A Story Worth Sharing
Father John Powell, a professor at Loyola University in Chicago, writes about a
student in his Theology of Faith class named Tommy:
Some twelve years ago, I stood watching my university students file into the
classroom for our first session in the Theology of Faith.
That was the day I first saw Tommy. My eyes and my mind both blinked. He was
combing his long flaxen hair, which hung six inches below his shoulders. It was
the first time I had ever seen a boy with hair that long. I guess it was just
coming into fashion then. I know in my mind that it isn't what's on your head
but what's in it that counts; but on that day I was unprepared and my emotions
flipped. I immediately filed Tommy under "S" for strange... Very strange.
Tommy turned out to be the "atheist in residence" in my Theology of Faith
course. He constantly objected to, smirked at, or whined about the possibility
of an unconditionally loving Father/God. We lived with each other in relative
peace for one semester, although I admit he was for me at times a serious pain
in the back pew.
When he came up at the end of the course to turn in his final exam, he asked in
a cynical tone, "Do you think I'll ever find God?"
I decided instantly on a little shock therapy. "No!" I said very emphatically.
"Why not," he responded, "I thought that was the product you were pushing."
I let him get five steps from the classroom door and then called out, "Tommy! I
don't think you'll ever find Him, but I am absolutely certain that He will find
you!" He shrugged a little and left my class and my life.
I felt slightly disappointed at the thought that he had missed my clever line --
He will find you! At least I thought it was clever
Later I heard that Tommy had graduated, and I was duly grateful.
Then a sad report came. I heard that Tommy had terminal cancer. Before I could
search him out, he came to see me. When he walked into my office, his body was
very badly wasted and the long hair had all fallen out as a result of
chemotherapy. But his eyes were bright and his voice was firm, for the first
time, I believe. "Tommy, I've thought about you so often; I hear you are sick,"
I blurted out.
"Oh, yes, very sick. I have cancer in both lungs. It's a matter of weeks."
"Can you talk about it, Tom?" I asked.
"Sure, what would you like to know?" he replied.
"What's it like to be only twenty-four and dying?"
"Well, it could be worse."
"Like what?"
"Well, like being fifty and having no values or ideals, like being fifty and
thinking that booze, seducing women, and making money are the real biggies in
life."
I began to look through my mental file cabinet under "S" where I had filed Tommy
as strange. (It seems as though everybody I try to reject by classification, God
sends back into my life to educate me.)
"But what I really came to see you about," Tom said, "is something you said to
me on the last day of class." (He remembered!) He continued, "I asked you if you
thought I would ever find God and you said, 'No!' which surprised me Then you
said, 'But He will find you.' I thought about that a lot, even though my search
for God was hardly intense at that time.
(My clever line. He thought about that a lot!)
"But when the doctors removed a lump from my groin and told me that it was
malignant, that's when I got serious about locating God. And when the malignancy
spread into my vital organs, I really began banging bloody fists against the
bronze doors of heaven. But God did not come out. In fact, nothing happened. Did
you ever try anything for a long time with great effort and with no success? You
get psychologically glutted, fed up with trying. And then you quit
"Well, one day I woke up, and instead of throwing a few more futile appeals over
that high brick wall to a God who may be or may not be there, I just quit. I
decided that I didn't really care about God, about an after life, or anything
like that. I decided to spend what time I had left doing something more
profitable. I thought about you and your class and I remembered something else
you had said: 'The essential sadness is to go through life without loving. But
it would be almost equally sad to go through life and leave this world without
ever telling those you loved that you had loved them.'"
"So, I began with the hardest one, my Dad. He was reading the newspaper when I
approached him. "Dad."
"Yes, what?" he asked without lowering the newspaper.
"Dad, I would like to talk with you."
"Well, talk."
"I mean . It's really important."
The newspaper came down three slow inches. "What is it?"
"Dad, I love you, I just wanted you to know that." Tom smiled at me and said it
with obvious satisfaction, as though he felt a warm and secret joy flowing
inside of him. "The newspaper fluttered to the floor. Then my father did two
things I could never remember him ever doing before. He cried and he hugged me.
We talked all night, even though he had to go to work the next morning. It felt
so good to be close to my father, to see his tears, to feel his hug, to hear him
say that he loved me."
"It was easier with my mother and little brother. They cried with me, too, and
we hugged each other, and started saying real nice things to each other. We
shared the things we had been keeping secret for so many years.
"I was only sorry about one thing --- that I had waited so long. Here I was,
just beginning to open up to all the people I had actually been close to.
"Then, one day I turned around and God was there. He didn't come to me when I
pleaded with Him. I guess I was like an animal trainer holding out a hoop,
'C'mon, jump through. C'mon, I'll give you three days, three weeks.'"
"Apparently God does things in His own way and at His own hour. But the
important thing is that He was there. He found me! You were right. He found me
even after I stopped looking for Him."
"Tommy," I practically gasped, "I think you are saying something very important
and much more universal than you realize. To me, at least, you are saying that
the surest way to find God is not to make Him a private possession, a problem
solver, or an instant consolation in time of need, but rather by opening to
love. You know, the Apostle John said that. He said: 'God is love, and anyone
who lives in love is living with God and God is living in him.' Tom, could I ask
you a favour? You know, when I had you in class you were a real pain. But
(laughingly) you can make it all up to me now. Would you come into my present
Theology of Faith course and tell them what you have just told me? If I told
them the same thing it wouldn't be half as effective as if you were to tell it."
"Oooh.. I was ready for you, but I don't know if I'm ready for your class."
"Tom, think about it. If and when you are ready, give me a call."
In a few days Tom called, said he was ready for the class, that he wanted to do
that for God and for me. So we scheduled a date.
However, he never made it. He had another appointment, far more important than
the one with me and my class. Of course, his life was not really ended by his
death, only changed. He made the great step from faith into vision. He found a
life far more beautiful than the eye of man has ever seen or the ear of man has
ever heard or the mind of man has ever imagined.
Before he died, we talked one last time.
"I'm not going to make it to your class," he said.
"I know, Tom."
"Will you tell them for me? Will you ... tell the whole world for me?"
I will, Tom. I'll tell them. I'll do my best."
So, to all of you who have been kind enough to read this simple story about
God's love, thank you for listening. And to you, Tommy, somewhere in the sunlit,
verdant hills of heaven --- I told them, Tommy, as best I could.
This is a true story and is not enhanced for publicity
purposes.
With thanks, Rev. John Powell, Professor, Loyola University, Chicago
