FATHER POWELL'S
STORY
---This
is a beautiful story of a student in the theology class of Father John
Powell, a professor at Loyola. Father Powell was a popular lecturer in
the 60s and 70s at religious conferences.
-----------------------------------------------------
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 first 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 slightly cynical
tone, "Do you think I'll ever find God?" I decided instantly on a little
shock therapy. "No!" I said very emphatically. "Oh," 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. 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,
then 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 afterlife, 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. 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."
Tom smiled at me and said with obvious satisfaction, as though he
felt 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. And 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 favor? 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 told it."
"Ooh ... 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 hear this simple
statement about 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."
If this story means anything to you, please pass it on to a friend or
two.
It is a true story and is not enhanced for publicity purposes.
John Powell, A professor at Loyola University in Chicago