Theology of Faith

Rev. John Powell, a professor at Loyola University in Chicago,
writes about a student in his Theology of Faith class named Tommy:


Some twelve years ago, I stood watching my university students
file into the classroom for our first session in the Theology
of Faith. That was the day I first saw Tommy. My eyes and my
mind both blinked. He was combing his long flaxen hair, which
hung six inches below his shoulders. It was the first time I
had ever seen a boy with hair that long. I guess it was just
coming into fashion then. I know in my mind that it isn't
what's on your head but what's in it that counts; but on that
day I was unprepared and my emotions flipped. I immediately
filed Tommy under "S" for strange... Very strange.

Tommy turned out to be the "Atheist in residence" in my
Theology of Faith course. He constantly objected to, smirked
at, or whined about the possibility of an unconditionally
loving Father/God. We lived with each other in relative peace
for one semester, although I admit he was for me at times a
serious pain in the back pew. When he came up at the end of the
course to turn in his final exam, he asked in a cynical tone,

"Do you think I'll ever find God?" I decided instantly on a
little shock therapy. "No!" I said very emphatically.
"Why not," he responded, "I thought that was the product you
were pushing." I let him get five steps from the classroom
door and then called out, "Tommy! I don't think you'll ever
find Him, but I am absolutely certain that He will find you!"
He shrugged a little and left my class and my life.

I felt slightly disappointed at the thought that he had missed
my clever line -- He will find you! At least I thought it was
clever Later I heard that Tommy had graduated, and I was duly
grateful.



Then a sad report came. I heard that Tommy had terminal
cancer. Before I could search him out, he came to see me. When
he walked into my office, his body was very badly wasted and
the long hair had all fallen out as a result of chemotherapy.
But his eyes were bright and his voice was firm, for the first
time, I believe.

"Tommy, I've thought about you so often; I hear you are sick,"
I blurted out.
"Oh, yes, very sick. I have cancer in both lungs. It's a
matter of weeks.."
"Can you talk about it, Tom?" I asked.
"Sure, what would you like to know?" he replied "What's it
like to be only twenty-four and dying? "Well, it could be
worse."

"Like What?"
"Well like being fifty, and having no values, thinking that
drinking booze, seducing women, and making money are the real
biggies in life."

I began looking through my mental file cabinet under "S" where
I had filed Tommy as strange. (It seems as though everybody I
try to reject by classification, God sends back into my life
to educate me.)



"But what I really came to see you about," Tom said, "is
something you said to me on the last day of class." (He
remembered!) He continued, "I asked you if you thought I would
ever find God and you said, 'No!' which surprised me Then you
said, 'But He will find you.' I thought about that a lot, even
though my search for God was hardly intense at that time. (My
clever line. He thought about that a lot!)



"But when the doctors removed a lump from my groin and told me
that it was malignant, that's when I got serious about locating
God. And when the malignancy spread into my vital organs, I
really began banging bloody fists against the bronze doors of heaven.
But God did not come out. In fact, nothing happened. Did you ever
try anything for a long time with great effort and with no
success? You get psychologically glutted, fed up with trying.
And then you quit



"Well, one day I woke up, and instead of throwing a few more
futile appeals over that high brick wall to a God who may be or
may not be there, I just quit. I decided that I didn't really
care about God, about an after life, or anything like that. I
decided to spend what time I had left doing something more
profitable. I thought about you and your class and I
remembered something else you had said: 'The essential sadness
is to go through life without loving. But it would be almost
equally sad to go through life and leave this world without
ever telling those you loved that you had loved them.'"

"So, I began with the hardest one, my Dad. He was reading the
newspaper when I approached him. "Dad.
"Yes, what?" he asked without lowering the newspaper.
"Dad, I would like to talk with you."
"Well, talk.
"I mean . It's really important."

The newspaper came down three slow inches. "What is it?"
"Dad, I love you, I just wanted you to know that." Tom smiled
at me and said it with obvious satisfaction, as though he felt
a warm and secret joy flowing inside of him. "The newspaper
fluttered to the floor. Then my father did two things I could
never remember him ever doing before. He cried and he hugged
me.
We talked all night, even though he had to go to work the
next morning. It felt so good to be close to my father, to see
his tears, to feel his hug, to hear him say that he loved me."



"It was easier with my mother and little brother. They cried
with me, too, and we hugged each other, and started saying real
nice things to each other. We shared the things we had been
keeping secret for so many years.
"I was only sorry about one thing --- that I had waited so
long. Here I was, just beginning to open up to all the people I
had actually been close to.



"Then, one day I turned around and God was there. He didn't
come to me when I pleaded with Him. I guess I was like an
animal trainer holding out a hoop, 'C'mon, jump through.
C'mon, I'll give you three days, three weeks.'"

"Apparently God does things in His own way and at His own hour.
But the important thing is that He was there. He found me! You
were right. He found me even after I stopped looking for Him."
"Tommy," I practically gasped, "I think you are saying
something very important and much more universal than you
realize. To me, at least, you are saying that the surest way
to find God is not to make Him a private possession, a problem
solver, or an instant consolation in time of need, but rather
by opening to love. You know, the Apostle John said that. He
said: 'God is love, and anyone who lives in love is living
with God and God is living in him.' Tom, could I ask you a
favor? You know, when I had you in class you were a real pain.

But (laughingly) you can make it all up to me now. Would you
come into my present Theology of Faith course and tell them
what you have just told me? If I told them the same thing it
wouldn't be half as effective as if you were to tell it.
"Oooh.. I was ready for you, but I don't know if I'm ready for
your class."
"Tom, think about it. If and when you are ready, give me a
call."


In a few days Tom called, said he was ready for the class, that
he wanted to do that for God and for me. So we scheduled a
date.
However, he never made it. He had another appointment, far more
important than the one with me and my class. Of course, his
life was not really ended by his death, only changed. He made
the great step from faith into vision. He found a life far more
beautiful than the eye of man has ever seen or the ear of man
has ever heard or the mind of man has ever imagined.
Before he died, we talked one last time.
"I'm not going to make it to your class," he said.
"I know, Tom."
"Will you tell them for me? Will you ... tell the whole world
for me?"

I will, Tom. I'll tell them. I'll do my best."
So, to all of you who have been kind enough to read this simple
story about God's love, thank you for listening. And to you,
Tommy, somewhere in the sunlit, verdant hills of heaven --- I
told them, Tommy, as best I could.
If this story means anything to you, please pass it on to a
friend or two. It is a true story and is not enhanced for
publicity purposes.


With thanks,
Rev. John Powell, Professor, Loyola University, Chicago