What God Has to Do With It?

The question came to me frequently those last months, from my supervisors, my four fellow chaplain residents, some patients, some parishioners. Are you mad at God for this cancer? 

I cannot say that I am. Clearly,  the human body is so complex. Some cells are bound to go rogue and threaten the balance of the whole. This is an undividable part of human destiny, not a divine malevolent action. If I am looking for responsible parties, I should be on top of the list. Enjoying sugary food, chocolate and coke, I know I have prepared the ground for what happened.

Why should I deserve a special protection because of my faith? I have walked with patients, wonderful human beings, more sick than I ever was. Why would I have a special status and not them? 

Brenda Jarvis, chaplain in Seattle, wrote a book about her cancer experience [1]. She mentioned the incredulity of her patients, that she, the chaplain, would be diagnosed with cancer. She commented with humor: “I am a Christian, the faith that’s all about the crucifixion of the guy who is considered the Son of God! I mean, if the Son of God can’t get a break, why should I? I am only the chaplain.”

Strangely, I encountered some skepticism from my peers. Maybe I was in denial of those angry emotions, they suggested.

I was not. I was stating was seemed to me – what still is to me – an obvious truth.

Yet… as I was planning to write this down in my blog last April, something happened. A patient and her family were admitted at the hospice house. She was in coma and had the waxy complexion of those who are very close to death. Her children, young adults, were bracing themselves for her passing. Her husband was feverish at her bedside. “Let’s pray for a miracle, he asked. A miracle is still possible." We did pray. He went on sharing how she was diagnosed with breast cancer three years earlier. She had a lumpectomy. Like me. Then chemo and radiations. Like me. She was declared in remission. I was hoping for those words at the end of my own treatment. 

Then a few weeks back, as she was complaining of back pains, cancer tumors were found. Here she was, ready to pass. “A miracle is still possible” kept saying her husband. I could so easily picture Irvin at my own bedside.

That same night at the hospice house, I had a long conversation with another patient whose breast cancer had spread. “I can feel cancer moving on in my body” she commented calmly. A frozen fear came upon me, the impression of an imminent revelation, as I was looking at those women only a few years older than me. I was numb. “Lord, do you have something to tell me through those patients?” I was not mad at God. But I found I could not write anymore about this topic.

Then I pictured myself going through this storm, like the scared disciples in the midst of immense waves. Jesus wakes up and calms the storm with one word. Jesus also calmed my agitation. Fear moved away. I did not experience any longer this dread while working at the hospice house, even with cancer patients.

I am not mad at God. I am grateful. He walks with me, wherever this journey leads me. 

[1] "It is not about the hair and other certainties about life & cancer", Sasquatch Books, Seattle 2007