Of the disciples fleeing Jesus’ execution, theologian Stanley Hauerwas writes:

‘The disciples have not yet understood the radical character of Jesus’ Kingdom that would challenge the violence of the world by refusing to respond to it on the world’s own terms…What they failed to understand was that Jesus is more radical than those who rebel against Rome or other empires using the force of arms. Rome knows how to deal with those who oppose it on its own terms. What Rome and all empires fear are those who refuse its terms of battle.

Jesus has more time than Rome to engage in the world of calling into existence a people who have learned to live trusting in the righteousness of God.’

Faithfulness, Hauetwas argues, is fundamentally about patience, a commitment to work in this world confident that, in Jesus Christ, God has already disclosed to us the way of the world.

My friend, Brian Stolarz, knows about patience; consequently, whether he’d own up to it or not, he knows more than most about faithfulness to God’s righteousness. He also knows, thanks to yours truly, that in scripture righteousness is just another word for justice. I’d be remiss if I didn’t add that I count Brian one of those gifts with whom cancer has given me the chance to nurture a deeper friendship; he’s been there for me.

Just as he’s been there for others:

As I’ve blogged about before, Brian spent a decade working to free an innocent man, Alfred Dwayne Brown, from death row in Texas.

Alfred Dewayne Brown had been convicted of a cop-killing in Houston. Despite a lack of any forensic evidence, he was sentenced to be killed by the State on death row.

Brown’s IQ of 67, qualifying him as mentally handicapped, was ginned up to 70 by the state doctor in order to qualify him for execution. This wasn’t the only example of prosecutorial abuse in the case.

You can read the previous posts about Brian’s work and watch our dialogue sermon from last summer here here and here.


Since the analytics tell me that many of you followed the story on the blog, I’m happy to post that Brian sent me giddy texts yesterday afternoon letting me know his patience had finally paid off. After having his conviction dismissed earlier this year, Texas finally released Alfred to his family last evening.


And what’s amazing, and fitting to Hauerwas’ observation above, is that Alfred is not angry. Despite the time lost for him and the time sacrificed by Brian, God has given us more time in resurrection to live lives worthy of the Kingdom.

You can read last night’s story about Brown’s release here.

The reporter for the Houston Chronicle, by the way, who helped bring publicity to Alfred’s case by relying on Brian’s work, won a Pulitzer this year.

Here’s a video of Alfred’s release. If you understood Hauerwas’ quote above, then you’ll know it’s an Easter video.



Jason Micheli —  June 3, 2015 — 1 Comment

rp_lightstock_70038_small_user_2741517-1024x683111.jpgAfter a 4 month hiatus from the pulpit, I joined Dennis Perry this Sunday for a dialogue sermon on John 5’s story of the healing at Bethsaida.

You can download it in iTunes here.



My theological muse, Stanley Hauerwas, likes to say that ‘Methodist means mediocre.’ As an example of what might warrant such a woeful aesthetic assessment, one need only thumb through the United Methodist Hymnal.

Though my musical skill stops at appreciating how Ryan (not Bryan) Adams is a songwriter second only to Bob Dylan, even I can point out how many of the ditties on offer in the UMH are cringe-worthy on any number of levels.

For instance, there are the songs that sound, quite simply, crap-in-your-pants frightening to the uninitiated, who could never decipher (much less stomach) their minutiae of biblical allusions. Chief among these, in my estimation, is the communion hymn ‘There’s a Fountain Filled with Blood.’

I remember first hearing this song as a teenager during those initial months when I was forced to attend church against my will. Back then I had no faith and I possessed precious little more of the faith’s story.

Listening to 300 suburbanites sing (with eyes as bright as their polo shirts) about being plunged into a tub of blood, the nascent theologian in me was struck with this crisp, cogent thought: ‘WTF?!’

Not incidentally, I should point out, the author of this Kubrickesque hymn, William Cowper did, at the time of its writing, suffer from, in the euphemism of his day, ‘madness.’ Making all us who persist in singing this ‘praise’ song a little like those vacant-eyed twins in The Shining.

Similar on this score is the hymn ‘O Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing,’ a Methodist favorite. Though not as terrifying as ‘There’s a Fountain Filled with Blood’, ‘Fount’ does contain the so-cryptic-as-to-sound-silly verse: ‘…here I raise my Ebenezer…

Despite a 6-figure seminary education which informs me that the object in question is Samuel’s memorial stone between Mizpeh and Shen from 1 Samuel 7, this doesn’t prevent me, whenever I sing ‘Fount,’ from picturing a bearded, square-jawed, performance-enhanced Samson-type bench-pressing an old man who resembles the husband from American Gothic.

His name, I’ve always assumed, certainly must be Ebenezer.


In addition to the cryptic, there are those songs that just sound plain creepy, such as my personal favorite, #367 ‘He Touched Me.’

If you haven’t heard it, ‘He Touched Me’ is a hymn which contains so many double entendres you’d be justified in glancing down at the bottom of the page to see if it was written by the artist formerly (and once again) known as Prince.

Though it was once covered by a 54-inch waisted Elvis Presley, who was no stranger to innuendo (‘Ain’t Nothing But a Hound Dog’), and though its allegedly about Jesus and Faith, ‘He Touched Me’ actually sounds, any impartial listener must agree, as though its narrating a slumber party at Jim Bob Duggar’s house:

‘Shackled by a heavy burden/’Neath a load of guilt and shame/His hand touched me,

And now I am no longer the same/He touched me, Oh He touched me,

Something happened and now I know…He touched me…’

We might as well wear Cosby sweaters while we sing it.

In this vein (no double entendre intended), ‘He Touched Me’ is a precursor to that genre of songs that are ubiquitous in Contemporary Christian Music.

I like to call them ‘Jesus-In-My-Pants’ songs.

Think I’m exaggerating?

Draw me close to You/Never let me go

I lay it all down again/To hear You say that I’m Your friend

You are my desire no one else will do/’Cause nothing else could take Your place

To feel the warmth of Your embrace/Help me find the way bring me back to You

You’re all I want/You’re all I’ve ever needed/You’re all I want/Help me know You are near

Methodist means mediocre, Stanley Hauerwas says. Mediocre means, one can surmise, kitsch.

In the UMH there are the cryptic and the creepy songs, and then there are the clumsy ones, songs as shallow and obvious as an AM commercial jingle, hymns so literal and earnestly unsubtle you’re half-surprised when Tang and animal crackers aren’t served after you’re done singing them.

The absolute worst among this latter group is #558 ‘We are the Church.’

Though its second verse sounds like the Democratic Party platform with a treble cleft attached, hymn #558 merely makes the same point Mitt Romney made in the 2012 campaign:

corporations churches are people too, my friends.


I am the church! You are the church! We are the church together!

All who follow Jesus, all around the world! Yes, we’re the church together!

1. The church is not a building; the church is not a steeple; the church is not a resting place; the church is a people.


2. We’re many kinds of people, with many kinds of faces, all colours and all ages, too from all times and places.

The first time I was ever asked to sing #558 I was a new Christian and a newer undergraduate at UVA. I was worshipping at a small United Methodist church near campus. When we did a once-through the sing-songy music (to ‘refamiliarize’ ourselves) I glanced around to make sure I hadn’t accidentally stepped into Vacation Bible School.

Or ingested drugs.

When the school-marmy music director offered to demonstrate hand motions we could perform along with our singing, I laughed out loud. Guffawed.

I couldn’t stop myself.

And then I spent the rest of my college tenure worshipping at the Episcopal Church down the street where even if they no longer believed in God at least they did it with style.

Methodist means mediocre, Stanley Hauerwas says. Or, on second thought, maybe he doesn’t say it.

Maybe I said it and forgot I did. Maybe I’m just projecting my own smarty pants posture onto him.

One thing I’m sure of- Stanley Hauerwas likes to say

‘Ministry is like being nibbled to death by ducks.’

It is.

‘It’s just a bite here and a nibble there,’ Stanley says, ‘and, before you know it, you’re missing a leg.’

Not long after I became a Christian I disliked #558 for its tweenage verse and meter. Not long after I became a clergyman I objected to it on a deeper level; that is, if it’s possible for hymn, which makes the Spice Girls’Wannabe’ seem profound, to yield something like a second naïveté.

As a minister, I recoiled at what I took to be ‘We are the Church’’s romanticized ideals, for there’s nothing quite like ministry to make you wish, every now and then, that the Church was not the people.

There’s nothing like ministry in Jesus’ name to make you wish that the Church was made up of anything but Jesus’ people.

After all, a brick and mortar building was never known to leave anonymous notes about the pastor’s choice of clothes in the offering plate. A steeple has never drafted a complaint to the bishop nor has a stained glass window ever once challenged its pastor to a fistfight in the fellowship hall on Mother’s Day. That really happened.

An organ has yet to call or conduct a church council- a credit which should make you appreciate traditional music. Church mice might be a nuisance, but when it comes to turds they’ve never once forwarded their pastor emails from their favorite batshit crazy right wing organization.

It’s no secret in the United Methodist Church that every 4 years hymnal committees debate the appropriateness of a hymn like ‘Onward Christian Soldiers,’ given its violence-espousing imagery. But, considering how ministry is like being nibbled to death by (feral) ducks, it’s surprising how every quadrennium a song like ‘We are the Church’ escapes the red pen.

I suppose it’s because, like any song, no matter its musical merit, how you hear it depends on where you are. On your stage of life.

Now that I have cancer I can see how I’ve always hated ‘We are the Church’ not because it’s insipid (it still is) but because it’s sincere.

I’ve mocked and hated hymn #558, and others like it, for reasons that have nothing to do with musicology or theology and everything to do with…me.

With my heart.

I’m what you get when you mix together equal parts DNA, life experience and Gen-Y culture. Until now, I’ve pretended to be cool and detached, always ironic- always- and forever feigning self-sufficiency and self-reliance, which are just unofficial adjectives for ‘superiority.’

Me and many others in my generation are like Jane Austen characters.

We’re just keeping up a different pretense: cynicism.

The Church can’t be the people, I’ve never dared take to its logical conclusion, because I don’t need those people, and that would mean I don’t need the Church.  

Chemotherapy, it turns out, eradicates not only your marrow and all attendant health but pretenses too.

When your eyebrows have gotten as thin as the blue-haired lady that sits pulpit side in the 5th pew and when you passed out last night in the kitchen because your blood has no hemoglobin left in it and when there’s a distinct possibility your life expectancy will be short-changed by a couple of Andrew Jackson’s worth of years-

It’s hard to be cool and detached.

There’s nothing, really, to be ironic about.

And there’s no point in pretending to be self-sufficient. You, it’s obvious, ain’t.

Now that cancer has me back to being ‘just’ a Christian and (for a time anyway) no longer a clergyman, I realize how much, when you’re in ministry, you view Christianity like a referee. And referees aren’t paid to blow the whistle in the middle of play and point out what’s going right.

As a pastor, you’re captured, in a good way, by who the Church could be, what the Church could do, but the shadow side of that vision is to notice only who the Church is not, what the Church is not doing. Before long, you have pastors complaining how ‘their people’ (always a fraught construction) don’t pray enough, don’t give enough, or don’t serve enough.

To no exceptional degree, in one direction or the other, that was me, often wearing black or white on a Sunday but, really, acting as though I’d been ordained to wear both. And carry a whistle.

However occasional or, even, warranted, it’s hard for such complaining not to calcify into cynicism.

That was me.

I don’t mean to be hyperbolic. I’m not saying I’m a different person now, that cancer’s changed me. I can’t say that. I’m only now nearing the halfway point in my treatment, and if I have any complications- which my doctor tells me are more likely than not- then I’m still somewhere shy of the middle.

So I’m not implying I’m a completely different person; I’m only suggesting that, thanks to cancer and if only for a time, I’ve traded in my collar for my parishioners’ shoes.

I’m just an ordinary Christian. Like them.

And, standing in their shoes, I’ve discovered something like admiration for the people that make up the Church. My church.

Only now do I appreciate, for example, how hard it is- how much trust it requires- to answer truthfully and concretely when someone asks you what are your prayer requests.

Something pastors do all the time. Something I always took for granted before. That anyone does supply a prayer request is, I think now, a small miracle. Or, an act of faith of which I’ve been found wanting.

People outside the Church often criticize, with some justification, that the Church is filled with inauthentic chatter, people always talking about things that don’t mean anything. Of course there is a lot of that in the Church but there’s a good deal less of it, I believe, than there is everywhere else in our lives. Now that I have cancer and I’m no longer busy refereeing other people’s Christianity, I realize:

Church people are among the only people who genuinely want an answer- and wait for it- to the question ‘How are you?’

Now that I’m on the receiving end of the church’s ministry rather than its referee, I’m learning that the hardest part in accepting an offer of help, a gesture of support or an act of compassion is accepting it. Accepting that you need it. Accepting that you (I mean, me) need these people. The church.

All of which gets back to my problem with hymn #558, ‘We are the Church,’ and how my problem with it is really my problem.

Grace, in the jargon of the faith, isn’t just a gift you do not deserve.

It’s a gift you didn’t know you needed until you received it.

This is why the Gospel stories are all told from the hindsight of the Resurrection and necessarily so.

You don’t know how broken you are until after God’s made you Easter new. Sin has no meaning until after the Risen Jesus speaks ‘Peace’ on Easter morning.

Grace is a gift you didn’t know you needed until after you received it, and, in that sense, I suspect that what I’ve received these past 4 months (4 effing months!) is a gift my church gives to people all the time.

I just didn’t realize it. Or, appreciate it.

The same church about whom I would sometimes grouse for not praying enough or giving enough or serving enough is the same church (and by church, I think we’ve learned by now, I mean people) that texts me several times a week for prayer requests and leaves food at my door and offers to help with the medical bills and doesn’t bat an eye when I barf in their car and throws my boy around in the pool because my chest port cannot get wet and pretends not to notice (so as not to embarrass me) when I tear up  at a bit of bad news.

And that’s just this past week.

I mean-

One woman in my church has sent me handwritten, snail mail cards every day- every day- since I got sick, and another, just for shits and giggles- and giggles if not shits are in short supply these days- has persisted in posting cat pictures on my Facebook Page. I don’t even like cats.

I’ve been at this church for 10 years and I feel like I’m only now seeing who they’ve been all along.

And who they are, in large part, are better Christians than me.

Every year this time of year, the time between Easter and Pentecost, someone who’s recently taken to reading their bible always expresses surprise to me how much the New Testament’s few Easter stories are characterized by doubt and disbelief.

‘…but some (as in, not just Thomas) doubted…’ Matthew and Luke and John all anticlimactically testify.

But it has to be that way.

The Risen Christ’s wounded hands and feet can never be for the disciples proof of the Resurrection because the disciples themselves are the (only) proof of the Resurrection.

Our faith, the truth of it, is corroborated by its end.

By what it becomes in us.

And I suppose that’s a better problem to have with a hymn like #558 because the people do not just comprise the Church. They themselves are the proof of the Church’s faith by what that faith becomes in them.

They are, warts and all and despite my better judgment, the gospel.

lightstock_75024_xsmall_user_2741517Here’s a Memorial Day weekend sermon from the vault. The text was a smattering of verses from Colossians 1 and 2.

The argument I attempted to make in the sermon is indebted to two books I recommend:

 Lt Col Dave Grossman’s On Killing: The Psychological Cost of Learning to Kill in War and Society  

Stanley Hauerwas’ War and the American Difference: Theological Reflections on Violence and National Identity

Central to Hauerwas’ work is the assertion that war presents a powerful counter-liturgy to the Cross that the Church must always reframe in light of the Cross and Resurrection. Such reframing is what I attempted to do in the sermon.

My Grandpa died this spring, just before Holy Week.

Maybe it’s because I preach so many funerals, but I’ve learned that when it comes to death this paradox is true: while no amount of words can ever do justice to a person’s life, sometimes a single sentence can encapsulate the essence of a person.

The paradox is true in my Grandpa’s case.

If you want to get a sense of my Grandpa, a sense of who he was and how he was to the world around him, then really you just need to learn my Grandpa’s favorite joke.

     “Why don’t they send donkeys to college?”

Answer: “Because no one likes a smart-ass.”

That my Grandpa had occasion to repeatedly tell this joke to me will probably not surprise anyone.

I remember once when I was a boy we were eating burgers at a diner near the stockyard where my Grandpa had been buying some cattle, and I remember I’d said something snarky and sarcastic, and my Grandpa responded by saying ‘Remember, Jason, why they don’t send donkeys to college.”

And little elementary-aged me replied innocently: ‘Gee, Grandpa, did they come up with that policy after you went to college?’

And my Grandpa stared at me and then slowly knit his eyebrows and then like a tire with too much air he suddenly burst out laughing and pounded the table as if to say:

Like Grandfather, like grandson.

My Grandpa went to Drexel in Philadelphia for college, an opportunity made possible by the GI Bill. My Grandpa was part of what Tom Brokaw called the ‘greatest generation,’ a description that embarrassed my Grandpa.

My Grandpa fought in the Pacific in World War II.

He never spoke about the war, which sort of taught me never to ask about it.

He only spoke about it to me once, in fact. So rare was it that the memory has always stuck with me.

I was in Middle School and, after my Grandma moved into a nursing home, my Grandpa moved out of their big, brick Georgian in Downtown Norfolk and into a condo .

The moves rearranged all the familiar furniture and knick-knacks. Thus, hanging on the wall in the new condo was something I’d never seen before. A medal.

‘How’d you get that?’ I asked him, pointing to the medal.

‘Ah,’ he waved it off, not saying anything

I just stood there, waiting for more of an explanation behind the medal. But none was coming.

So I asked him- what it was like, being in the war.

And I remember, he looked at me like you do when you want to warn a little kid away from touching a hot stove and he said:

‘What was it like? Scary as hell.’


In his Letter to the Colossians, St Paul makes the audacious claim that on the Cross Christ has made peace.

That the sacrifice of Christ upon the Cross was a sacrifice not simply for our individual sin but rather the Cross was a triumph- a Roman military term- over all the Powers of Sin and Death (with a capital P, S and D).

Paul says here in Colossians what the Book of Hebrews means when it says that the blood of the Cross is a perfect, once-for-all sacrifice that eliminates the necessity for any further, future sacrifices.

Including the sacrifice of war.

In other words, what Paul and Hebrews are getting at is the counter-intuitive claim that Christians are people who believe that war has been abolished- a claim that would seem to be rendered false by something as simple as that medal on my Grandpa’s wall, whatever he earned it for.

     Christians, Paul is claiming, believe that war has been abolished.

The grammar of that is very important; the past tense is the point.

It’s not that Christians work for the end of war. It’s that Christians live recognizing that in the Cross of Christ war has already been abolished, that Christ has made peace.

But what does that even mean?

After all, many of you know first hand as my Grandpa did that war is anything but absent from our world and sometimes its presence is unavoidable.

So what does it mean to believe that on the Cross Christ abolished war?

To believe that on the Cross Christ has made peace once-and-for-all means that we live as faithfully as we can to that reality even though the “real world” doesn’t seem to corroborate what we confess.

But to live and believe what scripture tells us about Christ’s Cross begs the question, especially this weekend:

 How should we observe Memorial Day as followers of Christ?

How do we observe Memorial Day such that we neither dishonor those who’ve died nor dilute our commitment to the King we believe has abolished war?

Notice- the suggestion is not that it’s wrong for Christians to observe Memorial Day.

Instead the suggestion is that how we observe Memorial Day should be different from how others observe it.

Others who haven’t pledged allegiance to Christ the King.

A King who established his Kingdom by giving his life rather than resort to taking life.

How we observe Memorial Day should be different from how non-Christians celebrate it.

Because non-Christians are not caught in the tension between remembering those who’ve died in war and remembering that we believe on the Cross Christ has won a once-for-all peace.

That tension- it’s been with Christians from the very beginning.

For instance, for the first 3 1/2 centuries of the Church’s history soldiers could not be baptized until after they resigned their commission, a position the Church changed when they decided that sometimes responsible citizenship demands war as a last resort.

The tension has been with the Church from the very beginning.

For example, in the Middle Ages the Church recognized that one of the dangers of war is that we forget who and whose we are.

So during the Middle Ages the Church insisted that during feudal wars certain days on the calendar be set aside- called the Truce of God- when the warring parties would cease and desist, abstain from all violence.

The Truce of God was the Church’s way of reminding Christians that even when war is a necessity and peace is not possible our ultimate identity and loyalty remains.

To the Prince of Peace.

I remember my Grandpa giving me that ‘don’t get too close to the fire’ look when I asked him what it was like, being in war.

And in an almost confessional tone he said: ‘Scary as hell.’

‘Scary because you thought you might die?’ stupid, Middle School-aged me asked.

‘No’ he said ‘scary because I thought I might have to kill.’

Of course, I didn’t know it at the time, but the fear my Grandpa gave voice to was the same aversion General SLA Marshall observed in his study of men in battle in the Second World War.


General Marshall discovered that of every hundred men along a line of fire, during battle only about 15-20 of them would take part by actually firing their weapons at another human being.

The other 80-85% would do everything they could (short of betray their comrades) to not kill.

This led General Marshall to conclude that the average, healthy individual has:

“such an inner and usually unrealized resistance to killing a fellow man that he will not of his own volition take life if it is at all possible to turn away from that responsibility.”

General Marshall’s observation is not, I think, a psychological insight- at least, it’s not only a psychological insight.

It is, I think, a theological one.

I believe it’s a theological insight that we heard confirmed in scripture today.

Many assume that the ultimate sacrifice we ask of our troops is the sacrifice of their lives, to lay down their lives for us, and, obviously, that is a great and grave sacrifice.

But I think the argument of scripture and General Marshall’s study invites us to see it differently.

The Book of Genesis tells us that each of us- we’re made in the image of God.

But then Colossians 1 tells us what the prologue of John’s Gospel tells us:

That Jesus is the image of the invisible God.

Jesus is the logic, John says, of God made flesh.

Speaking of logic, scripture gives us a simple formula:

We are made in God’s image

Jesus is the image of the invisible God


We are made in Jesus’ image.

We’re made, created, hard-wired, meant to be like Jesus.

That’s what St. Paul means he calls Jesus the 2nd Adam. We’re created with a family resemblance to Christ. We’re made in Jesus’ image.

And Jesus would rather die than kill. And so would we.

You see,

If we believe the Bible, if we believe that we’re made in Christ’s image then that means the ultimate sacrifice we ask of our troops is not the sacrifice of their lives, great as such a sacrifice may be.

No, if we’re made in Christ’s image, then the ultimate sacrifice we ask of our troops is to sacrifice their innate unwillingness to kill.

For us.

If we’re made in Christ’s image then the ultimate sacrifice we ask of our troops isn’t the giving of their lives, it’s to sacrifice their God-given unwillingness to take life.

Too often liberals use Jesus’ teachings about loving enemies and turning cheeks and putting away swords for moralistic, finger-wagging.

That we should oppose this or that war because we should be more like Jesus.

But- politics aside- that kind of finger-wagging, I think, is to get it exactly wrong. Or backwards.

Because the claim of St. Paul and the Gospel isn’t that we should be like Jesus.

The claim of St. Paul and the Gospel is that we are like Jesus. Already. More so than we believe. We’re made in his image.

The claim of St. Paul and the Gospel is that we are not natural born killers.

We’re created to bless those who curse us, and to love our enemies.

It’s in the family DNA.

The claim of St. Paul and the Gospel is that we’re made in Christ’s image. We’re designed to lay down our lives rather than take life.

And so when we ask our fellow citizens, when we ask our children, to (potentially) take life, we’re asking for a far greater sacrifice than just their lives.

We’re asking them to sacrifice what it means for them to be made in God’s image; we’re asking them to sacrifice their Christ-like unwillingness to kill.

For us.

And that’s a sacrifice whose tragedy is only compounded when our soldiers return home from war and we expect them to allow us to applaud them at baseball games but not to tell us about we’ve asked them to do.

That our troops are willing to make such a sacrifice for us is what the Church calls grace- a gift not one of us deserves.

That we perpetuate a world that makes such a sacrifice necessary- when the message of the Cross is that it’s not– that’s what the Church calls sin.

But I still haven’t answered my original question:

How should we observe Memorial Day as followers of Christ?

How do we observe Memorial Day such that we neither dishonor those who’ve died nor dilute our commitment to the King we believe has already won peace?

During the Crusades, wars in which the Church played no small part, when soldiers returned home from the Holy Land they would abstain from the sacrament of holy communion for a year or more.

Even during the Crusades there was an understanding that though the act of war may be necessary and justified, the actions of war nonetheless harm our humanity.

They do damage- not just to the enemy- but to the image of Christ within us.

And so before returning soldiers would receive the Body and Blood of Christ in the sacrament of communion, they would undergo the sacrament of reconciliation in order to restore the image of Christ within them.

The Crusades are seldom cited as a good example of anything, but, in this case, I believe they have something to teach us, particularly when it comes to thinking Christianly about Memorial Day.

Because the Crusaders- for all their other faults- understood that our God-given, Christ-like unwillingness to take life is the ultimate sacrifice of war.

But they also understood that that ultimate sacrifice is not ultimate.

As in, it’s not final.

It can be healed. Reconciled. Restored.

And, as Christians, that’s what we should remember when we remember those who’ve died in war.

Because, after all, Christians make sense of death not by pointing to an abstract ideal (like ‘Freedom’) nor by pointing to something finite and temporal (like a nation).

Nor do Christians even make sense of death by saying the dead are ‘in a better place now.’


Christians make sense of death by pointing to the promise of Resurrection.


Christians make sense of death by pointing to Resurrection promise that what God does with Jesus at Easter, God will one day do with each of us, with all who have died and with all of creation.

All will be raised. All will be redeemed. All will be restored.

Such that, on that Resurrection Day, scripture tells us ‘mourning and crying and pain will be no more.’

In other words, Christians make sense of death by pointing to the Resurrection promise that one day all the harm done to our humanity will be healed, even- especially- the damage done by the sacrifice of war.

You see, the process of restoration that the Crusaders practiced when they returned home- it was a snapshot of our larger Resurrection hope.

Because, of course, Christians make sense of death not by pointing to a faraway Heaven we’ll fly away to some glad morning.

No, Christians make sense of death by pointing to the Resurrection promise that one day, the last day, Heaven will come down to Earth. God will dwell with us. And all of creation will be restored.

All things will be made new. Not all new things will be made.

All things will be made new again.

That means the promise of Resurrection is not just that the sacrifice we’ve asked our soldiers to endure will be restored.

It also means that whatever measures they took in this life for justice or peace are not lost but will be taken up by God and used as building blocks for the City of God.

And so, really, the best way for Christians to observe Memorial Day is to do so the same way we celebrate every Sunday- in the mystery of faith:

Christ has died– making peace on his Cross.

Christ is Risen– to be a sign of the restoration God will bring to all of us.

Christ will come again– when the good we’ve done in this world will become a part of God’s New Creation.

Against All Odds

Jason Micheli —  May 12, 2015 — 7 Comments

rp_lightstock_70038_small_user_2741517-1024x68311.jpgAgainst All Odds

Third Week in Easter

The waiting room at my oncologists’ office is long and narrow, reminding me of a bus or a sound booth. I prefer the latter, I suspect, because of the small round raspberry-colored CD player that lies on the floor in the room. Minus the color, it’s the same model my youngest son uses to listen to his Awesome Mix Volume I while he plays with his Legos.

The CD player- my oncologist’s not my son’s- is tucked underneath a wicker end table whose glass top itself is buried underneath stacks of ‘Life with Cancer’ brochures and newsletters.

When I’m not imbibing chemo-poison at the stem cell center cross town, I visit this office most every morning for lab work and dressing changes and check-ups. Sometimes my appointments are so early in the am I arrive before the receptionists.

The CD player is always turned on. 


Always already calibrated to the same DC soft rock station, promising ‘the best mix of the 70’s, 80’s and 90’s’, a canard that roughly translates to ‘we play the same 2 dozen songs you heard on the radio when your babysitter drove you to Odyssey of the Mind practice in the 5th grade.’ 

You know the radio rotation I mean: Rod Stewart’s ‘Broken Arrow’ and criminal cover of Van Morrison’s ‘Have I Told You Lately,’ lots of Lionel Ritchie (post-Commodores), UB40’s ‘Red, Red, Wine,’ the obligatory Whitney Houston cut, filled out by anything from Genesis (post-Peter Gabriel) or Phil Collins (pre-Disney).

When you’ve got stage-serious cancer, I guess even ‘Easy like Sunday Morning’ beats Wagner or, say, Tom Waits.

And maybe there’s a certain genius to a ‘best of’ playlist so limited it could all fit onto one of those mix-tape cassettes I was woefully optimistic in giving to a girl in the 6th grade. Because we all- no matter our age, color or creed- know these songs. More so even than age, color or creed these song unite us- trust me, after hearing them every day at the oncologists’ office I know.

Just last week, as Phil Collins sung-spoke his way through his plodding single ‘In the Air Tonight,’ every patient in the oncologists’ waiting room appeared preoccupied with their Washington Posts and their iPads or distracted by the dire straits ahead; that is, until Phil Collins finally got to his ostentatious, ’80’s, synthesized drum solo and six of us seated there, waiting on word of our cancer, spontaneously joined in Phil Collins’ completely gratuitous drum solo, beating on our tablets and paperbacks and binder clipped insurance claims or just making that pursed mouth noise reserved for ’80’s drum effects and fight scenes in Indiana Jones.

Even the medical supply salesman, I spied, was tapping on his large wheeled brief case and not so silently mouthing the words ‘Oh long…’

A few days before that I noticed how I wasn’t the only one in the waiting room singing softly along to Extreme’s cigarette lighter worthy single ‘More Than Words,’ the slow dance song that ended my 8th grade year and began, I liked to think at the time, my manhood. In case you think Extreme was whiter than shopping at West Elm after watching a Pauly Shore movie, I was joined in their power ballad by an older black man who looked not unlike the harried cop Dad in the ’90’s sitcom Family Matters.

Several times a week in the waiting room, Billy Joel’s ‘Piano Man’ comes on the radio (godhelpus) and whenever it does Paul, the real estate novelist (who never had time for a wife), is not the only one talking to Davey (who’s still in the Navy). Everyone’s joining in with their hushed ‘La, la, la, la’s.’

Some songs everyone knows.

Last Thursday, I and a gruff tatted up older man who wore his leather-worked wallet on a chain affixed to his leather-tooled belt (you know, the kind of guy you see at Kings Dominion or dog fights) both caught ourselves singing along to Cyndi Lauper’s candy confection‘Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.’

When we got to the start of the chorus, he looked over at me, awkwardly, and shrugged:

‘Shit, after what this chemo’s done to my testosterone, I’ve got as much right to sing this song as anyone else.’

After 3 months of sitting in this waiting room, the soft-singing and hushed humming and toe-tapping have become so ubiquitous you notice it when no one here is responding at all to the music- or, possibly, responding too much.

Like one day last week when the Boss’ title song from the movie Philadelphia come on the radio, the Tom Hanks film about a losing battle with AIDS.

No one sang.

Though, I’m willing to bet we all knew the words as well as I do.

Tom Hanks might’ve had a different disease, but who’s to say his odds were any worse than ours?

Speaking of odds-

Yesterday I sat thumbing through my Elmore Leonard novel, waiting for the nurse to call my name, when a favorite of mine came on the raspberry radio, another Phil Collins’ song: ‘Against All Odds.’

It’s quite possibly the greatest pop song of all time.

As soon as Phil Collins crooned his initial query ‘How can I just let you walk away?’ I could tell he had the rapt, nostalgic attention of every patient and family member in the waiting room.

And no sooner had Phil Collins gotten to his money line, the line where in the music video it cuts from Phil to Jeff Bridges rolling in the sand with _________, ‘You’re the only one who really knew me at all’ than all of us there that morning for sticks and pricks, blood work and bad news were joining in the refrain: ‘So take a look at me now…’

And we were all still singing, like the English-speaking world’s most subdued flash mob, when we got to the end: ‘…and you coming back to me is against all odds and that’s a __________________________’

See, you know it too.

All of us were singing or humming or whistling:

The 50-something business woman with the cane and the discourteously loud iPhone key strokes.

The 20-something hipster hanging on to his 3 day beard, wearing a crooked Dodgers cap and an overlarge cardigan that hung down to the knees of his skinny jeans.

The 60-something insurance looking type with a dandruffed blazer and a mauve toupee every bit as outdated as the Palm Treo in his hand.

The lesbian couple with the matching Osprey backpacks on their laps.

And me, the Seth Godin lookalike erstwhile clergyman.

All of us, clouds of varying darkness threatening over our heads, were singing about the chance you got to take even if when it’s against all odds.

Thanks to the radio’s best mix of yesterday, today and tomorrow that hasn’t changed since yesteryear there are some songs that everyone just unconsciously knows, songs you can finish on your own after the shower is turned off or the car is parked or the nurse calls you back to take your vital signs.

According to Mark’s Gospel at least, one of the last things Jesus does on the cross is sing:

“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

It’s the first line from the 22nd song. The next line of the psalm sings:

“Oh my God, I cry by day, but you do not answer; and by night, but find no rest.”

The Church typically reads Jesus’ cry of forsakenness on Passion Sunday, when many are in worship, and on Good Friday, when no one is, and most often we use Christ singing this snatch of song to proof-text our interpretations of another bit of bible music. Isaiah’s Suffering Servant songs.

When mixed into Isaiah’s playlist, Jesus’ cover of Psalm 22 on the cross becomes an instance of God’s turning God’s back on the suffering Christ.

“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” begins to sound as obvious as a Top 40 single:

God has abandoned Jesus, the vicarious sinner.

Jesus on the cross is alone in the most existential possibility of the word; he’s experiencing something worse than betrayal and torture and crucifixion, the sheer and total separation from God that is rightly due all of us woebegone sinners.

But “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” is only the first line of Israel’s 22nd song.

More importantly, Psalm 22 is a song everyone in Israel would’ve known.

As Jews, Jesus’ listeners would’ve had all 150 psalms committed to memory. They would’ve sung many of them a minimum of 3 times a day as part of their daily office. They would’ve had no choice but to know the song that begins “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” like I stubbornly know all the words to Sir Mix A Lot’s ‘Baby Got Back.’

They could’ve sung Psalm 22 right along with Jesus, and maybe those near the cross that Friday did just that in the same hushed tones with which I heard a mom and her bald, 30-something daughter sing along to Eric Clapton’s ‘Tears in Heaven’ last Friday.

Some songs everyone knows.

Jesus’ listeners would’ve known the song that begins with feeling forsaken ends- builds towards, is more like it- on a different note entirely.

Faith-filled and confident in God’s vindication.

So which is it?

Is Psalm 22 a Good Friday text, as we’ve most often made it?

Or is it actually an Easter passage, foreshadowing resurrection from the dark side of the cross?

What kind of song is Jesus singing? Does he sound bruised and battered and resigned like Springsteen does in ‘The Streets of Philadelphia?’ or does he sound nonplussed and defiant, against all the odds, like Phil Collins?

Does Jesus, with his last bit of humanity, feel forgotten, forsaken? Or is that first line he sings meant to trigger a song in the collective memory and convey his faith, of feeling graced?

The other day, a couple of days into my latest round of chemo-poison, handing me my most recent blood work, the nurse practitioner sent my already nauseous stomach for a roll:

“…so it could just be a quirk of how your body’s responding to the chemo, or it could mean the cancer’s worsened in your bone marrow…”

I gulped.


And looked up from the printout.

“Of course…there’s no way to know for certain until you have a PET scan later…”

Like a dirty band-aid, cancer just pulls away the veneer from what you knew already in the basement closet of your mind:

Life is incredibly beautiful and terrifically shitty.

Sometimes simultaneously though, more frequently, the two attributes are proximate and subsequent to one another.

Life, cancer reifies, is not unlike St. Luke’s Emmaus episode, a story we read during Eastertide but one, I believe, we could just as properly read on Good Friday.

After all, isn’t the ‘miracle’ of having our eyes opened to Jesus’ presence among us but a reminder that he’s also just as often absent from us?

Is not Christ’s appearance in the breaking of the bread also subsequently (if not simultaneously) his disappearance?

Which means every sacrament, the intrusion of the holy into our world, is precious precisely because it’s also at the same time a kind of exit. It’s both a faith-filled, saturated moment and a forsaking- in the leave-taking sense of the world.

Life is grace and it’s achingly awful all at once or right after the other in no particular order. It’s feeling humbled and straight flush lucky for the covered dishes and cards dropped at your door, but it’s also feeling incredibly alone, scratching your head and wondering, self-pityingly, how people can go on with their lives when something like this is happening to you. It’s feeling good, with halftime in your treatment within sight, and then feeling brained by a bit of- if not bad then- uncertain news.

If every Sunday, as the Church likes to say, is ‘a little Easter,’ celebrating the certainties of the resurrection, then that leaves at least one of six remaining days to be ‘a little Good Friday’ for us.

To feel wronged. Forgotten. To feel the umbilical chord of God’s presence ripped from your belly and wonder when (if?) it’s coming back.

What we might not normally prefer to admit in the pews cancer makes unavoidable: life is like that, if not for you personally then certainly for the preponderance of people.

So that song Jesus sings from the cross- it’s got to be both.

If the cross is ground zero for Jesus taking on our full humanity, the expanse of our mortal experience, then his singing the 22nd song has got to be both, feeling faith-filled and forsaken. It can’t be one or the other, as our preaching typically demands of it, because our lives- the lives enfleshed in his life- are equal parts #blessed and #forsaken.

If life really is the sum of the song Jesus sings on the cross, then faith is not what so many skeptics suppose, particularly when the C-word injects a discordant note.

Faith is NOT a crutch amidst life.


Because if life is a reliable and merciless pendulum between feeling faith-filled and feeling forsaken then to have faith is to feel the absence of it- no, the fleetingness of it- that much more acutely.

To see Christ at work in the world is also not to see him at work in the world.

To NOT see him even more clearly than those who lack the eyes of faith.

Maybe that’s why the ending of the 22nd song goes unsung or unquoted at Mark’s cross, perhaps the faith-filled notes at the end are only genuine, trustworthy, because of the feelings of forsakenness that preceded them.

Maybe the author of the 22nd Psalm wasn’t only a good songwriter like Phil Collins. Maybe he or she was truly, fully, no bullshitting human too.

Just like Jesus.

There’s a song, one of my favorites, by Lyle Lovett called ‘Fat Girl.’ It’s not a pop song; it’s definitely not the kind of song you hear on the radio. It’s too brief and unromantic and bracing:

The fat girl
She always stayed inside and played piano
And she told her mother
The children made her cry
And her mother told her
They don’t mean it
They don’t mean it
They don’t mean it
They don’t mean it

Now the fat girl
She ain’t fat no more
And lord how she plays piano
And she sings loud
And she sings low
And she sings of love
And blind passion
But she don’t mean it
She don’t mean it
She don’t mean it
She don’t mean it

The fat girl, because of what she’s been through, no longer means what she says.

I guess that’s my biggest fear (aside from, you know, a painful and premature death) in all this: to get to the point where I no longer mean what I sing preach.

Or pray.

Or practice.

The only way to avoid it, I think, is to avoid the pop pieties we prefer and instead stick to the kind of music Jesus himself sings.


I’ve been working on writing a catechism, a distillation of the faith into concise questions and answers with brief supporting scriptures that could be the starting point for a conversation.

Cancer has gotten me off writing these for a few months now but, back by semi-popular demand, I hope to get back in the swing of things.

You can find the previous posts here.

III. The Son

9. What do we mean by saying Jesus was ‘truly human?’

We do not mean that Jesus was as fully human as you or me.

Jesus, as the God-Man, has no human existence apart from his divine existence and our humanity is not like that at all.

While it’s often proclaimed in sermons on Christmas and about the Cross that Jesus being ‘truly human’ means he’s as human as you or me, to suppose that Jesus is every bit as human as you or me might be correct in terms of the biological bits- if you’re a man- but, beyond biology, such a suggestion bends backwards the entire trajectory of Christian salvation.


The mission of Jesus from the Father is not the mission to be tortured and crucified; what the Father wished is that Jesus be human, truly and authentically human.

The grammar of Christian salvation is not that Jesus, the truly human one, is just like us, who are sinners through and through; the grammar of salvation is that, through Jesus, the truly human one, and by the power of Spirit and Sacraments, we might become as human as him.

We are not his aspiration.

He is ours.

To be fully, truly human- this is the command Jesus perceived to have been placed upon him by the Father. The fact that to be fully human meets with rejection, betrayal, torture and crucifixion is not something God the Father planned but is a consequence of the world as we’ve constructed it.

To be fully human is to love and to love, in the world as we’ve made it, is to suffer.

So then, to say that Jesus is ‘fully human’ is to confess that Jesus is the first human after a long list of begats in which God’s original intent for humanity came to fruition.

To live a fully human life, as Jesus does, is to embody the greatest commandment: to love self, neighbors and God without qualificaiton or fear.

From the very beginning this was the intent for humans made in the image of 3-Personned God, who just is Love and Friendship.

To profess that Jesus is fully human then is not to argue that he was really like us.

To profess that Jesus is fully human is to express the hope that we can become as human as him.

Nepal-Earthquake-7One of the books I felt drawn to rereading after I learned I had cancer was David Bentley Hart’s little book, The Doors of the Sea: Where was God in the Tsunami? It’s a life-changing kind of book by a former teacher whose work continues to shape me.

I thought of Hart’s book again this week when I read my friend Tony Jones‘ recent post ‘Where is God in the Earthquake?’The post is drawn from Tony’s new book, Did God Kill Jesus?, which you should check out buy.

While I resist the same religiously motivated explanations for tragedies to which Tony objects, I also resist the explanation- because that’s what it is- he advocated; namely, that rather than causing disasters and tragedies God suffers them along with us.

By contrast, David Bentley Hart, in The Doors of the Sea, recalls reading an article in the NY Times shortly after the tsunami in South Asia in 2005. The article highlighted a Sri Lankan father, who, in spite of his frantic efforts, which included swimming in the roiling sea with his wife  and mother-in-law on his back, was unable to prevent any of his four children or his wife from being swept to their deaths.

In the article, the father recounted the names of his four children and then, overcome with grief, sobbed to the reporter that “My wife and children must have thought, ‘Father is here….he will save us’ but I couldn’t do it.”

In the Doors of the Sea, Hart wonders:

If you had the chance to speak to this father, in the moment of his deepest grief, what should one say? 

Hart argues that only a ‘moral cretin’ would have approached that father with abstract theological explanation:

“Sir, your children’s deaths are a part of God’s eternal but mysterious counsels” or “Your children’s deaths, tragic as they may seem, in the larger sense serve God’s complex design for creation” or “It’s all part of God’s plan.”

Or “It’s okay, God is mourning too” which is only a more sensitive-sounding but equally deficient explanation precisely because it still attempts an explanation.

Hart says that most of us would have the good sense and empathy to talk like that to the father (though my experience tells me Hart would be surprised how many people in fact would say something like it).

This is the point at which Hart takes it to the next level and says something profound and, I think, true:

“And this should tell us something. For if we think it shamefully foolish and cruel to say such things in the moment when another’s sorrow is most real and irresistibly painful, then we ought never to say them.”

Silence is the best thing to (not) say when there’s nothing to say.

Hart goes on to reflect on The Brothers Karamazov. In it, Dostoyevsky, in the character of Ivan, rages against explanation to his devout brother and gives the best reason I’ve ever encountered for not believing in God. Better than anything in philosophy. Better than anything science can dredge up. Better than any hypocrisy or tragedy I’ve encountered in ministry.

Ivan first recounts, one after another, horrific stories of tortures suffered by children- stories Dostoyevsky ripped from the pages of newspapers- and then asks his pious brother if anything could ever justify the suffering of a single, innocent child.

What makes Ivan’s argument so challenging and unique is that he doesn’t, as you might expect, accuse God for failing to save children like those from suffering.

He doesn’t argue as many atheists blandly do that if a good God existed then God would do something to prevent such evil.

Instead Ivan rejects salvation itself; namely, he rejects any salvation, any providence, any cosmic ‘plan’ that would necessitate such suffering.

He admits there very well could be ‘a reason for everything’ that happens under the sun.

He just refuses to have anything to do with such a God.

So, Ivan doesn’t so much disbelieve God as he rejects God, no matter what consequences such rejection might have for Ivan. He turns in his ticket to God’s Kingdom because he wants no part of the cost at which this Kingdom comes.

When I first read the Brothers K, Ivan’s argument, which is followed by the poem ‘The Grand Inquisitor, took my breath away. I had no answer or reply to Ivan. I was convinced he was right. I still am convinced by him.

The irony, I suspect, is that Ivan’s siding with suffering of the little ones is a view profoundly shaped by the cross. It seems to me that Ivan’s compassion for innocent suffering and disavowal of ANY explanation that justifies suffering comes closer to the crucified Christ than an avowed Christian uttering an unfeeling, unthinking platitude like ‘God has a plan for everything.’

The test of whether or not our speech about God is true, Hart says then, isn’t whether it’s logical, rationally demonstrable, emotionally resonant or culled from scripture.

The test is whether we could say it to a parent standing at their child’s grave.

While I empathize with Tony’s revulsion at those who preach a God whose morality bears no resemblance to our own and who is the direct cause behind every natural disaster and tragedy that befalls us, I agree with Hart:

To preach instead a companionable, changing God who suffers with us (and is changed by that suffering) is to give meaning to suffering and evil.

Worse, it’s really nothing more than a variation of the more loathsome sovereignty of God explanations, for a God who uses suffering and evil for His own self-realization as God is complicit in suffering and evil.

The Gospel, that Easter is God’s (only) response to suffering and death is something far different.

As Hart writes:

“Simply said, there is no more liberating knowledge given us by the gospel — and none in which we should find more comfort — than the knowledge that suffering and death, considered in themselves, have no ultimate meaning at all.”

“Yes, certainly, there is nothing, not even suffering and death, that cannot be providentially turned towards God’s good ends. But the New Testament also teaches us that, in another and ultimate sense, suffering and death – considered in themselves – have no true meaning or purpose at all; and this is in a very real sense the most liberating and joyous wisdom that the gospel imparts.”

“The first proclamation of the gospel is that death is God’s ancient enemy, whom God has defeated and will ultimately destroy. I would hope that no Christian pastor would fail to recognize that that completely shameless triumphalism — and with it an utterly sincere and unrestrained hatred of suffering and death — is the surest foundation of Christian hope, and the proper Christian response to grief.”


Where was God in the Earthquake?

Not behind the earthquake, no.

Not in the earthquake.

Not suffering with those who suffered and suffer the earthquake.

But certainly with.

God, Hart writes, was and is:

“In and beyond all things, nearer to the essence of every creature than that creature itself, and infinitely outside the grasp of all finite things.”

“And while we know that the victory over evil and death has been won, we know also that it is a victory yet to come, and that creation therefore, as Paul says, groans in expectation of the glory that will one day be revealed. Until then, the world remains a place of struggle between light and darkness, truth and falsehood, life and death…”

To help in Nepal, click here.


Losing My Life

Jason Micheli —  April 24, 2015 — 6 Comments

rp_lightstock_70038_small_user_2741517-1024x68311.jpgSecond Week in Easter

Yesterday the sun was out, bright and high like a beacon leading me out of the long winter that had crashed into me.

Yesterday my counts were up. Baseball was back. Thanks to my recently acquired proficiency, I’d just unplugged my boob tubes from my murse of chemo-poison.

I was free and I had what I so seldom do these days, an honest to goodness errand that had nothing to do with doctor visits, lab work, transfusions or prescription pick-ups.

Well, almost. I had to deposit my disability check.

If the last few months have qualified that call and response cliche (‘God is good/All the time’) for me, then yesterday at least seemed the sort of day to return to old, comforting banalities.

‘God is good’ I said to myself in the mirror in my (I cringe as I confess) best black preacher’s affectations just before snapping my fingers (both hands), spinning around (which anemic-me couldn’t do two days prior) and pointing at myself.

‘This is the day guy that the Lord hath made…Let us rejoice and be glad in it’

I declared, this time with all the steely sobriety of Rev. Dimsdale.

Maybe its because my red counts were up or I finally had enough platelets pulsing through me. Maybe it’s because the lymphoma was beating a retreating after my latest round or possibly it was, simply, the tonic of spring.

But when I looked in the mirror yesterday, I didn’t see a 5’7 mole rat with glasses or a man-sized scrotum with chest tubes attached. I saw svelte, sexy bald dude. A younger Patrick Stewart, perhaps, primed to excite women at warp speed or the ’90’s house-mix master, Moby.

Actually, it was Moby’s song ‘Natural Blues,’ the cut that cribs from the single ‘Trouble So Hard,’ that played in my mind as I walked down King Street yesterday wearing my slim, faded jeans (that fit once again thanks to cancer), my Birkenstocks and a new crisp white undershirt. I looked awesome, I thought, like James Dean…after a shoot at Chernobyl. Not only did my doppleganger Moby supply the soundtrack for my morning, the camera for the film starring me had slowed as I walked down the sidewalk as cool as a reservoir dog.

Yesterday I felt good and, feeling good, I felt I looked good too.

Sure, to anyone else I probably looked like one of the watchers from Fringe, but to me, for one brief morning at least, I was once again the guy- the man- who provokes jealousy among men, aspiration among boys and awakens 50 shades of Darwinian hunger in women. What had been lost was found. Like Bernini unveiling his better hung David, I was once again issuing my siren call, overpowering all reason and volition and luring the panted, primal attention of every female to be dashed against this specimen of rock.

Cancer didn’t have me; I had it.

In check, stowed away in my back pocket with a can of whoop ass.

I. Don’t. Look. Sick. At all.

Or so I thought.

I started to cross King Street, heading to the bank, Moby still playing in my head and reflecting off my mind’s eye, when, in the middle of the crosswalk, a 3’5 Filipino nun, wearing a heavy navy blue habit and a crucifix large enough to crucify a 5th grader around her neck, came up to me.

She grasped both my hands, like I was about to plunge to my death. Then she said insistently, in a Spanish tinge:

‘I’ll pray for you.’

I. Don’t. Look. Sick. At all.

oh lordy, 

trouble so hard

oh lordy,

trouble so hard,

don’t nobody know my troubles but God 

And just like that my former self-image, no matter how unmoored from reality you might judge it to be, vanished.

Like a penny and its wish, lost to me.


When I was in the 6th grade, the age my oldest son is now, a girl who was always introducing herself as ‘Candy with a -K’ attempted to shame me one day in gym class. My newly thick and burgeoning 5:00 shadow and concomitant puberty had arrived several semesters ahead of my peers, an inauspicious development for the new kid in school.

‘How many grades have you failed anyways?!’ Candy with a -K said for all who were doing the v-sit reach to hear.

Candy with a -K had feathered bangs that smelled of strawberry, rolled socks inside her Keds and, over top her county-issue gym shorts, a black Guns-N-Roses t-shirt with the sort of image you’d expect to see airbrushed onto the side of a conversion van.

‘Look at how hairy your legs are- there’s no way you’re supposed to be in our grade’ Candy with a -K looked around, hoping her comments would be like chum in the water.

Sensing the sudden need for survival, social Darwin style, I said:

‘Since you obviously like sackless, no-talent bands I’m not surprised you don’t like real men either. Guns-N-Roses? Really? They’re so last year.’

Candy with a -K seemed as surprised as me by the titters my crack set off. She blushed, hid her face behind her ample bang-age and never bothered me again.

And since that fateful harbinger of a day, my beard has been a source of pride, a badge of virility, as much a part of my self-identity as Batman’s cowl or Mitt’s pomade, Mick’s lips or Kim Kardashian’s trunk.

Now, like the hair everywhere else, it’s gone, my sexless face smoother than Candy with a -K’s nobby middle school legs.

The shiny Daddy Warbucks scalp, the rough cheeks hewn hairless, the waning Grandma eyebrows- it’s all only the outward, visible sign of what cancer does in so many inward, invisible ways.

It makes you lose things.

People ask now what it’s like living with cancer without realizing how all the weight falls on that little preposition. Because with is exactly right.

Call it cancer displacement theory.

The tumors take up space, psychic as much as physical, like rocks plunked down into the bucket that held your life. With nowhere else to go, other stuff- not just hair- spills out, falls by the wayside, the volume of who you used to be.

Cancer’s a parasite, an intruder, a third wheel, a squatter, an unwelcome guest who rapt on the door in the middle of the night and brought more baggage than you have room.

Living with it means living without.

Living with it means living with loss.

Last Sunday I was at the infusion center receiving the Neulasta injection that bookends my every round of chemo. A TV played Meet the Press on mute. Pastel Easter decorations had been taped to the tops of the IV poles that stood around the floor like silent skeletons.

Because it was the weekend, the massive market-sized room of lazy boys and blood pressure monitors was still and nearly empty. Other than two nurses, the only person there was an old woman sitting directly across from me, a red orange tube running from a bag to her chest.

She wore a blue scarf with peacocks on it around her small, bony head. Her face looked so sunken and her skin so stretched and translucent guessing her age felt impossible. She greeted me, exhausted, her eyes only half-open, with a distinct prairie accent when I sat down and cracked open my book.

I didn’t get past the first page.

She started to cry– whimper really- from the sores her chemo-poison had burnt into her mouth and tongue and throat. I’ve since gotten those sores too. I feel as though I’ve been skinned alive on the inside, from my tongue on down to my tailbone, so I can hardly blame her for crying like she did and then, what in any other situation would make me blush, begging- pleading with the nurse to ‘make the pain go away.’

She kept on like that, inconsolable, with no concern what I or anyone else might think about her. In a different sized person you’d call it a tantrum.

When her infusion finished and her bag beeped and the nurse came to detach her port, the old woman- her whimpering a low gurgly growl now- didn’t bother with the buttons on her blouse.

She simply lifted up her shirt, exposing her tired-looking breasts to me.

oh lordy, 

trouble so hard

oh lordy,

trouble so hard,

don’t nobody know my troubles but God 

It was, I can say without exaggeration if not exactly knowing the why, the saddest moment yet of my cancer.

Whatever dignity and decorum she’d insisted upon before in her life was gone. She no longer had room for it. Living with cancer meant living without it.

It’s almost always a mistake to say when you’re a pastor: I know how she feels.

I spent every day last week puking in the cars of friends who were kind enough to drive me back and forth from treatment. There was a time when the thought of that kind of vulnerability would’ve killed me. My dignity went out the window (along with my breakfast).

‘Any man who would save his life must lose it’ Jesus says so many times in the synoptics I’m betting he meant it.


Jesus didn’t mean it in the way we so often hear it.

Contrary to our modern, western preconceptions, the word save/salvation doesn’t have anything to do with our eternal life.

So it follows then that Jesus is not talking about death when speaks of loss.


He’s talking about losing our lives.

Losing our ego to cancer’s id.

He’s talking about losing the way your kids used to look at you before they learned to worry, losing the way they would rough house with you back before they considered you fragile.

He’s talking about losing the way you used to be able to bicker over stupid shit because you had all the time in the world, losing that embrace between you in bed where the chemo-pump now goes.

‘Any man who would save his life must lose it.’ 

He’s talking about losing the recognition in the eyes of the barista who’s waited on you a million times before.

He’s talking about losing your focus and your ability, your self-image and self-confidence, your work and the sense of usefulness it lends you.

‘Save’ doesn’t have anything to do with eternal life so when Jesus talks about loss it’s not death he has in mind.

He’s talking about losing your hair, yes, and your taste and your manhood and your reliable bowel and your control over your life and your optimism over the future and your time- God, so much of your time, lost.

Maybe he’s even talking about losing your ability to pray well. Maybe even- probably, I’ll bet- he’s thinking about losing the faith you had.

Not, losing your faith.

Losing the faith you had.

oh lordy, 

trouble so hard

oh lordy,

trouble so hard,

don’t nobody know my troubles but God 

I’ll be honest-

In the sheer boredom and down, dead time that marks so much of life with cancer it’s hard not to dwell on what you’ve lost and wonder what next you’ll have to go without.

No matter how this goes or when or if it returns, the life we had is gone. Lost.

Things are different now and they will be.

The string of loss is such that I think maybe we get the dynamic between faith and doubt all wrong. Or backwards.

Maybe it’s not doubt that interrupts and intrudes upon the life of faith.

Maybe faith interrupts and intrudes upon the life of doubt.

Maybe believers are wrong to treat belief like the norm from which doubt is sometimes a temporary break.

Maybe faith is more properly the stuff of ‘sometimes.’

And maybe nihilism is the norm- it sure looks that way from the long end of a room filled with leukemia patients.

Which means any amount of faith, for any length of moments, is a kind of miracle.

A grace.

A resurrection out of death.

If there’s any upside to so much down, it’s that, according to Jesus’ formulation, I should expect some windfall to come my way, which is either ironic or appropriate given that, in the Gospels, the word for ‘save’ means ‘healing.’

Give Me My Body Back

Jason Micheli —  April 16, 2015 — 10 Comments


As a parent, I get St. Nick’s whiskey-complected appeal. Children, being our children, are hardly immune to the self-deceiving charms of avarice, kitsch or sentimentality. Not to mention, Santa cuts not only a jollier but a more clear-cut visage than a god they can neither see nor properly conceive.

Plus ‘shut up and go to bed or Santa won’t come this Christmas’ requires little explanation or elaboration; whereas, what imperial occupation, illegitimate pregnancy and a 2,000 year old Jew have to do with the PS4 under the tree requires someone, like me, with an advanced degree and pension benefits.

How one fat man with an unpaid but still limited labor force can gift all the world’s children in one evening and then spend the remainder of the year spying on them from his creepy rape bunker in the Arctic begins to seem like a reasonable arrangement…

Just as soon as you start trying to comprehend how rearranging everyone to their ancestral homes was at all a good way for Caesar to count them or how Joseph wasn’t ‘really’ Jesus’ father, God was or how Jesus was- is- actually the Father.

As a parent, I get why Jesus is a sideshow to Santa.

But as both a parent and a preacher, I’ve never once understood how the Church has managed to let the freaking Easter bunny steal our thunder.

I mean, other than lame birthday party magicians, has anyone ever come across a single one of those little rodents who would actually let you hold them without nicking the shit out of your forearms? Santa at least lets you sit on his lap.

Besides, a giant Ellen Jamesian rabbit who refuses to speak but lays chicken eggs and then abandons them to strangers like a Dickens character is creepy. Thank God we don’t wonder aloud with our kids who the rooster is that knocked up the Easter bunny. Seriously, why don’t we just read Lolita to our kids every spring?

Not only is the Easter bunny creepy, unlike Santa, there’s not even the pretense of a story.

By contrast the Easter story- the real Easter story- is a good story, good enough that not even killjoy atheists bother to quibble much about it being called ‘the greatest story ever told.’ Instead of mute eugenics and questionable sexual content, the real Easter story has everything that makes for a compelling epic. There’s betrayal and injustice, friendship and failure, undeserved suffering, scores of villains and a scapegoat. There are long dormant dreams, impossibly huge stakes, and what looks like foolish idealism. The hero dies. His movement founders. Evil triumphs. The end.

Or is it?

It’s a good story.

So we must not be very good at how we tell it. Maybe, I wonder, it’s because we’re unsure about the why of the story.

Sometimes I think you need less familiar stories to drive home the why of an Easter story now so familiar it’s become stock.

Last Easter during my children’s sermon I decided to tell the primped and seer-suckered kids the story of the seven Maccabean martyrs, one of the Old Testament’s first notes of a resurrection hope.

In hindsight I should’ve opted to tell them about the ‘No, meant no’ knocked up bunny.

The story, told in detail only an amateur butcher could love, is found in 2 Maccabees 7. In it, Antiochus IV Epiphanes is the most recent occupying thug oppressing the Jews. His occupying Greek regime attempts to pacify the Jews by stamping out what makes them Jews, their fidelity to Torah. In this charming little ‘Easter’ vignette Antiochus tries to force seven Israelite brothers and their mother, by suffering severe torture, to eat pork.

Antiochus has fires built and pans and cauldrons set out for spectacle.

When the first brother refuses the other white meat, Antiochus has his tongue cut out, his scalp cut off and his hands and feet chopped off while his mom and brothers look on.

Then Antiochus’ shock troops fry him in what must’ve been the world’s heaviest cast iron skillet.

Thus does Antiochus do to the second brother, so the story goes, who like his elder brother refuses to forsake his faith.

No sooner has Antiochus seared brother #2 in a (very large) dab of butter than the third brother sticks out his tongue, freely offering it to his tormentors. Even bolder the brother stretches out his hands and declares ‘I got these hands from the Lord, and because of his laws I forsake them, and from the Lord I hope to get them back again.’

In other words:

‘The God in whom I’ve kept faith gave me this body and God, keeping faith in me, will give it back again.’

God will vindicate my faithfulness.

God will vindicate me.

In the text, it’s a full-throated resurrection hope kind of moment, tempered only slightly by the fact that brothers 4,5,6, and 7 as well as the faith-instilling matron of the family all meet similarly grisly ends.

As you would expect, the story riveted the children when I told it to them with paschal glee. I didn’t even need props.

And as you would expect, some of their parents were riveted in a different sort of way.

I was only about halfway through the benediction when one mother, a first-time guest, glared at me and, coming about 3 cm from my face, inquired:

‘What in the world kind of Easter story was that?’

Assuming my typical pastoral posture I replied, in love:

‘Look, lady, I don’t know if you’ve seen Donnie Darko but the Easter bunny’s creepy and, besides, I’ll tell you what- that story I told the kids, that’s the only Easter story worth dragging our butts out of bed on Sunday mornings.’

She looked as though I’d just given her an enema. And as she dragged her two children away I heard her say: ‘Yes, honey, we’ll hunt for Easter eggs when we get home.’

To be honest, last Easter my comment to her was just a throwaway line, just Jason being Jason. It wasn’t anything more than a contrarian rebuttal intended to convey that the Church has something greater at stake in our Resurrection announcement than abiding her safe, civically-derived sentimental expectations. But it’s true- that story is the only Easter story worth getting our asses out of bed every Sunday.

I didn’t realize how true a comment I’d uttered until this Easter.


Two days ago, I spent the entire day at the hospital’s cancer center receiving multiple blood transfusions.

The previous week’s chemo-poison not only killed off all my white blood cells, it eradicated most of my red blood cells too, leaving me with nosebleeds that wouldn’t stop and cuts that wouldn’t clot much less heal. Where before my diagnosis I required only the Beastie Boys’ Sabotage on repeat to run a 5K in 20 minutes flat, this week, with my red blood running on empty, the simplest of tasks winded me so quickly it was seconds before I could feel my heartbeat in my teeth. Worse than the shortness of breath was the dizziness, making me feel like a passing acquaintance was having an argument in my head.

The irony of a preacher needing another’s freely given blood on Good Friday didn’t escape the staff at the cancer center.

The transfusion room was a claustrophobic row of mauve lazy boys separated by IV poles and manilla half-curtains meant to create the illusion of privacy. Vinyl decals of pastel eggs and snowy Easter bunnies decorated the length of the parking lot-view window.

Though she was only about 5 inches from my right hand, I couldn’t see the woman sitting next to me. She had a smoker’s voice and swollen ankles and was wearing, I could see extending beyond the curtain’s reach, worn jeans and New Balance sneakers. ‘The chemo’s swollen me up. These are all I can get on my feet these days.’

I guessed she was older than me, but not by much.

She’d been talking when I sat down and she kept on talking most of the day. Like it wasn’t blood that she needed. It was painful. She overshared about her private life to the staff in a way that made them blush. She told slightly inappropriate jokes to the other patients. Her running commentary to the air was one long non sequitur. She offered dubious personal connections to any tidbit she heard anyone else discuss.

It felt like we were all on a blind date and only she failed to realize how badly it was going.

She was doing anything, I quickly realized, to keep a nurse near her or a tech touching her or a stranger talking with her- even if it meant they were irritated with her.

She was afraid.

It was not so simple as that.


By the time I was on my second unit of blood the commentary in my head had changed from ‘God, she’s annoying’ to ‘She shouldn’t have to be like this.’ 

By the time that second bag was bottom’s up, she’d turned me introspective. I was thinking: ‘I shouldn’t have to be like this.’ 

I shouldn’t have to be like this.

With a reflection that catches me by surprise in store windows like someone’s stolen my shadow. With a face where my beard used to go that can now go a week and still be smoother than an East German woman’s boob. With nausea that feels as familiar as a birthmark now and fingernails that feel like dry November leaves.

I shouldn’t have to be like this, poisoned and drained, needing blood like a washed out vampire, with a diagnosis that makes even the denizens of the cancer center regard me with equal parts pity and ‘…but for the grace of God’ relief.

‘I got these hands from God, and because of his laws I forsake them, and from God I hope to get them back again.’

God will give me my body back, says the brother.

The God who made me, one could easily paraphrase, owes me that much. Or, to put it more theologically, the God who is Goodness itself owes that much to Himself.

As a preacher, I know better than most the extent to which our resurrection claim gets watered down at Easter. While outside the Church the resurrection seas gets repackaged as springtime renewal, inside the Church we neuter the Risen Jesus. We make him a symbol for our hope of life after death. Or, worse, we turn Easter into a surprising coda to a grim story in which God kills Jesus with the death we deserve to die.

But if Easter is just about life after death then the cross- a 1st century water board- is a fucked up symbol for a religious faith. And if Easter is merely a happy ending to a story where God’s righteous system of sin accounting demands that someone die, then, frankly, God is an effed up god.

You just have to go back to that other Easter story in 2 Maccabees to see how those of us who’ve made resurrection about interior souls and eternal salvation have lost the plot entirely.

Before resurrection is about eternal life, it’s about this life.

Easter’s about vindication.

In the Gospel story-

Easter is about the God of Israel vindicating the life of Christ by plucking him up from death for Caesar and all the world to see. Easter is the revelation- as obvious as an empty grave with an angel’s ass sitting where the imperial seal used to be- that the grain of universe runs with those who bear crosses not build them.

Easter is about God turning the universe inside out and showing us that the seam of creation, as John says, is love. Grace and mercy.

And if that’s the way world runs, despite all appearances to the contrary, then, dammit, eventually God will get around to vindicating those who try to live according to it.

Her next to me, awkward because she’s afraid, afraid because she’s quite possibly dying- she shouldn’t be like this. Me with my MCL. You with whatever keeps your life from being the good and perfect gift God intended. The world with its manifold darkness.

Things shouldn’t be like this. God knows it. And God will do something about it.

That’s resurrection hope.

The God I’ve staked my life on, albeit in my imperfect way, will be faithful to me.

Today is Easter.

Thanks to the transfusions, my red is back up today and I’m feeling better. But it’s not the new blood that got me out of bed today.

It’s that resurrection hope sewn inside an unseemly story: God will vindicate me.

God will give me my body back.

I stumbled across some good news in the cancer club today.

As you know we are in the midst of our annual fundraiser to support Aldersgate’s work in Guatemala. This year, there is a ZERO percent chance that I say something in this fundraising effort that offends my superiors – and it is all thanks to cancer.

You can’t get offended when a cancer patient asks you to support kids in a subsistence economy in the developing world – it’s a violation of the cancer code.

I’m officially on ‘medical leave’ but that doesn’t stop me from being a committed volunteer when it comes to our work in Guatemala.

So I’m going to let it all hang out. We need you to contribute to our Guatemala project this year – and we need you to do it today.

In the past several years, Aldersgate rose to the occasion to build stoves in homes so that our friends in the Highlands don’t smoke choke themselves to an early death. We built a community center. A school cafeteria. And a sanitation system that now connects the entire village.

To date, our projects – all of which were done hand-in-hand and at the suggestion of the village leadership – have been focused on the here-and-now. They’ve been life-saving, health-saving projects.

Now we are tackling something bigger: the future.

Aldersgate is trying to heed the call for a high school – one that will serve 13 villages.

It’s not replacing an existing school because currently, they don’t have one. It’s creating an entirely new horizon for the children of these remote villages.

By furthering their education, they’ll have skills that can earn real wages. When even one person in a family breaks the cycle of subsistence living, the entire family benefits.

We can help our Guatemalan friends literally change the economic trajectory of the entire village just by opening new doors to its youngest citizens.

This school will not build itself. It is our largest undertaking to date. It requires that we raise $50,000.

We’re 2/3 of the way towards our goal. Kick in some cash.

You can’t turn down an adorable cancer patient can you?


You have prayed about our mission in Guatemala. The kids there have a prayer. Now they need a chance.

For the past 10 years, our mission in Guatemala has been a big part of my life. My attachment to the place is more than professional. But this year, when our church’s volunteers head to the airport to fly south for our work weeks, I will not be with them. Cancer and chemotherapy are going to take this trip from me.

But they don’t have to take it from you. Participate in the Guatemala project with your heart, your sweat, your prayers, your dollars – or all of the above. Give those kids a chance.

You can give to the project by clicking here and choosing ‘Change the Choice’

You can find out more about it’s importance by watching the video below:


rp_lightstock_70038_small_user_2741517-1024x6831.jpgHoly Thursday

I’m on ‘medical leave’ now that I’m undergoing chemo-poison.

Essentially ‘medical leave’ is insurancese that means I now give my 100% all to doing roughly the amount of work my boss, Dennis Perry, has done the past 10 years (4.5%) while still receiving 70% of my salary whilst another insurance company (the one ‘covering’ my care) spends 80% of its time trying to screw me over.

Though it first sounded like a grift to me, I’ve noticed that cancer lends ‘medical leave’ something like the opposite stigma of welfare and while it doesn’t grant me any stamps to spend at Safeway medical leave does provide me ample time to conform to the very worst conservative stereotypes of welfare recipients.

That’s right, I lay around on my ass and I watch TV.

It’s no small feat when you consider that I don’t have cable. There’s no mindless channel surfing here; it takes work to waste time on my sofa. Like the central port buried in my chest, my Apple TV feeds lazy ass me from just two lines of entertainment possibilities: Netflix and iTunes.

Just to convey how bad it’s gotten for me, yesterday I abdicated 100 minutes of my life to watch the Jason Statham cajun-flavored revenge ‘film’ Homefront. If the name Jason Statham is unfamiliar to you or if you haven’t heard of this B-movie, suffice it to say that the script- all six nonsensical sentences of it- was written by Sylvester Stallone.

Laying on the sofa with chemo-poison flowing from my man-pursed portable pump into my chest in order to save my life, I simultaneously wasted an hour and forty minutes of that life watching Homefront, a movie where Jason Statham does no transporting of any kind.

What’s worse, that was the second time I’d watched Homefront, making for a grand total of 200 minutes of my life. Since it’s Holy Week: that’s longer than Jesus languished on the cross. It’s no trivial sacrifice when you consider the odds are better than even that Mantle Cell has now abridged my life span by a decade or two.

Thanks to medical leave, my house is now like Guy Montag’s. The scrolling screen saver on my Apple TV has become like another work of art in our living room, the digital complement to the tasteful pen and ink above our mantle.

And maybe it’s because mortality now stalks me like a shadow

or maybe it’s because the chemo-cocktails have left my insides a metabolic roller-coaster

or maybe it’s because cancer has coincidentally coincided with some sort of manstrating man-change within me,

whatever the reason, there’s something about the photos in the Apple TV screensaver slideshow that lately render me a weepy, tear-soaked mess.

I mean, there’s the photograph of the solitary polar bear floating submerged in the brisk sea looking, to me at least, despondent (and maybe a bit vexed at all you climate change deniers out there), as though he can’t find a single sheet of arctic ice to rest upon and now he’s given up trying.

And there’s the action shot of the salmon who has furiously swum upstream to spawn, pursuing only the promise that he’ll meet his mate and his maker in that (short) order. Jumping, briefly, out of the water, out of fear or rage or foreplay-who’s to say what is the difference, this unlucky fish lands, dead-center (snap goes the camera), in the mouth of a luckier grizzly bear.

Such is the capriciousness of life, I think every time of late.

And then dab at my eyes.

Following the ill-fated fish, there’s an aerial of what sometimes looks to me like the smooth, sexy navel and torso of an exotic woman. It’s actually a photograph of a scorched, oasis-less desert that you’re as likely to die in as traverse.

In my better moods that strikes me as ironic.

What really gets me though is the Lifetouch-esque photo of a papa gorilla holding out in his hard, leathery hand a delicate, few-petalled, flower. His little boy gorilla sits in front of him smiling and staring, looking equal parts delighted and amazed.

I have no idea if either of them is actually male. I just project that onto the photo, that’s my point. Such is my issue of late.

Ever since stage-serious cancer got me, the father/son gorilla picture gets to me every time. I tear up the way I once did watching the finale of Finding Nemo with my youngest boy- you know, the part where Nemo screams ‘Daddy’ and then hugs his prodigal father with his two little imperfect fins.

The gorilla on the screensaver slideshow gets me in a weepy, fatted-calf kind of mood every time, and every time my wife, Ali, looks at me like: Who are you?

Granted, my observations about the aforementioned desert photo provoke some additional comments from Ali as well but, most of the time, whenever I look at the Apple TV screensaver slideshow- and reach for a tissue- Ali looks at me like:

What have you done with my husband?

She does so because for most of our marriage, as well as the long courtship preceding it, my emotional landscape was not unlike that dry, barren desert that just might be the nude, come-hither midriff of a Bond girl.

At most, my hard-scrabble emotional landscape had a tumbleweed or two blowing by.

But now, I’m different. I’m like a post-menopausal Blanche Dubois, crying in to my silk kimono to keep the tears from falling into the cheesecake Dorothy’s defrosted for me.

I blame it on the C-word that so often now my wife looks at me as though wondering:

Are you the same person I married?

The question comes to every marriage.

Doesn’t it?IMG_2633

I’ve been a pastor for 14 years. I’ve taken hours and hours of counseling classes. I’ve worked with I don’t know how many couples. I’ve got shelves of books on marriage in my office, and one of the points I’ve always impressed upon those about to be married is what I’ve called Jason’s Rule.

Jason’s Rule goes like this:

     You never really know the person you’re marrying until after you’ve been married to the person you’re marrying.

‘Jason’s Rule’ is just a shamelessly cribbed version of Hauerwas’ rule. 

Whether you have a terrific relationship or a terrible one, I always tell couples before their wedding and often in their wedding sermon, Jason’s Rule always holds true.

‘I don’t care if you’ve already lived with the person you’re marrying or if you’ve filled out a hundred e-Harmony compatibility questions, Jason’s Rule always prove true.’

I’ve preached several dozen times.

‘Marriage,’ I tell them, ‘names the process in which you discover who the stranger is that you’ve married (as well as who the stranger is that you call you).’

‘That’s why,’ I’ve written into every wedding sermon I’ve ever preached, ‘only marriage makes you ready for marriage.’

‘That’s why,’ I always warn them before they ever promise anything about sickness and health or riches and poverty or death doing them apart, ‘marriage isn’t just a beautiful leap of faith, it’s a rough and tumble process too. It’s why even the best marriages aren’t easy or painless.’

You never really know the person you’re marrying until after you’ve been married to the person you’re marrying.

It’s a nugget of ostensible wisdom I still think worth doling out to couples, but cancer’s got me reconsidering just how foolproof is ‘Jason’s Rule.’

While I’m sure Ali never imagined the shy, sophisticated, Ivy League, French-film watching gentleman to whom she once said ‘I do’ would one day be teaching her boys to burp the starting lineup for the Nationals or that he would one day be ranking her boys’ farts by both sound and scent or that he would prove genetically incapable of putting the toilet seat down.

Contrary to my own pre-marital dictate, I knew all along exactly who I was marrying.

‘Jason’s Rule’ still holds true in the sense that Ali never foresaw that when I vowed ‘…and with all that I am…’ Mantle Cell Lymphoma would be included before our 14th anniversary.

But even though I didn’t know back then that my chromosomes would one day foment a mutiny within my marrow, I DID know- yes, I absolutely did- that Ali was the type of person who would shush me, gently, and smooth my sweat-matted hair when a panic attack roused me awake.

Before she ever promised to love and comfort me in sickness, I knew that she would change my soiled bed clothes and sheets in the middle of the night. I had no doubt she would climb into my hospital bed with me no matter the nasty bile tube running from my gut out my nose to underneath her head.

Being young and stupid, I had no notion such a day would come but I still knew she was the type of woman who would get down on her knees and scrub every inch of our house for every stray germ that might land neutropenic me back in the hospital. I knew even then that she would never reconsider the fairness of that ‘forsaking all others’ promise while she knocked softly on the bathroom door to ask if I was alright, as the chemo-induced hemorrhoids made the chemo-induced runs a torturous experience only Dick Cheney could minimize.


‘Jason’s Rule’ aside-

I knew when I said ‘I do’ that she would do all of this and more.

One of the things you learn in ministry the average cancer patient (or doctor even) might not know is that stage-serious cancer is the kind of shit that can wreak havoc on a marriage.

That’s why it’s so grave- as in, important, that I knew before either us pledged anything about ‘for better, for worse’ that she was the sort of person for whom this would never be just my cancer.

Ali’s an ‘our’ kind of woman.

And it is very much our disease. There isn’t a truer thing I can write.

In countless texts, emails, Facebook messages, Tweets, hugs at the grocery, and old fashioned snail mail, so many people ask how I’m doing, how I feel, what it’s like for me to have cancer turn my life upside down.

Not nearly as often do people ask about Ali, about how she’s doing, about how she feels, about what it’s like for her to have cancer turn her life upside down and shake a fair amount of what was her life out onto the floor.

And they should because I have a better vantage than anyone and this stage-serious cancer is as hard (if not harder) on her than it is on me.

Ali had to be the one to break the news to me when I first opened my eyes out of surgery:

‘It was a bigger surgery than they thought, honey. They removed a pretty large tumor…it’s…lymphoma…we’re waiting to find out what kind.’

Of course, I was too narced up to remember her telling me any of that but my mom was there and told me just before telling me that Ali did a good job with the hard telling.

Since that first day, it’s only gotten harder.

For her.

She’s the one who has to deal with an obstinate, pain-in-the-ass, and anemic husband who dismisses nose bleeds and knife cuts that refuse to clot as ‘not a big deal.’

She’s the one (not me- I was eating pudding in the hospital) who had to talk it through with our boys about how their Dad has cancer and could be sick for a very long time, fingers crossed the whole time that our youngest, Gabriel, wouldn’t connect remember to connect the C-word to his kindergarten teacher who died.

She’s the one who bears this unfair burden of anxiety about how much time she spends with me in the hospital or at the doctor’s office or at the stem cell center and whether or not it should be more time- which would mean less time at work or at home- because we don’t know how much time we have left.

Ironically, the insurance company seems to remember what so many others neglect to ask, for the bills come with her name on them too. My cancer effects afflicts her too.


The truth is I’ve got it easy.

I spend most of my days going to doctors who weigh me and measure out my blood, who inject me and infuse me and inquire of me. It’s pretty passive even if it’s not carefree. And when I’m home (and not on or near the toilet) all I’ve got to do is lay on my ass with poison running through tubes in my chest and binge-watch Game of Thrones.

Ali has to pick up the slack, put on a brave face for the boys, ask the doctor the questions I’m afraid to broach, be my personal assistant, maid and nurse, worry about germs in our house on a daily basis and wonder how much I’m lying when I tell her ‘I feel fine.’

Lately, I look at myself in the mirror and I just kvetch at what I see: a 5’7 foreskin with glasses.

Ali looks at this hairless, sometimes emaciated, sometimes swollen with fluid version of me and she just worries.

The one with the cancer has got it easy.

I don’t have to be the one married to a spouse who (despite everything I’ve written above) routinely neglects to consider how all this shit makes her feel.

Speaking of shit, I don’t have to be married to someone who now leaves a small mammal’s worth of dead ass hair on the toilet seat. That would effing gross me out and drive me over the edge. But not Ali. Okay, it does gross her out but she takes it in graceful stride.

It’s our cancer.

And there’s no better picture I can draw for how this is so than to tell you that the 24hr poison pump hooked to my chest now rests between us in bed, like our baby, albeit an unwanted one that prevents me from putting my arm around her (when that’s all I want to do) and keeps us, as we’ve always done, from spooning our legs inside each other’s. The distance the poison pump baby creates between us is such that I can’t even feel her breath blow across my chest hair.

Or what’s left of it.

I never knew we’d be in this position, just over a dime into our marriage, but when I said ‘I do’ I just knew, if only intuitively, what Ali would do. And without meaning to sound creepy or more prescient than I am, it’s one of the reasons I married her.

I’m selective about whose wedding I perform. I say no to a lot of couples. I like my weekends too much to say yes to everybody and with so many Christians these days blathering about ‘the sanctity of marriage’ it seems hypocritical to marry any hetero couple who claims to be love.

Still, in 14 years I’ve married a lot of people and since before I was even married myself I’ve been dispensing ‘Jason’s Rule’ to would-be newlyweds. And now that I have we have cancer, I suspect I’ve been wrong all this time.

Now that I have we have cancer, I realize I knew exactly who Ali was, is all along.

‘Jason’s Rule,’ as it turns out, isn’t the warning it sounds like. ‘Jason’s Rule’ isn’t that you don’t know who the person is you’re marrying; it’s a warning that you’re not likely to marry someone as special as I’ve married. ‘Jason’s Rule’ isn’t a warning that you don’t know who you have in marriage; it’s a warning that you’ll probably never have what I have in marriage.

With her.


Today is Holy Thursday, the day when the Church remembers the last Passover meal Jesus celebrated with his disciples. In John’s Gospel there is no Passover meal. John intends for Jesus on the Cross to be the Passover lamb. Instead of a meal, John gives us a scene where Jesus kneels down, dons the posture of a servant, and washes his friends’ feet. Peter and the others initially resist and their reluctance is almost always interpreted in terms of exultation and humiliation.

Peter and the others, it’s assumed, don’t want a King like Jesus deigning to wash their nasty feet. Discipleship then, the sermons- including my own- always go, means stooping down, rolling up our sleeves, swallowing our pride and serving like Christ.

I realize only now that, in the story, what Peter resists isn’t what Jesus does- acting beneath his station and washing their feet.

No, Peter resists what Jesus says- that this footwashing is a sharing in Jesus’ death.

It’s not that Peter doesn’t want Jesus to wash his feet.

It’s that Peter doesn’t want to die.

Ever since Ali broke to me the news we both dreaded, I’ve thought a lot about another washing we do in the Church, baptism, and how in the Church we say with water and oil that the baptized are baptized into Christ’s death.

And Christians mean that literally if obliquely.

The manner in which we carry our own crosses, confront dreaded news and adversity and, say, deal with stage-serious disease it’s the way we live into our baptisms by sharing- hopefully later rather than sooner- in Christ’s death.

In addition to ‘Jason’s Rule’ I’ve always liked to point out to would-be newlyweds how the wedding liturgy in the worship book comes after in the sense of logically flowing from the baptism liturgy. Marriage too, with its impossibly huge promises of constancy come what may until death tears us asunder, is but a way we live into and live out our baptisms.

I can’t tell you how many would-be newlyweds have told me they want to get married because they’ve found the person with whom they want to share their life.

But really, if the worship book is any clue, we should be searching for a rarer kind of person- someone with whom we can die. No, even rarer still: someone who can help us to die in a manner worthy of our baptism.

Hopefully later rather than soon.

5-marc-chagall-painting-of-jesusMy theological muse, Herbert McCabe, cautions against any understandings of Good Friday that are insufficiently historical, that is, those ‘atonement theories’  that are exclusively religious or theological.

The very fact that Jesus was crucified suggests the familiar cliche that ‘God willed Jesus to die for our sin’ is not nearly complex enough nor this worldly:

“Some creeds go out of their way to emphasize the sheer vulgar historicality of the cross by dating it: ‘He was put to death under Pontius Pilate.’

One word used, ‘crucified,’ does suggest an interpretation of the affair.

Yet [that word] ‘crucified’ is precisely not a religious interpretation but a political one.

If only Jesus had been stoned to death that would have at least put the thing in a religious context- this was the kind of thing you did to prophets.

Nobody was ever crucified for anything to do with religion.

Moreover the reference to Pontius Pilate doesn’t only date the business but also makes it clear that it was the Roman occupying forces that killed Jesus- and they obviously were not interested in religious matters as such. All they cared about was preserving law and order and protecting the exploiters of the Jewish people.

It all goes to show that if we have some theological theory [about the cross] we should be very careful.

This historical article of the creed isn’t just an oddity. This oddity is the very center of our faith.

It is the insertion of this bald empirical historical fact that makes the creed a Christian creed, that gives it the proper Christian flavor. It is because of this vulgar fact stuck in the center of our faith that however ecumenical we may feel towards the Buddhists, say, and however fascinating the latest guru may be, Christianity is something quite different.


Christianity isn’t rooted in religious experiences or transcendental meditation or the existential commitment of the self. It is rooted in a political murder committed by security forces in occupied Jerusalem around the year 30 AD…

Before the crucifixion Jesus is presented with an impossible choice: the situation between himself and the authorities has become so polarized that he can get no further without conflict, without crushing the established powers.

If he is to found the Kingdom, the society of love, he must take coercive action. But this would be incompatible with his role as as meaning of the Kingdom. He sees his mission to be making the future present, communicating the kind of love that will be found among us only when the Kingdom is finally achieved.

And the Kingdom is incompatible with coercion.

I do not think that Jesus refrained from violent conflict because violence was wrong, but because it was incompatible with his mission, which was to be the future in the present.

Having chosen to be the meaning of the Kingdom rather than its founder Jesus’ death- his political execution- was inevitable.

He had chosen to be a total failure. His death meant the absolute end his work. It was not as though his work was a theory, a doctrine that might be carried on in books or by word of mouth. His work was his presence, his communication of love.

In choosing failure out of faithfulness to his mission, Jesus expressed his trust that his mission was not just his own, that he was somehow sent.

In giving himself to the cross he handed everything over to the Father.

In raising Jesus from the dead, the Father responded…

This is why Christians sat that what they mean by ‘God’ is he who raised Jesus from the dead, he who made sense of the senseless waste of the crucifixion.

And what Christians mean by ‘Christian’ are those people who proclaim that they belong to the future, that they take their meaning not from this corrupt and exploitative society but from the new world that is to come and that in a mysterious way already is.”

rp_lightstock_70038_small_user_2741517-1024x683.jpgDay 14

Along the course of ministry you overhear tidbits of wisdom that, like stones against the wind and the sea, with the passage of time acquire the sheen of something like the absolute.

The Truth.

One such folk koan came to me by way of Fred Holly some 14 years ago.

Fred was an elderly parishioner at the tiny New Jersey church where I served part-time as pastor. It was the sort of church where the term ‘elderly parishioner’ was woefully redundant.

A curmudgeonly sort, Fred let it be known often that he only attended worship out of the habit enforced by his wife; nevermind, that the late Mrs. Holly had left the Earth around the same time Fred’s beloved Tricky Dick had left the White House.

Since then Fred had been unfailing in complaining about his Sunday obligation.

Similarly Fred was vocal in his assessment that my ‘only attribute worth a damn’ was my ‘sexy dame of a wife.’

In the first spring of my ministry I visited Fred in the ICU of a Bucks County Hospital. The day before he’d had a bypass done on more of a heart than I’d believed he’d possessed.

His hair was mussed and greasy. His eyes looked small and round- mole like- without their glasses. His gown hung down off his beefy shoulders like a cotton evening dress.

When I walked in he was sitting up in bed, a large teddy bear in his lap. Whenever he breathed or coughed, he clutched the teddy bear against the incision that ran from his groin to his collar. And every time he’d grimace, red-faced and veined- the agony in his expression in inverse proportion to the blank, serene visage of the bear.

After one painful coughing fit that ended, Fred seemed amused, with a long, thunderous yawp of a fart, Fred wiped the sweat from his forehead and said:

‘Jesus, God damn, Rev. I’ll tell you what:

Get all your prayin’ in when you’re healthy. It’s just too damn hard to pray when you’re busted up and sick.’

And right then and there it struck me as true and sound in the way of other sayings like ‘Never eat yellow snow’ or ‘Don’t play leapfrog with a unicorn’ or ‘Sharing your medical info is always more embarrassing when its shared with a moderately attractive nurse practitioner of your approximate age.’ 

‘Get all your prayin’ in when you’re healthy. It’s just too damn hard to pray when you’re busted up and sick.’

It had the ring of a proverb even though I’ve not heard it elsewhere and have not returned to it since.

Not until lately.

Conventional wisdom and all, you might just as easily expect it to be the opposite, but Fred is right: praying is hard when you’re busted up and sick.

During my first A Cycle of chemo-poison, after one of my several ‘walks’ with the earnest Licensed Clinical Social Worker, my slippered feet found their way to the hospital chapel. Having listened to the LCSW spout new-agey and not a little patronizing about mindfulness and Zen meditation, contrarian-me determined to do some old school, Holy Roman, hegemonic praying.

I knew the hospital had a chapel because I’d seen it- on a constant, 24 hour live camera stream on the hospital’s uppermost television channel, just after the porny Latin Soap Opera station.

It was like the National Zoo’s panda cam without the pandas; every time I flipped past it to get to Wolf Blitzer or PTI or 19 Kids and Counting, the chapel was always empty.

So I wasn’t surprised when I opened the chapel door, drug my drug pole in behind me, and found the little sanctuary empty. Like such spaces in airports and colleges and funeral homes everywhere, the chapel was so enthusiastically ecumenical as to be bland. It felt more like a little nook at a Courtyard Marriott.

Nonetheless, I sat down in the front row, my chemo my only companion, and attempted to pray in the manner of the saints and martyrs before me.

Later that evening, when the young Muslim woman from Food Services brought me my chicken soup and Ensure, her eyes brightened and, smiling, she said:

‘I saw you on the TV! In the chapel! A patient down the hall turned the channel when I picked up his lunch tray earlier today.’

‘You saw me?’

She nodded and smiled and then added:

‘Poor thing, you must be exhausted.’

I must’ve looked confused.

‘The Muslim way is better,’ she explained, ‘it’s harder to fall asleep when you’re on your  knees.’

The little fact of stage-serious cancer notwithstanding- and I realize this is a bit like Larry Flynt confessing he’s just not that into women- the X-Rated truth of the matter is that I’ve never been very good at prayer.

In the same way that for a time in college I could participate in a conversation in French class about the meaninglessness of existence, Le Jazz, or American imperialism, I know how to pray. But prayer has never been anything like my first language.

Being a duly ordained Reverend (as in: ‘one to be revered’), I can pray. I can do it in a performative, professional manner, but in the same way I can summon something resembling etiquette for a formal dinner even this is not my natural or most comfortable posture. Honestly, even with the little self-awareness I possess, I know that I’m vain enough, despite being introverted, to lap up the approval and/or adoration of an audience; consequently, I’ve always maintained a healthy skepticism regarding public prayer. Both my own and others’.

But the bottom line is-

Healthy or very much not healthy (as the case now is), I’m a piss poor pray-er.

I get restless.

I get bored and, bored, I get distracted

If only God had an email address or a Twitter account or a regular coffee shop where he hung out because closed eyes and bowed head seldom works for me.

Really? ‘Quiet time’ sounds to me exactly like it sounds to my 9 year old: punishment. Or, at least, something to be endured.

Even worse than the boredom that makes you feel incompetent at prayer is the sudden rushing awareness of how superficial is most of your prayer- that leaves you feeling inauthentic.

Incomplete, as a human being.

And then there are those days- more frequent than most pastors will admit- when you’re convinced you’re mistaken about about God, about Christ, about everything else in the creed. On those days prayer especially can feel like 100 Proof Superstition, making you feel the fool.

Given my own dissatisfying experience with prayer, now that I’m sick and/or dying when people tell me they’re praying for me (which everyone does…and I’m grateful) I feel guilty- guilty that my cancer has laid this extra burden upon them that will only lead to them feeling restless or bored or distracted or superstitious and, thus, foolish.

My track record with and previous affections for prayer in no way cancel out the verities I heard in that Bucks County ICU. What was hard and unnatural for me before is damn near impossible since cancer staged a hostile takeover of my body, my blood and my family’s life.

Fred Holly’s teddy bear maxim is as true as Kenny Rogers’ about the relative importance of knowing when to hold ‘em and knowing when to fold ‘em.

I’ve walked away from more than a few prayers these past days and weeks because Fred is (surely he’s a was by now) dead-on:

When you’re busted up in body, mind and soul and sick enough you count it lucky you took out that life insurance policy when you did, praying is damn hard.

For my last CAT Scan, to see if I had any tumors in my upper body like the ones latched on to me all over my lower body (I do), I tried to pray the Lord’s Prayer as I grimaced against my stomach incision, raised my arms over my head and lay still as the camera spun around my chest.

I couldn’t remember all the words.



Daily bread and deliverance.

I kept getting the phrasing in the wrong order.

I’ve led the Lord’s Prayer at least 1,000 times on Sundays alone but, without the backing chorus of a congregation behind me, my rhythm was off.

I’ve tried many times since then to recite it, mostly in the gray hours when the night sweats or the urgent need to piss out the poisons, have left me wide away.

I always screw it up.

Likewise Psalm 23, another prayer that in my former life I knew by heart.

Speaking of the psalms, now that I have cancer and can’t pray worth a damn, I’m amazed that King David, what with his turbulent TMZ life and all, was able to compose as many prayers as he did.

David may be the exception that proves Fred’s rule.

Before my first CAT Scan, done at my GI doctor’s orders, I didn’t pray at all; I hadn’t thought there was a need to pray. I didn’t think there was anything, save a gallstone or two, wrong with me, certainly not the C-word.

I prayed DURING that first CAT Scan however. 

The radiology tech had given me an injection of contrast which, as a side-effect, would give me a warm, wet sensation all over my body, none of which- AND THIS IS KEY- he told me beforehand.

So lying there, unsuspecting under a sheet, my pants pulled down around my ankles, an awareness suddenly and mercilessly washed over me:

‘Oh. My. God. I just shit my pants.’

In the same way there are no atheists in fox holes, this realization immediately gave way to supplication:

‘Please God, let it not be bad. Please God, let me get out here without too many people noticing- especially not the hot receptionist at the front desk.’

It was some kind of prayer to be sure.

Later that night when the GI doctor, who’d just read the results of the scan, called me and threw phrases at me like ‘Are you sitting down?’ and ‘…need to get you into surgery quickly’ and, the doozy, ‘I’ve set up an appointment for you in the morning with an oncologist…’ I was too scared to pray.

Jesus, facing death in the Garden in John’s Gospel, prays for pages upon pages upon pages. I suppose that’s the difference between being God incarnate and just being carnate.

Studying the Hebrew Bible, I learned the ‘proper’ form to prayer, beginning with a robust address to God, some name that hits at the highlights of his resume, and then moving on to praise God for his gracious acts in salvation history and then- and only then- beseeching God to do likewise for you today.

It’s a lesson I’ve reinforced with confirmation classes, organizing prayers like study notes, with the acronym P-T-A:



And only then: Ask.

Such niceties are just that, nice. But they’re all but impossible when you feel yourself salivating fear in the corners of your jaw or when you’re just bone-marrow tired.

Fred Holly is/was right.

And it’s not so much that God is absent that makes the praying hard.

Its that the pain and the fear and the fatigue are seemingly more present to you than God.

Most of my prayers now more closely resemble my adolescent, pre-Christian prayers:

Please let me get an A on this quiz.

Please may the Reds beat the A’s in the series.

Please makes these zits go away before the 8th grade dance.

My prayers now are just 1-sentence smoke signals:

Please let me keep the eyebrows and the pubes.

Please let me make it to the toilet in time.

Please let me keep a brave face in front of the boys.

Please keep my voice from cracking when I ask the doctor for my prognosis.

Please keep this from bankrupting us.

Please, if there’s a Hell, send every last insurance company there.

Please, if there’s not a Hell, create one and send every last insurance company there.

And, most recently:

Please don’t have the decently attractive nurse practitioner who’s about my age ask to see my hemorrhoids (an awesome chemo side-effect).

Lately, the closest I can muster anything near an actual prayer is for others.

Like the one I muttered under my breath for the old guy in the waiting room at the oncologist’s office. He wore a herringbone blazer, a pocket square and a boutonniere, and he was there, I overheard, by mistake.

The doctor had decided to discontinue his treatment.

The old man apparently didn’t get the message until he got it a few seats away from me.

And I managed a prayer for the kid with leukemia who rode the elevator up with me yesterday, both us to receive our Neulasta injections. His age (13? 16? 21?) was impossible to determine with no hair, facial or otherwise, to date him.

I know you likely expect a clergyman to confess that cancer, with its attendant aches and terrors, has deepened my prayer life.

Carrying my cross.

Belly of the whale.

Dark night of my soul.

Et cetera.


In fact, the prayer I keep coming back to, the prayer I can say in sync with the pain and get through despite the cottony chemo-brain, is that silly prayer I learned as a small child:

‘Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.’

Fred Holly had a genuine hula girl inked on his forearm. He stockpiled for Y2K a year late and one Sunday in Advent he mistook my reading of Mary’s Magnificat for an original sermon. Fred met the final scripture verse for the day with an applause that echoed across the mostly empty pews and said out loud ‘Now that was a good sermon.’

Fred wasn’t what you’d call an intellectual guy; nonetheless, Fred’s bear-embracing maxim yields still deeper truths.

The real problem with prayer when you’re busted up and sick isn’t that you’re busted up and sick.

Being busted up makes the sheer act of prayer hard, sure, but the real problem with prayer when you’re stage-serious sick is a/the theological problem.

Cancer as voracious as it is rare brings to the fore questions so obvious and so omnipresent that we often don’t even see them:

What’s the Point of Prayer?

What’s Prayer Do?

Or, Does It Do Anything?

For What Should We Pray?

To put it more bluntly:

Isn’t it ridiculous to think of God up there in heaven to whom we can plead and who, if we’re lucky or faithful enough, will hear our prayers and provide us with help?

Isn’t it silly (and maybe even idolatrous) to think that through our supplications we can do something to God, incline God a particular way, ignite one of God’s passions, or persuade God into doing something God might otherwise not do?

Of course, I take it as self-evident that the answer to those last two questions is ‘Yes.’


I do so not because I have cancer but because I’m a Christian and, like the very first Christians, I believe that God is immutable.

God does not change.

For something to change, after all, there must be some potential in it which is not yet realized. But ‘God’ is the answer we give to the question ‘Why is there something instead of nothing?’ so in God, obviously, there is no absence of anything, for God is not a being but Being itself.

God does not change (to be more loving, for example) because in God already is the perfection of love itself. Perfect Love is already eternally actual in God; therefore, there’s nothing you can do to make God love you more and- good news- there’s nothing you can do to make God love you less.

To say that God does not change is also to say- it should be noted- that God is not affected.

Especially not by us.

To be changed is to be affected by another outside you. But God does not change because, in God- unlike in creatures- there is no potentiality only actuality. The perfection of all emotions (Love) is already always present, eternally, in God.

God subsists in all things that exist and holds all things in existence at every moment of their existence. God cannot be affected by anything outside God because there is nothing that is outside God.

Alright, but admittedly this all begs the question, a question that becomes more urgent when cancer casts a shadow over your long-term calendar:

If God is immutable, if God doesn’t change, if God by definition can’t change, then what exactly is prayer?

Isn’t prayer the spiritually-sanctioned means by which we attempt to manipulate god to do what we want, ask, or desire?

You see, the real problem with prayer- especially when you’re stage-serious sick- is a theological problem.

If God is immutable, then what does it mean to pray for God to work healing in my life now? What does it mean to pray (as so many put it and so many do for me now) for a miracle? Doesn’t such a prayer imply that God is now, and certainly was prior to cancer’s intrusion upon my life, distant or apart from me?

But I don’t believe God created long ago and is now hands-off unless beckoned or beseeched; I believe God is immutable and that necessarily entails believing that God, who is outside creation, subsists in all things in creation.

If God is immutable, what does it mean to pray for God to be with me through this inscrutable chapter of our lives? Isn’t God already with me? For that matter, if holds all things in existence at every moment of their existence, if God is, as Paul says, the One in whom we live and move and have our being then would there even be a ‘me’ if God was already with me?

And what would it mean to pray for God to forgive my sins, as so many negotiate when they look up to see the Damocles sword of disease hanging over them? If God is immutable, then God quite literally doesn’t give a damn about my sins. We’re the ones who damn.

Since God is immutable, I don’t believe that the Creator could be affected by a creature like me (or my sin) such that he’d be moved against me, to punish me with something like cancer, yet, conversely, what does that mean for all those prayers of all those many wonderful people now asking God to be affected in the other direction, to be moved for me?

That God does not change is, I believe, the only ground upon which Christians can claim with John that ‘God is love,’ which is but John’s way of securing our ability to say that ‘God is like (and always has been) Jesus.’

But if God is indeed unchanging and unchangeable exactly what am I doing- what’s going on- when I sit here sick and busted up and (attempt to) pray?

After stating the obvious (none of us knows how to pray), St. Paul writes that whenever we pray, no matter what it might look like, it’s not actually we who are praying. Rather the Holy Spirit prays in us and through us.

Prayer isn’t something we do.

It’s something God does- better yet, it’s something God shares with God.

And us.

When we pray to God, we’re prayed in by God.

Instead of a practice we perform for results we’ve predetermined, prayer is a kind of parable of the Trinity. All prayer is but an echo of the Son praying to the Father through the Spirit. Rather than hooking God into our internal conversation, prayer catches us up into the eternal conversation Christians call Father, Son and Holy Spirit.

God is the impetus behind our prayers as much (even more?) as the object of them.  The very wants and desires we pray, runs Paul’s argument, are themselves the handiwork of the ever-present Triune God.

What’s this mean when you’re sick and busted-up and trying your damnedest to pray?

Thomas Aquinas doubles-down on Paul’s point when he writes:

‘We should not say ‘in accordance with my prayer, God wills that it should be a fine day’ we should say that ‘God wills it to be a fine day, in accordance with my prayer.’

God wills our prayers as much as God wills the fine day.

What does that mean?

It means, says Aquinas, that God wills it to be a fine day through my prayer; in other words, that it should be more than just a fine day. God wills through me that that particular fine day should be something more, a sacrament of God’s love.

Let me put Aquinas’ point a bit more personally:

‘We should not say ‘in accordance with my prayer, God wills that I should be healed of my cancer’ we should say that ‘God wills that I should be healed of my cancer, in accordance with my prayer.’

That’s no guarantee I’ll be healed.

It’s a guarantee that my desire to be healed, as well as the desire of all those praying for me, isn’t our desire alone or even originally. It’s one shared by- initiated by- the God who prays in us.

Which means maybe that ‘Now I Lay Me’ prayer I learned as a little child is actually the best prayer of all.

I’ve always considered it excessively grim, morbid even, and emblematic of everything I deplore about so much of Christianity: it’s soul-focused and death-obsessed and heaven-directed.


If all prayer is rooted in and catches us up into the Father’s love of the Son through the Spirit, then what could be better than to pray that we might be one day incorporated (‘…my soul to take…’) into that love?

Especially when you remember that it’s not really our prayer at all.

rp_lightstock_70038_small_user_2741517-1024x683.jpgDay 10

Like the time I accidentally saw my Italian great-grandma, who possessed a steel-worker’s mustache, naked, as much as I’d rather not, I can still recall one late morning when I was lifeguarding at my neighborhood pool.

At a quarter to some hour, teenage-me blew my whistle long and low to clear the pool for break. Climbing down off my stand, I noticed a girl, maybe 10 years old, bouncing and splashing around in the middle of the pool, evidently without any urgency or intention of exiting.

A relatively new Christian, I decided to be patient and kind just like I’d read St. Paul suggest in my NIV Study Bible, but after  testing the PH level of the water, I noticed that the little girl was still bouncing around the pool nowhere near a ladder or the steps.

Feeling the Jesus already irritated out of me, I marched the circumference of the deck to the point nearest her and then slowly, with no little drama, placed two exasperated hands on the waistband of my red lifeguard suit.

‘Hey, you, little girl. I’m talkin’ to you’ I said with clipped Travis Bickle affect. ‘I said: CLEAR THE POOL. It’s break time.’

‘I know’ she responded as though the fact that she knew was the most obvious thing in the world.

‘You know, huh? Well then…’ I said, my lifeguard voice now a far cry from 1 Corinthians 13, ‘why are you still in the pool? What are you? Blind or something?’

‘Yes,’ she said simply. ‘I am blind.’

I’m a big believer in odds, and the odds of this happening to me just didn’t seem possible.

‘What?’ I said.

‘I am blind’ she said again without contempt.

Ugh. Gut punch.

‘Shit’ screamed the red I could feel rapidly spreading across my face and through my eyes.

Her lack of malice made me feel all the more awful, so much so I said nothing.

Just to populate the scene for you:

Sitting within earshot of this exchange were 5 Stiffler’s Moms from church tanning themselves in too tiny two pieces, their Liz Claiborne sunglasses now perched on top of their foreheads so they could stare at me and, I assumed in a second, report back to the congregation.

Even then I’d correctly intuited that insensitivity to disability is a graver transgression in the United Methodist Church than any out and out heresy such as, say, not believing in Jesus.

Meanwhile, no more than 12 inches behind me, 6 of my closest friends sat around an umbrellaed picnic table. One of those six I hoped soon to make my girlfriend, a wager I now assumed was about as likely as, well, asking a random girl if she was blind and hitting on ‘Yes’ in reply.

I’d have rather had my swimsuit go slack and suddenly fall around my ankles, exposing my johnson and nether hair for all to see. Even now my cheeks (the other ones) get flushed whenever I think back to noisy gong Jason asking that little girl blind girl if she was blind or something.

What would that other something be, I wonder?

Eventually, in a tone of voice shamed low, I guided her to the ladder where she said ‘Thank you’ and I did not- I should confess- say ‘I’m sorry.’ It was an eternity that last not much more than a few minutes. Still it was one of those awkward-in-the-bowels, nothing can ever undo it moments where everyone within earshot wishes they could hide or die or flux capacitor it back an hour.



Picture me as that blind girl, and you have some idea of what it’s like when people find out that I have cancer.

While I’ve remained fairly sequestered since I learned I have a rare blood cancer, I’ve still suffered plenty of those uncomfortable, shit-on-your-shoes moments.

The awkward, cringe-inducing moments usually begin thusly:

‘How are you?’

‘Uh…okay…fine…I’m fine.’

‘Really? You look…thinner? Have you lost weight?’

‘Umm…yeah…maybe a bit…well…the thing is…I have cancer.’

The pregnant pause that follows as reliably as the Earth revolves around the Sun usually gives birth to one or more cliches lying dormant at the mind’s ready:

‘You’re young and healthy. You’ll beat it” better than 3/4 of everybody assures me. Whether they’re attempting to convince me or themselves varies to the person.

‘Healthy except for the tumors squatting all over my body’ I always reply, sometimes silently.

Some respond to the pregnant pause by delivering up, either as an article of faith or something gleaned from 1st or 2nd or usually 3rd hand experience: ‘Well, I believe in the power of prayer.’

Many try to turn the foreboding cloud of cancer inside out by pointing vaguely to the silver lining of ‘advances in medicine and science.’

Some intend either the former, faith, or the latter, science, when they promise me in palliative tones that ‘miracles DO happen’ as though the prognosis I’d prefer to hear is how my full recovery is about likely as feeding an entire hospital with just 6 pieces of Wonder Bread and 2 filets of poorly breaded Tilapia.

I can tell from their faces and from what they toss back at me:

Hitting people unawares with the C-word is like learning that you’ve just been making sarcastic blindness cracks at a little blind girl.


Nearly everyone stammers and then moves to tell me which Dr. Oz imprimatured books I should read or which cancer-fighting foods I should purchase at Whole Foods for $5 grand a pound.

Those less burdened by propriety or self-conscience immediately ask how often I’m throwing up or, I kid you not, ‘getting it up.’ Still others suggest cancer-themed movies I should watch like Michael Keaton’s forgotten film My Life or Bette Midler’s wish-we-could-forget-it Beaches.

Just yesterday a door-to-door salesmen from Capitol Meats, upon hearing I had cancer (Yes, I was playing the cancer card to avoid buying a gross of ground beef), said: ‘Damn, man…fuck that sucks.’

And then he added: ‘You should watch that movie…what’s it called…’ and then he started to snap his fingers to jog his memory, ‘Ordinary People…yeah, that’s a damn good movie.’

‘It is a good one’ I said, ‘but I’m pretty sure it’s not a cancer movie.’

‘Nah, man,’ the meat man maintained, ‘dude definitely dies of cancer in it.’

Okay, so not every conversation goes down like the blind girl in the pool, but once I’ve blind-sided people with the C-word and they recover enough to respond with the typical cliches, recommendations or curiosities, they then usually ask me:

‘What kind?

‘Of cancer?

And once I tell them Lymphoma, Mantle Cell Lymphoma, unless I’m speaking to a doctor or a nurse, that marks the end of their oncological knowledge; so, inevitably they steer the conversation to the biographical.

‘My _____________ (mother/father/aunt/uncle/coworker/neighbor/cousin…) had lymphoma’ they’ll say as though we’re discussing fellow frat brothers from faraway chapters.

‘Really?’ I’ll feign interest, ‘How did_____________ do with their treatment?’

‘Oh…umm…he/she did…’ and then 9/10 times their voice will trail off in such a way you’re led to only one conclusion.

‘That’s just awesome’ I’ll think to myself.

Before you accuse me of hyperbole:

The Friday before my surgery, the Friday after the night I learned cancer was the most likely culprit behind my troubles, my mom and I sat at the indoor pool watching my boys at swim practice when she breaks our own kind of pregnant pause:

‘You know…my uncle (as in, my Grandma’s flesh and blood brother) had lymphoma too.’

‘What? Really?’ I said, ‘I didn’t know that; I guess I should have checked the cancer box under ‘Family History’ along with ‘Heart Disease’ and ‘Mental Illness.’

‘What happened to him?’ I asked after she didn’t laugh.

‘Oh’ she said, brainstorming how to change the subject. ‘Umm…uhh…errr…yeah, he died.’

‘Great, just great’ I said.

She went on: ‘But he lived a long time…at least until his mid-40’s.’

And then I thought: ‘Mid-40’s?! Mid-40’s!? Geez, mom, that’s some cold shit.’

It’s no hyperbole.

When I spoke to the suit in the United Methodist Pension Office about my medical leave, he told me in a way that defied his bean-counting countenance:

‘I’m sorry to hear about your…uh…situation. I had a college roommate who died of lymphoma.’

‘I’m very sorry to hear that’ I said, suddenly wondering who was supposed to be comforting whom.

‘Yeah, he was such a great guy’ and just then I thought our connection had gone before I realized he was sniffling into the phone. Just before he started weeping.

Likewise did it go with the insurance rep who called to audit my care plan. My lymphoma, though a rarer breed, apparently put her mind to her own mother’s losing bid against blood cancer. You see, not only does the C word provoke people into unwittingly portending my death, it’s also (I’m also) a grim reminder to them of painful mournings of their own.

In other words, now that I have cancer, I rip the scabs off of people’s wounds.

For those without family or friends felled by blood cancer, a surprising number of people, upon hearing my news, turn for reference to America’s family of choice; i.e, celebrities.

‘Oh, did you know Jackie Onassis died of lymphoma?’ the checkout guy told me yesterday.

‘Really? Before I was worried but now that I know Jackie O died of it I think…what’s the big deal?’ I thought to myself before stretching a fake smile across my face and nodding solemnly.

‘I mean, thank God I have blood cancer and not some peasant disease like COPD’ I kept thinking to myself as I punched my debit number into the screen.

Seriously, Jackie O is what the lifeguard checkout guy hit me with when I blind-sided him with the C-word. I can only imagine how many times people with testicular cancer have to hear about Lance Armstrong or how often lepers with dementia have to hear about Senator Ted Cruz.

Like James Greer in Wonder Boys memorizing celebrity suicides, thanks to the offhand comments with which people meet the C-word, I now know that Charles Lindberg, Gene Autry and Joey Ramone of the Ramones all died of the very affliction now doing its damnedest to kill me.


There’s something about the word CANCER that throws a wrench into most people’s mental gears.

For example:

Just yesterday when I told that same Capitol Meats salesman that I was no longer working, that I was going on disability (because, yes, I was playing the cancer card to get rid of him and his sales pitch) he immediately responded by telling me:

‘Yeah, one of my cousins on my Mama’s side is retarded. He’s real sweet though. You can hardly tell he’s a retard.’

I just nodded along and smiled, which probably only confirmed for him that I too was as disabled as his sweet cousin- which, fortunately, in his mind probably disqualified me from making such a hefty purchase of boneless steaks and pork chops.

There’s something about the C-word that messes with people’s heads. Some people see CANCER as a 2 syllabled body bag, one that’s already zipped up to around my chest port. To their minds, the C-word gives off an air of the inexorable that permits them to confess secrets they’d never reveal otherwise. You know the stuff normally reserved for eulogies:

‘You were my first crush.’

‘I never told you what your friendship meant to me.’

‘I thought you were a real dick in high school but I’m sending you positive energy now.’

‘I thought you were the worst preacher I’d ever heard for about 4 years but now I think you’re awesome.’

One person, upon hearing the news via the social media grapevine, sent me a copy of that poem, ‘Do Not Stand By My Grave and Weep,’ verses not only which I loathe but have only ever heard intoned- against my better judgment- at FUNERALS.

Of all the various and sundry responses the news of my stage serious cancer has elicited, by far the most common responses are:

‘Fight it.’

‘It’s time to do battle.’

‘Kick cancer’s ass.’

From their shoes, I think it’s exactly the right thing to say. It sure as shit beats telling me that Bob Ross died of lymphoma (too).

After all, ‘kick cancer’s ass’ isn’t burdened with any pray-it-away piety or false promises, and it puts the onus on me while positioning the speaker as being behind me, in my corner, rooting for me in the fight of/for my life.

‘Yeah, kick cancer’s ass’ I sometimes nod my head in response.

But here’s the real difficulty:

The ‘it’ in ‘Fight it, Jason’ is Jason.

The ‘it’ is me.

The cancerous cells are mine, only doing something differently (and far more efficiently) than my healthy ones. The chromosomes inverting themselves way down deep in my marrow, which is what gives me Mantle Cell Lymphoma- those are my chromosomes. They’re as much me as my eyes or my fingerprints or the corner of my lips that produces my smile. The tumors riddling my insides- they’re attached to my spleen and my stomach and my lungs and God knows what else, and it’s my lymphatic system that so conveniently delivers those tumorous cells to the rest of my body and possibly my brain (one of the unique perks of Mantle Cell).

What I only realize now that I have cancer is that a PET scan is very different than a battle map. There is no enemy massing outside on the borders of the Republic of Jason’s Body. The masses are in me, a part of me even. Even if I could shrink myself down like Martin Short in Inner Space to go fight ‘it’ in my GI system, I’d just as quickly discover that ‘it’ is also very much me.

Which means, of course, that the only way to kick cancer’s ass is to kick my own.

Normally this time of year, I’m giving up meat or booze or Facebook, but this Lent, though I’ve not chosen it, I’m doing something even more Christ-like, in a way. I’m forsaking myself.

Don’t applaud me. It’s out of necessity not any piety. It’s just the way chemo works.

The only way to kill the cancer in me is to let the doctors get as damn close as they can to killing me.


I’m learning that there’s an inherent passivity to cancer no matter how proactive and intentional I might want to be against it.

For much of the balance of 2015 I’m literally a prisoner of my own body. On a cellular level my body echoes St. Paul: ‘For I do not do the good I want to do, but the evil I do not want to do–this I keep on doing.’

This is precisely why poor bastards with cancer like me so desperately need others- especially doctors and nurses- because no sane person, no matter how sick or scared, would ever willingly do this to themselves. This regimen of chemo-poison.

I appreciate the sentiment behind ‘Kick cancer’s ass’ but already I’ve learned:

The language of fighting doesn’t really work for cancer.

It’s too active; in fact, I don’t believe the active voice really works at all for cancer.

I don’t believe the active voice works for cancer in the same way the active voice doesn’t work for God.

I remember one homiletics class when I was in seminary. This belligerently confident, hyper-evangelical classmate preached his sample sermon before the class. His sermon was frenetic. He clearly thought he was the superior preacher to all of us and, admittedly, his delivery was effective.

However, our professor, Dr Kay, looked restless and irritated through the entirety of the 20 minute sermon. Once the student finished Dr Kay breathed out his exasperation and declared to the preacher:

‘Do you realize not one of your sentences had God as their subject?’

Contrary to all the Strunk and White rules, when it comes to our speech about God the passive voice is most often the best, for it alone conveys the necessity of our trust and dependence upon God.

The active voice makes it sounds like we actually have our shit together.

And just need God to show up sometimes.

But the passive voice better than the active confesses ‘You can do, God, what we cannot.’

The passive voice admits more clearly that when it comes to things that matter, like sin and marriage and parenthood and friendship and truth-telling and compassion and cancer, most often-

my enemy is myself.

The passive voice better points out that in much of life, but particularly with cancer, the path forward looks not like active ass-kicking at all but instead something in between resignation and resistance because that’s the space where God goes.

All of which is to say, as much as I’d like to ‘fight it’ or ‘kick cancer’s ass’ my only real hope is that God will be in me, setting things right, just as scripture promises God was in Christ, reconciling all things to himself.


Speaking of Christ, by far the best response the news of my cancer has prompted was a JPEG of that charlatan preacher Joel Osteen along with the header ‘Imagine this is cancer when you’re kicking it’s ass.’

The JPEG response still trades on the fight metaphor and about the last thing I want to imagine is Joel Osteen inside me. I doubt his teeth would even fit inside my (now) 28 inch waist and his hair gel would likely spike my cholesterol.

I’ve scored many a point from the pulpit and I’m responsible for much clickbait at Joel O’s expense. No, this isn’t going to be an ‘I was all wrong’ epiphany but an ‘I was so right all along’ double-down.

What I mean is-

You only need to have cancer for about a day before you realize how impoverished is Joel Osteen’s power- of- positive- thinking active voice faith, his genie-in-a lamp-god who will reliably answer any prayer you’re bold enough to proffer.

One of the things you learn when you have cancer, along with how to read your latest lab work, is that only the crucified God, who has shared your fear and suffering and made your pain his own, only the crucified God can help.


This past weekend my muse visited my congregation as our guest preacher.

Thomas Lynch, readers of the blog will already know, is a poet and writer who also happens to be an undertaker in Milford, Michigan. His prose has inspired my own, his writing on the funeral trade has informed how I conduct them as a clergyman and his hopeful gallows humor has given me cheer these initial weeks in my struggle with cancer.

Here’s his sermon from the Saturday evening service. It’s worth your time. If you subscribe to the blog by email, you may need to click over for the sermon.

The Seamus Heaney poem Lynch references is ‘Miracle’ based on Jesus’ healing of the paralytic in Mark 2.

Not the one who takes up his bed and walks

But the ones who have known him all alongAnd carry him in –

Their shoulders numb, the ache and stoop deeplockedIn their backs, the stretcher handles

Slippery with sweat. And no let up

Until he’s strapped on tight, made tiltableand raised to the tiled roof, then lowered for healing.

Be mindful of them as they stand and wait

For the burn of the paid out ropes to cool,

Their slight lightheadedness and incredulity

To pass, those ones who had known him all along.

(HUMAN CHAIN, Poems, Seamus Heaney, 2010, FSG)

rp_lightstock_70038_small_user_2741517-1024x683.jpgDay 7

I knew I should’ve clicked ‘Mr’ instead of ‘Rev’ under preferred prefix. I’d still be stuck here with a cancer as rare as a unicorn, but my week would’ve at least gone a bit better.

With a few more laughs.

Yesterday, while I was sitting in my boxer-briefs, my gown twisted up around my waist, watching 19 Kids and Counting and eating my Cinnamon Toast Crunch, a Filipino woman knocked on my door on Unit #21 and then proceeded to wheel a large Zamboni-like machine into my hospital room.

‘I’m here to take chest X-Rays of you’ she said with more cheeriness than either the hour (7AM) or the wing (oncology) required.

She did it all right there, pushing chairs and tables out of the way, positioning the machine directly in front of me, placing a block of wood behind my back for posture’s sake and a heavy flack jacket on my lap for safety’s.

Just before she started to snap pictures of my tumored chest, I said- with apparently more dead-pan than I’d intended:

‘Hold on a minute…is that machine going to give me…cancer?’

And she looked up at me, blinking blankly, as totally serious and humorless as she assumed me to be and said:


Not even an ironic smile as she wheeled her manilla hot dog stand away.

If you need empirical proof that the agnostics among us consider Christians to be uniformly unfunny, then a few days in the hospital should net you all the data you need. The presumptions that would hold for you go doubly true for me, as a ‘leader’ of the tribe called Christian.

I wish I’d snuck into Unit #21, seeking out chemo-poison the way Nicodemus sought out Jesus, by keeping my vocation- indeed my faith- a secret. As I do at my wife’s law firm parties, I should’ve simply lied a la George Costanza and told people that I’m a marine biologist, only the hospital seemed to be the one place where my woeful ignorance regarding science would readily become apparent.

So I didn’t lie.


As a result, every employee here at the hospital knows I’m a Christian; worse, they know I’m a ‘priest’ and, as a result, they assume I’m serious- deadly earnest (perpetually thinking about Jesus)- all the time. No jest, nothing short of a knock-knock joke could break through the lugubrious stereotype they have for oddities like me and convey that in this particular instance (say…as I feign concern about cancer risks whilst receiving chemo on the oncology ward) I’m just screwing with you.

As a pastor for going on 14 years, I’ve spent a lot of time in hospitals.

I even worked as a chaplain at one for a time.

None of that time as a pastor among patients prepared me for how hard it is to be a pastor who is a patient.

Seven days into my first of what will be many hospital bids, I’ve discovered with the reliability of something like scientific law that pastors make bad patients.

It’s at least as right as Murphy’s: Pastors Makes Bad Patients.

Like many laws, the conditions which exemplify it are many but chief among them is the widespread, apparently settled consensus that Christians in general and clergy in particular are about as funny as Stage IV-V-ish Cancer.

The gallows humor, sarcastic banter and shit happens philosophizing that would otherwise make my days here more tolerable evaporates when everyone thinks your M.O. as an R.E.V. is to be serious 100% of the time you’re not making a joke about covered-dish dinners.

Last night, after bringing me my 19th unrequested can of chocolate-flavored Ensure, all of which remain unopened in my room, I told the woman from Dining Services:

‘Look, here, why don’t you take this. There’s actually a prohibition in Leviticus against mixing meatloaf with Ensure and fruit cocktail.’

Blink. Blink.

(Leaping to action)

‘Of course, I apologize, Father.’

‘Wait…what?!’ I started to unwind my BS before deciding I’d end up making things worse.

Thus it’s gone all week.

‘How are you feeling today?’

‘Other than the rare, incurable cancer I feel awesome today.’



‘On a scale of 1-10, 10 being the max, what would you say your pain is this morning?’

(This just after the chemo had given me convulsions that ripped open my stomach incision like it was a Hot Pocket)

‘Oh, I’m great. Definitely a 0 this morning’

‘That’s fantastic!’

To spend a week here is not unlike having been raised by sarcastic wolves and suddenly asked to pass for normal in civilization.

To the nurse drawing my blood one evening while I flipped channels on the TV:

‘Just how big would you say Nancy Grace’s nostrils are? As big as racquetballs?’

Blink. Blink.

Straight face.

‘Maybe 5cm. Not nearly as big as a racquetball.’

Life turns out not to be very much fun when everyone assumes you’re no fun.

The verity of that maxim becomes exponentially more clear in the prison of the mind that insurance companies call hospitalization.

Receiving my most recent chemo infusion, the nurse prepped me with the caution that I should ‘refrain from both driving and sexual intercourse until the drugs have completely left your system.’


Just like that, a fat one right over the plate.

‘I guess that rules out having sex while I’m driving home then.’

Blink. Blink.

Straight face.

‘Yes. It does.’

Not even a double-take to see if I was being a wise ass.

‘I guess I’ll tell my wife she needs to make new plans’ I mumbled to no reaction.

As a pastor it’s not easy being a patient if for no other reason than that everyone assumes you’re more spiritual and less human than Jesus Christ himself.

My second night here I asked my night shift nurse for some concrete, Do’s and Don’ts advice about getting through my chemotherapy. She looked at me without pause and with something like a frown said:


Not only was this not the sort of advice I wanted, the effect it had was to make me feel like my diagnosis was even more damned than I feared- as in, all someone in my shoes CAN DO is pray.

And it was all because she knows- and she knows I know she knows- that I’m a pastor. If I were a short order cook or an insurance adjustor or a thong model, she probably would’ve said ‘Exercise 30 minutes a day’ or ‘Make sure you wash your vegetables.’

But instead I got scat like ‘Pray.’


Which, on the face of it, is curious since prayer is what everyone here assumes I’m doing every waking moment anyways. Only a few hours ago, I fell asleep reading in the armchair and, sure enough, the nurse tech who’d come to check my vitals immediately apologized for interrupting my ‘prayer time.’

‘I wasn’t praying, that’s alright.’

Blink. Blink.

And then she smiled…like she didn’t believe me, like I’m such a model Christian I’m too humble even to admit to praying.

‘No seriously’ I said ‘I don’t usually drool on myself when I’m praying. Well, actually that’s not true…’

Bottom line takeaway:

It’s hard to relate to people when they assume you’re less human than Jesus Christ, which is to say more perfectly human than they could ever hope for themselves.

You hear about how doctors and nurses make bad patients, and I’ve always taken the reason to be procedural. Nurses know, as in the right way, how the IV bags should be hung or the blood should be drawn. Doctors can read their lab results as well as their own doctor and they know as well as them the alternate diagnoses and treatments available. Nurses and doctors make bad patients in the way my father-in-law makes a back seat driver or sports fans make for obnoxious Monday morning quarterbacks. Their knowledge and techniques of their trade make them bad patients.

I’ve always assumed.

After a week as a patient, though, I’m not so sure anymore.

I wonder if instead doctors and nurses make for bad patients for exactly the same attribute they share with a pastor like me: memory.

I’ve been a pastor for nearly 14 years, and I’ve spent a lot of time in hospitals. Specifically, I’ve been a pastor at this church for 10 years and, in those 10 years, I’ve spent a lot of time in this very hospital.

I can remember which babies were born in which rooms here.

I can recall what I half-watched on the TV with which families as we waited for word in the ER and the OR.

I can point down the hallways to the rooms for the suicides, the ‘gestures’ and the overdoses.

And, for the present argument, I can remember many of the folks with whom I prayed here who never made it home again, or did so only briefly as a sojourn on their way to a more eternal home.

After 10 years I can only recall a fraction of them. Still, the number is sufficiently high to make this place for me a haunted house, filled not with ghosts or specters but with emptiness.

So many rooms and spaces here at this hospital are just holes where people used to be.

Without exaggerating, I could close my eyes and turn right out of my room and turn right again out of my wing and right again to find the room where the mother I knew lost both her legs to diabetes only a short while before she lost her life. I can’t tell you the exact room number, but I could take you there, the place where, for weeks, a husband to his wife of more decades than I’ve lived read from the Psalms as she died of cancer.

I could drag my IV pole over to the ICU and show you the bed where an every Sunday worshipper (‘11:15, pulpit side, middle’) I swear I’d never seen before never got up from again. And from there my slippered feet could take you to the PICU where, not too long ago, I spent the day with a couple nervously standing vigil by their boy’s bedside. Their son, confirmed by me years ago, is only a few sizes and grades ahead of my eldest.

It was near that boy’s room that the Licensed Clinical Social Worker on our ‘walk’ yesterday told me that I seemed ‘dark’ to him.

It was near there, where that nearly died, that I thought in response: ‘No shit. What’s the matter with you? Don’t you work here?’

As a pastor I’m a bad patient because this place is for me what I’m sure it is for a lot of doctors and nurses too:

a tiled and antiseptic reminder, smelling vaguely of steamed vegetables and soiled linens, that life so infuriatingly fragile.

Contingent, I said in an earlier post, a fancy theological word meaning ‘crapshoot’ or ‘random’ to the point where, at times, the deepest faith in God can seem like insanity.

Doctors and nurses and pastors- we are all, they say, in the ‘caring professions,’ which is just a jargoned euphemism to avoid admitting that Death is a big part of what we do.

Until now, I’ve been like a nurse who comes home wearing scrubs with someone else’s blood stains on them. It gets close, but it’s still not me or mine.

But now, after 10 years of being a pastor here- in this hospital- I’m a patient here, and I’m finding that I’m not very good at the latter entirely because of my experience with the former.

Fact is, I can’t look at my oncologist’s data-driven poker face as he gazes at my most recent lab work without thinking of how I’ve prayed with patients in half of the rooms on this oncology unit, a memory which for whatever reason makes me feel like my odds run commensurate with the rooms I’ve covered: 50/50.

When I ask him why my swollen lymph nodes haven’t ‘totally disappeared’ as promised they would by this point in my treatment, I don’t even really listen to the answer because I’m off, thinking of all those families I’ve sat with as a pastor and listened as doctors promised a ‘full recovery’ that never came- and, in all likelihood, never was going to come. We just didn’t have ears to hear.

As a patient I keep getting told that optimism and a positive frame of mind are constitutive of the healing process, but in more names than I can remember I know, as a pastor, that seldom do either have anything to do with a cure.

God may be good and gracious, but I’ve spent enough time here in this hospital as a pastor to know that life is seldom fair or forgiving.

To patients.

And now I’m one.

Now I’m no different than anyone else, no different (and this is the real gist of it, isn’t it?) than all those patients I’ve visited as a pastor, many of whom, if not most, have since died.

It’s amazing, counterintuitive even, how daily proximity to death and all of its antecedents can actually give you a sense of invulnerability to it. If it’s cliche to say that the young think they’re invincible, then it’s double-true for young pastors. I comfort and I counsel and I commit to the ground, dust to dust. In the midst of life, we’re all ashes in waiting, I say.

I witness to the resurrection and I behold great mysteries and I bury the dead until that day they put on imperishability. I serve the suffering, but I do not suffer.


Now I’m the one with friends and loved ones willing to do anything, even cut a hole in the roof, if it’ll get Jesus to improve my prospects.

Now I’m the diseased one on the mat.

And to be as honest as I’ve ever been about anything: I fucking hate the view.

It’s funny, when you’re a pastor you think about passages like that one in Mark 2 where Jesus asks the begrudgers ‘Which is easier to say? Your sins are forgiven or get up, take your mat, and walk?’ and you imagine that it’s a loaded question.

Clearly, we’re meant to see, forgiveness is the harder miracle to broker. Healers were a dime a dozen throughout the ‘burbs and backwoods of 1st century Israel. There was nothing special about healings in Jesus’ day and so there is nothing unique about Jesus who performs them. Many healed, but only Jesus offers forgiveness.

And therein lies the predictable preacher’s lesson for the day: more precious than any doctor’s ‘all clear’ should be the assurance from our loved ones, from enemies or ex’s past or from God in the person of our priest that things, relationally speaking, are all clear, that our sins are forgiven, wrongs blotted out, and resentments set aside.

Now that I’m a patient, however, I wonder if my preacher’s reading of Mark 2 isn’t too cute by half. Because now that I’m a patient, with a rare cancer whose odds of survival make me look not much luckier than that poor bastard on the mat, it no longer strikes me as a loaded question. Not at all.

Sure, in the seven days I’ve lain here nauseated and depressed and hurting, I’ve given plenty of thought to the relationships I’ve let fray (that’s you, ________) and the wounds I’ve let fester (that’s you, _________) and the time I’ve not made (that’s you _____ and __________ and ________________) for what appear, given my new foreground, no good reasons at all. Sure forgiveness is important and, yes, I believe Jesus offers it.

But you know what?

You know what Jason-on-the-Mat knows that Pastor Jason didn’t, standing in the pulpit?

Healing’s important too, damn important.

Heresy or not, it’s no less a miracle than forgiveness.

‘Which is easier to say? Your sins are forgiven or get up, take your mat, and walk?’

What I didn’t realize before as a pastor: it’s not a loaded question.

It turns out both are hard to say, harder still to pull off, and neither is possible apart from the grace of God in Christ.

And grace, as every pastor knows, is by definition undeserved and, thus, its unpredictable. No matter what my doctor says.

And knowing that, as a pastor, makes me a piss poor patient.

lightstock_70038_small_user_2741517Day 5

People assume cancer is a bad thing.

People presume just because I have a rare, incurable, quite possibly terminal lymphoma that will require searing treatment and scores of cash; a disease that will take a harrowing emotional toll on me and mine while- best case scenario- reducing me to a gaunt, hairless, infertile, (‘probably not’) impotent shadow of my former healthy, virile self, that it’s all downside.

But you know what they say about making an ass out of you and mption. Fools.

As it turns out, cancer is not without its uses.

It’s true.

Cancer’s like having an ace in the hole you can play whenever it suits you without ever having to leave the card on the table.

For example, driving to my oncologist’s office the morning before my chemo began my wife and I found ourselves running late.

‘Just speed.’ I said calmly from the passenger seat ‘You’ll make up the time.’

‘On this road?’ she replied like I had prophylactic chemo brain, ‘There are speed traps everywhere. We’ll get pulled over for sure.’

‘Maybe,’ I accepted, ‘but then all you have to say is ‘I’m sorry, Officer, we’re late for my husband’s chemotherapy appointment. He has (daub the eye)…cancer.’ Even the most tight-sphinctered cop wouldn’t give you a ticket.’

The cancer-house-always-wins odds washed over her. She glanced at me, her eyes glinting like Steve McQueen’s to Ali MacGraw in The Getaway.

‘Punch it, baby’ I said.

When life hands you a belly full of tumorous lemons, make lemonade.

The week I spent at home post-surgery, pre-chemo one late afternoon a pimpled idealist with a $5 t-shirt and a plastic lanyard came knocking at my front door, canvassing for some urgent political cause. Having pimped out my principles for such work myself back in college, I’m normally an easy mark for a sympathetic signature and a harmless chunk of change.

This time, though, I didn’t even have to resort to my typical ‘I was just making dinner’ excusing salvo.

No. Channeling my genuine and recent sense of bewilderment, I muttered: ‘I’m sorry…I just found out… I have cancer…’

When I said it- and, truthfully, I don’t even know why I said it (‘I’m an asshole’ might be one obvious answer)- I wasn’t expecting it to slink me free of her utopian overtures.

But sure enough, just like that, she was forcibly removing her clipboard from my hands as though its germs might infect neutropenic me. Grabbing her ballpoint pen and bold-faced brochure back from me, she affected a preschool teacher’s countenance and said:

‘You don’t need to worry about this right now, and you CERTAINLY don’t need to be giving away money.’

For a second, I thought she was going to hug me.

She looked like she was going to cry and, more importantly, I did not look $25 lighter for it.

See, who said cancer is a bad thing?

My second day of chemo I sat reading in bed, trying to ignore the wave of nausea creeping up my throat, when my cellphone interrupted the beeps and buzzing from my IV pole.

It was someone from the Honda dealership trying to persuade me with the slick logic of a payday loan to SAVE MONEY by trading in my nearly paid for car with a new completely unpaid for one. I’d met this salesperson several times before and, each time, he left me feeling like I needed a shower. If I’d been splurting blood from the jugular such that it was spraying Cormac McCarthy-style all over the ceiling, I would’ve bet a down payment that he’d pressure me into an extended warranty before applying pressure to my sputtering wound.

I guess I was wrong.

‘I’m sorry’ I said a few seconds into his cellphone schtick, ‘I’m actually in the hospital right now with cancer.’

The conversation was over as quickly as it had begun.

And, bonus, he sent me a card.

Cancer’s not all downside.

The C Word got me out of the change fees with Porter Airlines for a trip I had planned to take with my wife this spring but now cannot take ‘…because…(deep melancholy sigh) I have…cancer.’

‘Merci,’ I said to the customer service lady in Quebec City.

And yesterday when I called the Billing Department for my son’s viola, which we apparently rent from Mercedes Benz, I apologized for the missed payment.

‘It just slipped my mind’ I explained cloudily ‘after I started chemotherapy…which I’m taking…because…I have…cancer.’

See, cancer’s not all bad.

To those with the (hairless) balls to grab the tumor by the reins, cancer’s like the cellular equivalent of that long, steadicam tracking shot in Goodfellas. 

Sure, like the mob, cancer puts your life at risk but at least it makes you a made guy, opening doors with barely 4 syllables’ worth of effort. And, even better, it closes down unwanted conversations faster than saying ‘I’m a pastor’ or ‘Would you mind if I talked to you about Jesus?’

Cancer’s not all bad.

Just last night, having visited me in the oncology unit, my wife leaned over my hospital bed to kiss me goodbye.

She put her hand on my cheek, tender and soft, and I put mine on her waist. Her hand remained there on my cheek, as true and chaste as a Jane Austen heroine.

Meanwhile, mine- left and right- wandered gently upward, just enough to cop a feel of her…ahem.

‘How many times in 20 years have I told you not to do that?!’ she chastised me.

Me, adopting a confused look, like I was trying to do the sum of all those times previous in my head:

‘But honey…I have cancer.’

It almost worked.

Cancer’s not all weeping and gnashing of IV ports.

Today I learned they’re going to release me in a couple of days with a prescription for a medication for vaginal yeast infections and herpes. Cancer may have riddled my body with tumors too many to count, but it’s also handed me humor gold like herpes and vagina pills.

It’s two days away, but I’ve got my parting shot to Joyce, my favorite nurse:


No wonder I was sleeping so fitfully! What were you nurses doing with me/to me while I was unconscious?!’

Already I can see her dark Kenyan skin blushing.

Cancer, as bad as it is, has its benefits.

I know it sounds crass, but it’s true: being able to say ‘I have cancer’ has its uses.

People think faith is like that.


Especially when the shit hits the biopsy.

Even unbelievers assume that faith is useful for calming your nerves, helping you to cope with the fears and anxieties that come when the CAT scan shows objectively that the Grim Reaper’s taking long, hard sniff all over you.

Just yesterday my Easternly-bent Licensed Clinical Social Worker at the hospital, presented ‘Buddhist mediation techniques’ (just saying ‘prayer’ would’ve somehow sounded too superstitious I suppose) to this priest as a potentially positive ‘healing tool.’

And tools, we all know, are designed to be nothing if not useful.

People presume that faith is useful too in pondering the big, COSMIC questions that accompany terminal diagnoses. Faith is useful, so the canard goes, in justifying the goodness/presence/reality/reliability of God’s ways when the world appears otherwise cold to ambivalent. Faith is useful in defending God’s Benevolence amidst the malevolence wracking your life.

Faith, in other words, is useful not just for alleviating anxiety; it’s useful for supplying answers to mysteries too dark to leave without rebuttal.

Maybe that’s the way faith works for some people; in fact, I’m absolutely certain that’s how faith works for many people.

But not me.

For me, faith isn’t like that.

Faith doesn’t provide a shot of optimism or a push of positive-thinking, for faith in the Cross and Resurrection isn’t optimism; it’s against-all-odds, in-the-face-of-all-just-merit hope.

Faith isn’t like all the steroid chasers to my chemo-poisons, convincing me I ‘can kick cancer’s ass’ because I’ve the Big Guy in my corner for the bout of my life.

Faith is not useful.

Cancer may have its practical benefits, but I’m not so sure faith does- at least, not in the way we typically imagine benefits.

My faith has NOT alleviated my anxieties. It hasn’t helped me sleep easier at night and it sure as Hell has not silenced the abacus in the back of my brain always- always, doing the math and wondering if the odds will ever be in my favor.

And my faith doesn’t provide any easy answers or assurances. It’s certainly not a coping mechanism.

What I mean is-

Everyone, and I do mean everyone, it’s staggering, assumes that a rare, aggressive cancer diagnosis will beget the ‘Why me, God?’ question a la Job, which, by the way, in four short weeks I’ve realized is a terrifically craptastic book of the bible.

Cancer doesn’t make you ask Job’s question any more than faith arms you with his answers.

What cancer does- it thrusts you into a community of people you didn’t know existed, people who are hurting every bit as if not more than you.

For example, there’s a girl on my oncology unit. She’s 23 and a 2 week olds’s mother. She learned she has cancer– has it bad- during her delivery. I’ve listened to her cry every night when they come to bring me my night meds.

The nurse I spoke to at my hematologist’s office, just before starting chemo, she said I was one of 30 people she was scheduled to see that day alone. People of all shapes and sizes and situations.

And ages.

Cancer doesn’t make you wonder ‘Why me, God?’ Only a dick would get caught up with that kind of question.

No, cancer throws in you the scrum and makes you ask ‘Why them, God?’

Why us, God?

Why this world? Which is the only possible world if the world is indeed the perfection expression of God’s infinite Goodness.

Why this world where a lion fulfilling its lioness leads to the lamb being slaughtered and where a few efficient tumorous cells fulfilling their design leads to cancer?

You see, that’s the problem with the Book of Job. The cast is too small, the point of view too limited. Job never so much as goes to the doctor’s office.

Cancer doesn’t lead you to ask ‘Why me, God?’

Cancer leads you to wonder why God can’t seem to enter or act in our world without casting shadows.

So faith isn’t ‘useful’ for me.

For me, faith is more like that story in Mark 8 where Jesus needs a do-over before healing a blind man. After Jesus’ try, the man says ‘I see people…but they look like trees walking.’

Faith is like that for me; it’s to have been touched by Christ only to have the world appear more bewildering than when you were blind (and happily so, it turns out).

Like that story, at least for me, faith gets you wondering why God doesn’t seem to have gotten everything right the first go round. I’m sure it works that way for plenty of cognitively dissonant people out there, but for me faith is not ‘useful’ amidst my suffering. Faith amidst my suffering instead puts me in mind of others’ suffering. Faith reminds me that Christ’s suffering isn’t isolated or even unique but somehow summarized in it and encompassed by it is the suffering of all those others who were crucified on the same day as him.

Faith isn’t useful; it compels even now, somehow, to be useful to others in their suffering.

Faith doesn’t alleviate my anxieties- not one iota- but it does bring me up close to the anxieties of others where, maybe, someday, I can prove useful.

Faith isn’t useful, especially not in the sense my Licensed Clinical Social Worker encouraged.

Christian faith, and by that I mean cross-shaped faith, doesn’t cultivate a positive, productive attitude.

Christian faith produces hatred.

It provokes perfect hatred towards the meaningless of all suffering, the absolute needlessness of sin and the sheer unnatural emptiness of Death, which the first Christian evangel outs as our ‘last enemy.’

So while cancer has proved useful in giving me a lifetime of jokes about my vagina, faith doesn’t work for me in a similarly productive fashion. What faith gives me is more like a posture, knowing that in the suffering and dying of the faces I see in the oncologist’s office and here on Unit 21 I do NOT see the face of God. I see instead God’s Enemy against which my faith has enlisted my meager help.

That’s not exactly ‘useful’ in the way cancer’s useful for a good dirty beaver joke. But it is, I suppose, the Gospel.

lightstock_70038_small_user_2741517Chemo Day #3

Thomas Lynch was the first writer able both to tease and to dash my dreams of becoming one, all in the space of five pages.

In what would seem a writerly conceit, he’s also the nation’s most famous undertaker. In the little town of Milford, just north of Detroit, Thomas Lynch buries his friends and neighbors for a living.

He writes in his spare time.

I invited ‘Tom’ (if I couldn’t match him at least I could befriend him) to speak at my church many months ago.

I should’ve realized back then that soliciting an undertaker’s presence into your midst- albeit one who has a sideline in poetry- seldom portends happy news.

Now, Tom’s two weeks out, his flight and his room are booked, his agenda is set and I’ve just had a tumor the size of a trade paperback excised from my insides- oh, and I’m waylaid in an oncology ward with a rare and incurable cancer, ingesting a cocktail of poisons to help the grim news go down.

So both my dashed dreams and my dire diagnosis I blame on the undertaker.

But, as Tom himself points out, my luck isn’t all that exceptional. The numbers- as in, THE NUMBER– are against me.

In his book, The Undertaking: Life Studies from the Dismal Trade, Lynch writes:

Brenda Fitzsimons, The Irish Times

The most satisfied of my customers say: I hope to never see you again. I wear black most of the time, to keep folks in mind of the fact I’m not selling Buicks.

I’m the only undertaker in this town. I have a corner on the market. The market, such as it is, is figured on what is called the crude death rate- the number of deaths every year out of every thousand persons.

Here is how it works.

Imagine a large room into which you coax one thousand people. You slam the doors in January, leaving them plenty of food and drink, color TVs and magazines. Your sample should have an age distribution heavy on baby boomers and their children- 1.2 children per boomer. Every seventh adult is an old-timer. You get the idea.

The group will include fifteen lawyers, one faith healer, three dozen real estate agents, a video technician, several licensed counselors and a Tupperware distributor. The rest will be between jobs, middle managers, ne’er-do-wells or retired. Now for the magic part- come late December when you throw open the doors, only 991.6, give or take, will shuffle out upright. Two hundred and sixty will now be selling Tupperware.

The other 8.4 will have become the crude death rate. 

Here’s another stat.

Of the 8.4 corpses, two-thirds will have been old-timers, five percent will be children, and the rest (slightly less than 2.5 corpses) will be boomers- realtors and attorneys likely.

What’s more, three will have died of cerebral, vascular or coronary difficulties, two of cancer, one each of vehicular mayhem, diabetes and domestic violence. The spare change will be by act of God or suicide- most likely the faith healer.

The figure most often and most conspicuously missing from the insurance charts and the demographics is the figure I call:

The Big One.

The Big One refers to the number of people out of every hundred born who will die.

Over the long haul, The Big One hovers right around…well, dead nuts on 100%.

If this figure were on the charts they’d call it death expectancy and no one would buy futures of any kind. But The Big One is a useful number and it has its lessons. Maybe it will make you want to figure out what to do with your life. Maybe it will make you hysterical with fear.

As a clergyman with a sizeable chunk of my workaday year given over to beholding mysteries with a benediction and a fistful of dirt, I recognize the attention-getting power of a horizontal body.

Indeed, I daresay, one horizontal body that’s no longer moving is more compelling than two bodies that are moving horizontally together.

Like Thomas Lynch, I know firsthand many times over that there’s nothing quite like the presence of a dead guy to fix one’s mind on figuring out lowest common denominators; namely, between you and the universe. Or God.

My trade as much as Tom’s depends upon that number: the Big One, and for as long as I’ve been a pastor I’ve operated on the assumption that the Big One, 100% Death Expectancy, 0% Survival, is the only number that really matters in the grand scheme.

The Big One, I’ve always thought, is the only number that matters for taking accounts, auditing actual value and putting life in its proper perspective.

But I’m not a pastor anymore.

At least, not right now I’m not. Nor will I be for some time to come. I’m a patient, and after one surprise surgery, followed by a scary pant-pissing diagnosis and now facing a long chemo protocol that makes me blanch and odds I’d rather not weigh…

Lately, I’m convinced that the Big One is not the only number that matters.

Not by a long shot.

In fact, the last couple of days numbers seem to be the only thing I can wrap my head around.

Maybe it’s because I’m staring at Day #4 of something like 150 (if all goes well, says the doc) to come.

Or maybe it’s because I’m feeling flat-lined fatigued, tapped-out tired from my third 24 hour drip of yet another ‘medicine’ that ends with the suffix -toxin.

It could be because I’m strapped to this IV pole, tethered by the port and tubes in my chest, and plugged into the wall like a plastic, beeping prisoner.

And I’ve worked in a prison- I know of what I speak; prison is freaking boring.

The truth is it’s just been a couple of days and I’m already exhausted, a scorecard that makes me swallow hard at the road ahead. I’m fed up with waiting to throw up. I’m tired of waiting for when the meds will give me the runs and I’m tired of wondering whether I’ll be able to unplug all my shit and make it to the toilet in time when they do. And I’m seriously done with the way the brown bagged potion on my pole makes my piss the color of blood.

And burn.

Not to be too graphic.

My point is- I’m weary and, wearied, words are starting to prove elusive for me, making it easier for me to mark the time and transcribe the moments not in words but in numbers.

Numbers like:

43- the number of cancer-related television commercials I counted yesterday during dinner.

38 – the number of those commercials which aired on CNN

24 – the approximate number of hours per day that the Crocodile Hunter: Steve Irwin is on television.

2006 – the year the Crocodile Hunter, Steve Irwin, died.

7- the number of times the charge nurse has balled me out for refusing to wear the hospital-issue, rubberized, geriatric socks.

3 – the number of times the cancer-themed, Joseph Gordon Levitt/Seth Rogen bromance, 50/50, has aired during my hospitalization.

6 – the number of times my nurse, Joyce, has walked in and caught me watching #19 Children on TLC this week.

Too Many to Count – the number of tumors in my chest and abdomen regions according to my CAT Scans

5 – the number of IV bags being routed through the 2 tubes ported in my chest cavity.

180 – the number of seconds it takes me to unplug all those bags before I can begin to drag myself to the bathroom.

14 – the number of times I need to get up to go to the bathroom every night.

48 – the number of minutes I spent crying, full-on tears, during lunch today while watching Charlie Rose interview a panel of New York oncologists.

26- the number of minutes I made it into Episode 1 of Season 1 of Breaking Bad before realizing the premise hinged on a father and husband with terminal cancer, balling like a strung-out meth-head and turning it off.

4 – the number of times during our ‘walk’ today that the soft-spoken Licensed Clinical Social Worker observed that I seemed ‘cynical.’

3 – the number of patients I could overhear weeping last night long past midnight.

2 – the number I overheard the night before crying out in what sounded like agony while they threw up from their chemo.

14 – the number of times my doctor has asked if I have diarrhea.

8 – the number of times I’ve had it.

2- the number of times my mom surreptitiously washed my sharted on shorts to spare me shame.

23.6 – the amount my White Blood Count has dropped since Friday.

2 – the number of panic attacks that have awakened me in the middle of the night this week.

19 – the number of cans of Ensure, sent by the dietician, sitting unopened in my room.

14 – the number of years Ali and I will have been married this coming August.

40 – the percentage of my total years (37) that I’ve been in love with her and she (fingers-crossed) with me.

75 – the percentage of time I’ve not lived up to her expectations.

100 – the percentage of time she’s exceeded my own.

52 – the rough estimate of years, based on average life expectancy, I anticipated to have left with her.

12 – the age my oldest son is now, the age I was when my parents split, an age I know can make a lifetime’s difference.

41 – the percentage of my boys’ lives I’ll ‘miss’ this year while in treatment.

Forever – the amount of future time I assumed I had with them.

35 – the best guess number of times this week I’ve prayed a desperate, lame ‘Please, make it go away, God’ prayer.

0 – the number of times God has replied thus far.

With my brain cobwebbed on chemo and fitful sleep, I’ve found it easier to mark the time with numbers.

And, sitting here in my bed, sifting through all these numbers and searching out lowest common denominators, I’ve discovered:

Tom’s Big One isn’t the number that matters most to me in the grand scheme.

Not anymore.

I don’t really give a damn about my 100% Death Expectancy anymore because there’s a few other numbers that have gripped my attention, especially this one:

7: the median number of years for Mantle Cell Lymphoma until a relapse occurs.

But that’s hardly the only number. There’s:

44: the age my wife and I’ll be then.

16: the age my youngest, Gabriel, will be when I cross that number.

4: the number of years Ali and I will be just shy of our 25th Anniversary

60: the decade to which my life expectancy is shortened if my MCL requires bone marrow transplants.

Yesterday afternoon a pious-eyed chaplaincy student from the seminary just down the road wandered into my room. Having designated my religion as ‘Christian’ at patient registration last Friday, she had arrived to offer me pastoral care. I’ve been in her shoes before so I tried to be on my best behavior; I didn’t even mention that I was, had been a pastor. When it came time for her to take her leave, she extended the invitation for the obligatory prayer.

And thankfully she spared me any ‘Fatherweejus’ tripe but dammit if her prayer wasn’t all about me and the Big One, about FREAKING ETERNAL SALVATION and me trusting myself to it.

She said ‘Amen’ and I said ‘Thank You’ even though I was thinking ‘I’d like to punch you in the teeth.’ Because I don’t care about eternity right now.

I’m not afraid to die.

I don’t need a miracle or a cure, the latest elixir or a magic potion or the Jesus Prayer.

I don’t need forever.

I just want more time. That’s all.

Eternity is not a number I care about because I’ve got numbers like 7 and 60 that are now my Big Ones.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned in this nearly a month long nightmare (and if that sounds too stoic and brave, just go back to the top and reread)

It’s how quickly you can make peace with the likelihood you’ll die far sooner than you expected

It’s how quickly you can make peace with the fact that it’s likely this (and not peaceful old age or angina) that will kill you

It’s how quickly you can make peace with it, IF (a big fucking IF) you can just see your kids grow up, that’s all.

You can make peace with it if you can just enjoy your wife’s company for another factor (or two) of seven.

Eternity is the wrong damn number because it’s not so hard to make peace with death if you can just have a little bit more time.

So that’s what I’ve started to pray for, more time.

Hopefully it’s not too much to ask for; after all, when you think about it, time- literally, all the time in the world- is the exact gift God gives us at Easter.

My Cancer Playlist

Jason Micheli —  February 19, 2015 — 30 Comments

lightstock_70038_small_user_2741517Ash Wednesday: 2/18/15

The day before I left the hospital, per my oncologist’s orders, I had a dual lumen port installed in my chest, just opposite my heart. It’s a device, an accessory if you will, into which the poison will flow when I return in two days for my first bout of chemotherapy.

An orderly named Nathaniel wheeled me down from my room to a unit whose name I missed in the wincing, DUI-like jingle-jangle that was Nathaniel hitting every bump, corner, laundry bin and stray wheel chair along the way.

In his defense, he was distracted.

Nathaniel was Ethiopian, which I could tell from his complexion and his accent. He was, he told me freely and for no apparent reason, an Orthodox Christian, which led to my ill-advised confession to being a man of the cloth.

As soon as Nathaniel found out I was a ‘priest’ (which happened just as we passed my nurse’s station), he ceased looking at the route ahead of the $35,000 bed to which I was chained by way of compression socks and IV needle and instead he zeroed his attention on my ‘sense of peace here in the hospital.’

Is how he put it.

‘It must be wonderful,’ he rhapsodized, ‘feeling the Holy Spirit overshadow you.’

Is this guy serious? I thought to myself. Or is it the morphine?

But what I said was:

‘I don’t know Nathaniel. The Holy Spirit overshadowed Mary and she wound up an unwed, teenage mother. I’m not so sure I need any overshadowing on top of the- you know- scary, stage-serious blood cancer.’

But Nathaniel wasn’t listening to me. At all. He was too excited about having a genuine Christian talisman in his presence, albeit one- according to the nurses- with strong vital signs and alive for at least a little while longer.

‘With the Holy Spirit, I imagine you feel no pain, no pain at all’ Nathaniel said beatifically, just as he bumped the side of my bed against the elevator door, sending what felt like a 9.0 fart engulfed in flames through my recently incised insides.

Once delivered to my pre-op bay, I waited while several nurses stopped by my bed to reassure me how I would ‘experience no pain’ while they sunk what looked like a diaphragm with purple spermatozoa into my chest and attached it my jugular.

‘You’re not going to knock me out?’ I asked in disbelief.

‘We’ll administer a mild sedative. You won’t feel a thing’ the last nurse promised.

‘Really? How many of them do you have in your chest?’ I asked.

Huffing at the pain- in- the- ass-impossibility that was patient 5421, she walked away only to return a few minutes later to explain how if my chest port ever got infected then it would be A) excruciatingly painful, B) ‘compromise my treatment’ and C) ‘quite possibly kill’ immune-deficient me.

‘Kick ass’ I said like Maverick about to take-off.

They wheeled me into a room that had a basementy, 12 Monkeys feel to it where the nurse pitilessly instructed me to climb onto the operating table, which in my sutured, doped-up state was like asking John Goodman to scale a pommel horse.

Holding my bowels with my left hand and trying to cover my bare behind with my right, I attempted a ‘maneuver’ that felt (and probably looked) like a full-body dry heave.

I wound up splayed down over my knees on top of my face with my hairy, recently sponged-bathed butt sticking up in the air.

Seeing my futility, they picked me up and moved me the way lifeguarding students handle accident dummies.

They laid me out on the table, wrapped a sort of inflatable mattress around my circumference and positioned my head across my left shoulder- so I couldn’t be a witness to the carnage to come, I suspected. Informing me they’d just administered a mild sedative, someone, who I couldn’t see but who smelled of Axe Body Spray took to shaving my chest.

‘Sigh’ I sighed.

I’d already had one shave job that week.

‘Say,’ I said, ‘If I gave you $50 cash would you just go ahead and give me a full body wax?’

‘Not during working hours’ Axe Body Spray replied creepily. When he finished his hasty man-scaping, a bracing sensation struck me.

‘Is that…? rubbing alcohol?’ I asked, feeling the liquid ignite all over me- especially around my nipples-before dripping down my sides.

‘Yes’ he said ‘

‘Lovely’ I said, ‘For a second there I forgot about the bone-crunching pain in my gut.’

Like I said, I’d already gotten one half-assed shave job before my intestinal surgery.

Thanks to Axe Body Spray, from my Twig and Berries to my Adam’s Apple, the only hair on my upper body now resides on top of my shoulders.

And my hands.

Seriously, my top half now looks like the love child of Justin Bieber and Samwise Gamgee; actually, given my weight loss, I look more like the bastard child produced by a Kiera Knightley affair with a short-order cook from a Greek Diner.

Like I said, lovely.

Not to worry though. While doing some online cancer research, I inadvertently discovered that they actually make pubic hair wigs for chemo patients.

No joke, they’re called ‘merkins,’ made from real or artificial hair, and come in snap-on and velcro varieties. But that- after I throw up in my mouth- is an essay for another day.

As the drowsiness set on me, the nurse asked: ‘What kind of music do you like?’

‘Oh, just about anything’ I lied to avoid conversation.

‘Bluegrass?’ she asked.

‘Actually, yeah, I like bluegrass a lot’ I responded.

‘Hmm, not me,’ she said before turning it to what I could tell was one of those sackless, soft pop stations that purport to play ‘the best songs from the ’80’s.’

Sure enough, Tears for Fears were just finishing up wanting to rule the world when the Belinda Carlisle song ‘Heaven on Earth’ kicked on.

Just as I was going lights out to the world, I considered that if Belinda’s right, if heaven is a place on earth, then (in addition to Cleveland and Walt Disney World) it’s anywhere but here. Near me.

I woke up without realizing I’d been asleep. ‘Everything okay?’ I asked, not even sure if they’d begun.

‘Sure,’ the nurse said, ‘you didn’t move at all, except when you bounced your hips a little to ‘Raspberry Beret.’

I blinked my eyes awake and felt the dull ache in my baby bottom chest, just opposite my heart. I turned my head and saw the wires with input heads on the end dangling down my torso.


When I showed the chest port to my boys later that evening, they both immediately compared it to Tony Stark’s arc reactor. It’s not a bad analogy. The arc reactor, after all, not only powers Tony Stark’s Ironman suit but it keeps Tony’s body from slowly poisoning itself.

It’s a sound analogy, but really the chest port resembles auxiliary audio cables coming out of my breast.

The effect of which is to make me look like a piece of stereo equipment.

As though if you stuck an antennae up my bum in the AM and plugged me into a speaker, I could play All Things Considered for you. Or, I keep thinking, music.

If you plugged me in to your car stereo or your surround sound system, what music would MP3 me play?

What soundtrack for the movie Jason has Cancer is recorded there just across from my heart?

I imagine the cuts from my pre-diagnosis days would include something like REM’s ‘Shining, Happy People’ or maybe something from Astral Weeks and Miles’ Birth of the Cool album. You know, the kind of music you’d sample for the theme ‘blissful ignorance’ and postured cool.

When I expressed my first fart after surgery, the sign they’d put Humpty’s insides back together again, I probably would’ve played ‘I’m So Excited.’ And when I dropped my first post-op deuce a couple of days ago, MP3 me probably would’ve blasted Handel’s Hallelujah chorus or maybe Elton’s ‘Rocket Man’ or, since we’re talking crap, anything by Coldplay.

The night Ali climbed into the hospital bed with me, damning my leaky bile tube and laying right on top of it, and wiped the night sweat off of me and held me until the nurse made her get out, the night we learned I had Mantle Cell Lymphoma.

It’s cheesy but if you’d plugged me in that night I would’ve played Phil Collins’ power ballad ‘Against All Odds.’

Over and over.

With me as Jeff Bridges in the music video, and cancer as James Woods, and Ali as whoeverthatactressis.

Ever since the evening my GI doc called after my CAT Scan and asked if I was sitting down, there have been plenty of singles like Bowie’s ‘Under Pressure’ and Zeppelin’s ‘Dazed and Confused’ rattling around inside me. Except, when I’m with my kids. No matter how shitty I might feel or how depressed I get, the soundtrack for when my boys enter the room would probably be the Shins or the Decembrists, something fun and airy and lackadaisical enough to hint at the possibility of happy endings.

And since I belong to a church, one of my tracks is surely Joe Cocker’s cover of the Beatles’ ‘With a Little Help from My Friends.’

Most of the time, though, if you plugged me in and never pressed pause, I bet the music I’d play would include plenty of tracks from the Cure or Morrissey or the National, you know, the kind of music that makes you want to pull the shades and drink by yourself all day, munching on rat poison while you watch a Full House marathon- mostly because I fear- FEAR– that if you plugged my breast into your Bose, you’d discover that I come with a hidden, bonus track. One that wasn’t listed when you bought the album but has been there the whole time nonetheless and can’t be deleted.

Queen’s ‘Another One Bites the Dust.’

If you plugged me in and never pressed pause, I fear you’d eventually end on a cut like Queen’s ‘Another One Bites the Dust.’

The funny thing about fear when you’re a Christian (especially a pastor) is how other Christians treat fear like its anathema.

Verboten. More cancerous than cancer, like its a tumor that threatens the Body of Christ.

To be afraid, to pay attention to the prognosis, to weigh the odds and fear where you’ll end- all of of it, many unwittingly imply, is the opposite of faith.

After all, if you trust God then you shouldn’t fear what tomorrow will bring. Let go and let God. Give it over to the Lord. Trust Jesus. Everything happens for a reason. He never gives you more than you can handle. Have faith that all will be well and all will be well and all manner of things will be well.

Whatever happens, He has a plan. Have faith, not fear.

Christians get it honest, I suppose, this fear vs. faith way of thinking.

‘Don’t be afraid’ is perhaps the most common refrain in the testaments. Yahweh, his angel Gabriel, Jesus himself are constantly telling people not to fear.

And the other night in the hospital when I couldn’t sleep and was flipping channels on the TV, a bouffant preacher hawking a bible study curriculum on the Trinity Broadcasting Network reminded me how the New Testament letter from John says that fear is the opposite of faith and that perfect love (for the Lord) casts out all fear.

From where I sit in the cancer chair, that’s horse shit, even if it is in the bible.

And, I’m not even sure it’s true.

I mean, sure, it’s true if what John means is that love, as in Love; as in Jesus, casts out all fear. It’s true if what John’s really after is that faith, as in Jesus’ Faith, is the opposite of (our) fear. And maybe it’s true if what John has in mind is action, causation; that is, provoking faith and love in someone is the opposite of provoking fear in someone.


But otherwise, the notion, hawked by that TV preacher and so many other well-meaning Christians, that the presence of fear equals the absence of love is total rubbish.

If there’s one thing stage serious cancer does, it’s inject an ample dose of clarity into your life.

Here’s what my dosage has revealed: I’m afraid because I love.

I’m not afraid for myself, for what the treatment or the cancer will do to me. I’m not afraid of the pain or discomfort. I figure if I can live for a month with a 10×10 inch tumor obstructing my poop chute, I can handle chemo and bone marrow transplants.

I’m not afraid for me. I’m afraid because I love.

I fear what this cancer will do to my boys, to their happiness and joy and innocence and faith.

And while we’re on the subject of faith, I fear what it will do to my congregation’s faith to see one of their pastor’s handed such a huge crap-flavored lollipop. Speaking of church, I’m afraid of the stress this places on my colleagues, who got left holding the bag with literally a day’s notice. I’m afraid if when I return to work, it’ll be as a shell of my former (without peer) self.

I’m afraid of the burden and grief this will bring my friends and family; I actually visualize seeing it in their eyes.

I’m afraid of the toll this will take on my wife, having to attend to the ‘…in sickness and in health…’ part of her vows earlier than expected. I fear losing not our marriage or our family but the one- the freaking perfect one- we’ve built and enjoyed with our kids. In the back of my mind, I even fear practicalities like what this will cost, and therefore what will it cost us in terms of the dreams and goals we previously harbored.

I’m riddled with fear and for St. John or a hair-sprayed TV preacher or well-meaning well-wishers to suggest that means I lack faith or love seems to me completely tone deaf.

If I didn’t have so much and so many I love, I wouldn’t give a damn and I could take this shit sandwich stoically. But because I do, there’s no way around it. I’m afraid. And if that somehow puts me at odds with Jesus, well then I guess we’ll have to sort it out when I meet him, which I hope is later rather than sooner.

If you plugged MP3 me into a surround sound, you know what track you wouldn’t hear playing from somewhere just west of my heart?

You’d never hear Neil Young’s single ‘Hey, Hey, My, My.’

You’d never hear it because of that line from the chorus, where Neil sings:

‘Its better to burn out/than to fade away…’

My wife won’t have it. She’s determined we’ll grow old and gray and fade away together; in the meantime, I’ll have to ignore the Johns and the TV preachers and just trust that if the people in my life are worth Jesus redeeming then they’re worth my fears too.

50 Shades of Humiliation

Jason Micheli —  February 17, 2015 — 25 Comments


‘I’m going to inject you here in your arm where the fat is,’ she said.

‘But there’s no fat there,’ I dead-panned, ‘that’s all Grade A muscle.’

She frowned. ‘Here…in your arm…is fat.’

‘No,’ I feigned incredulity, ‘that’s all muscle, from my body-building days. You’ll probably break the tip of your syringe.’

‘No, everyone has fat here,’ this time pointing to her own bony tricep, ‘it’s the best place for the injection.’

Earlier in pre-op, after removing every stitch of my clothes, even my wedding band, and putting on a gown decorated with Pink Floyd-meets-Dress Barn geometric designs, she had told me her name, Chau, meant ‘pearls,’ which I found ironic considering how I was throwing them at her to no affect or appreciation.

‘Hi, my name is Chau,’ she’d said, ‘Is there anything I can get you?’

‘Yeah, you don’t happen to have a cure for cancer on you do you?’

She paused like she was running down the cafeteria’s menu in her mind.

‘No,’ she said with what I’d call a poker- face if it didn’t happen to be her only face.

‘I guess I’m fine then.’

My wife had already come back and we’d cried and hugged and kissed and said the sorts of things that husbands and wives say to each other when they’re scared shitless over what will follow when- not if- the other shoe drops.

And before they took me back to the operating room, they let my mom come back to say goodbye too. The team of surgical nurses waited by the curtain wearing tan scrubs and plastic butcher’s visors in front of their faces.

‘Exactly how much of my blood are you expecting to spray around the room?’ I thought, panicky, when I first saw them.

They waited while my mom kissed me on the cheek and whispered into my ear ‘I wish this was all happening to me and not you.’

‘Me too’ I replied and waited a beat or two before smiling.

I turned to Chau, who was unplugging my IV from the wall, and dead-pan again said:

‘Chau, my mom’s a nurse and, well, it’s sort of a family tradition, if it’s okay with you, she’d like to be the one to put my catheter in.’

‘But she’s not washed up’ Chau said.

By the grace of God they put me to sleep before they inserted the catheter so I remain blissfully ignorant of whatever Medieval torture such a procedure requires.

Removal of the catheter, on the other hand, not so much.

A day (or two?) after my intestinal surgery I felt like my spleen would fall out through my sutured belly button if I as much as farted, but somehow I hurt more ‘down there.’

You know where.

I’m sure it was psychosomatic, my mind attributing greater pain to that part of me that I, as a member of the male species, assign greater biological and spiritual significance.

Sometime in the thick, languid hours after surgery a nurse technician named Jacqueline entered my room with an entourage of 3 and announced that she was there to remove my catheter.

‘Aren’t you going to…like…put me to sleep first?’ I asked, feeling suddenly lucid. ‘Or anesthetize me?’

She waved her hand at me with a smile like I was her rascally kindergartener. ‘Don’t be a baby. You won’t feel a thing.’

‘Won’t feel a thing? You’re going to pull a however long tube out of my Magic Johnson. How is it not going to hurt?’

‘With the meds you’re on?’ she frowned skeptically, ‘Tell me, can you feel anything down there now?’

‘Yes’ I lied.

She crossed her arms and cast a glance at the 3 women behind her.

‘Really? So can you feel that you’re peeing right now as we speak?’

‘I am?’ I asked, pulling up the covers for a peek.

‘Honey, you’re telling me that you just had a 10×10 inch tumor taken out of your intestine and you’re more worried about your penis?’

‘Yes,’ I said flatly, thinking how the self-evidence of such a distinction should be just that, self-evident. After all, cancer just effects your whole body. But we were talking about the object by whose measurements all men measure their manhood.

‘My intestine doesn’t govern 97% of my waking and sleeping thoughts’ I said.

She sighed like whatshername on The View and snapped on a pair rubber gloves. Nodding her head to the Greek chorus behind her, she said:

‘They’re interns. Do you mind if they watch and assist me?’

What was I supposed to say?

Obviously ‘no’ is the right answer, but, considering how I was lassoed to the bed by ridiculous-looking compression socks, could barely move from the chainsawed gash in my gut and was tethered to the wall behind me by the stomach tube extruding from my left nostril, I figured it was better at least to act like I was in control.

‘Sure,’ I said, ‘Maybe you should lower the lights and put some music on first.’

All four of them rolled their eyes.

The narrator in one of John Irving’s novels observes that the most emasculating position for any man to be caught is with his t-shirt on and nothing else. I used to think that sounded exactly right; that is, until Jacqueline pulled down my blankets and sheets to my ankles and then pulled my gown up past my weeping incision and swollen belly to around my nipples.

The rather zealous pre-op shave job they’d done on me, combined with the preschool colored socks with rubber tread on my feet, somehow made me look even more pathetic.

‘Gee, it’s cold in here’ I said as a sort of sheepish disclaimer.

One of Jacqueline’s students, per her instructions, took my lifeless Johnson in her latex hand and the catheter tube in the other. Then Jacqueline came around behind her and put her hands on top of the intern’s so as to demonstrate the proper positioning and technique, as though we were on a putting green somewhere and Jacqueline was the club pro using not a putter or a 5 iron for her lesson but my baloney pony.

‘What do you for a living?’ Jacqueline asked as her intern found the right spots.

‘Uh, I’m a…uh…a minister’ I said.

‘Praise Jesus!’ nurse Jacqueline exclaimed with a sincerity that seemed to match her volume. And just then she started to slowly pull what felt somewhere inside me like a 30 foot length of raggedy 20 pound saltwater fishing line from my bait and tackle.

Now, I’d be lying if I claimed that the image of 4 women gathered around my naked, chiseled body praising Jesus as they beheld my manhood was a scene that had never once played in the cinema of my teenage mind, but, as far as fantasies go, this wasn’t it.  When you’re a guy, the last thing you want is for your piece to be held in a woman’s hand as limp and lifeless as roadkill. And you definitely don’t fantasize that said woman will wear an absolutely vacant expression on her face.

As she neared the catheter’s end, Jacqueline warned me:

‘You’ll probably go pee-pee on yourself when this comes all the way out.’

Seriously, she said ‘pee-pee.’

And as if my multiple injuries needed the extra insult, I promptly did just that. Pee-peed all over myself and somehow ‘pee-pee’ seemed exactly the right word for how silly and emasculated I felt.

Another of her interns tossed me an adult-sized baby wipe.

‘Clean yourself off’ she said in a way that made feel like I was supposed to get up and leave money on the IV stand. Actually, no. That’s bullshit.

No, it just made me feel…humiliated.

And such were the hours and days after catheter day.

It’s only been 12 days since the night my doctor called me while I carpooled the swim team home and, while the boys talked about girls in the rear seat, suggested that I sit down to hear what he had to say.

Two weeks though is long enough for me to have learned that humiliation is one of the ways stage-serious cancer manifests itself.

Needing help to pee into the plastic jug because you don’t have the ab muscles to do even that for yourself.

Needing help to change your gown at 3AM because- fun fact- night sweats are one of the symptoms of the cancer that’s now coursing through your blood.

Needing the surgical resident to pretend she doesn’t notice the crack in your voice and the tears well up around your eyes as she asks how you’re doing.

As surely as a cold begets a runny nose, this cancer has brought humiliation in to a life where ironic pretense and playing it cool had been the norm.

Like the third or fourth night in the hospital when the nurse, who was about to check my vital signs in the middle of the night, was standing there in the dark just as I woke up suddenly, crying and breathless from the first of what are already many panic attacks.

She wiped the sweat from my forehead. Tucked me in and, shushing me, said ‘It’s going to be alright.’

Like I was a child.

In the past few days I’ve heard from lots of people and many of them have asked me what it’s like, having this giant steaming pile of crap land in the middle of my life. And honestly the first word that comes to mind is humiliating.

Here’s one question I wonder lately that I never wondered before:

Does Christ participate in our suffering and humiliation?

Or do we participate in Christ’s suffering and humiliation?

Christians can go either way on the answer.

If the answer is the former then that means- thanks to the incarnation- there is no permutation of our humanity in which Christ has not been made present. Whatever we go through, the theological line continues, we can go through it knowing our pain is not unknown to God.

God, like Bubba Clinton, feels our pain.

There’s nothing wrong with that answer I suppose, but for me, at least lately, I think the good news is found in the latter. We participate in Christ’s suffering and humiliation by our own.

Here’s what I mean by good news:

Just like the bumper sticker, a lot of people treat Jesus as though he’s the answer to the problems and questions of existence: How can I be saved? Why do bad things happen to good people? etc.

But if we participate in Christ’s humiliation and suffering through our own, then that means:

Jesus isn’t an answer to the problems and questions of existence.

Jesus is a means of existing amidst life’s problems and questions.

Can you feel the distinction? Because I can. Ever since that night I had to swallow my pride and ask the nurse to help change me, I can feel the distinction.

Feeling humiliated on an almost hourly basis now, I don’t need or want a God who can feel my pain. I need, desperately want, a God whose own life can show me a way  to live in and through it.