompany others. Maybe I’ve been enrolled in a school of perseverance, so I may help others persevere.