janelle
08-31-2004, 12:04 PM
>
> John Powell, a professor at Loyola University in Chicago writes about a
> student named Tommy in his "Theology of Faith" class:
>
> Some 40 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 slightly cynical tone, "Do you think I'll ever find God?" I
> decided instantly on a little shock therapy. "No!" I said very
> emphatically "Oh," he responded, "I thought that was the product you
> were pushing."
>
> I let him get five steps from the classroom door, 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 Tommy had terminal cancer. Before I
> could search him out, he came to see me. When he walked into my office,
> his body was very badly wasted, and the long hair had all fallen out as
> a result of chemotherapy, but his eyes were bright, and his voice was
> firm for the first time, I believe.
>
> "Tommy, I've thought about you so often. I hear you are sick," I blurted
> out.
>
> "Oh, yes, very sick. I have cancer in both lungs. It's a matter of weeks."
>
> "Can you talk about it, Tom?" I asked.
>
> "Sure, what would you like to know?" he replied.
>
> "What's it like to be only twenty-four and dying?"
>
> "Well, it could be worse."
>
> "Like what?"
>
> "Well, like being fifty and having no values or ideals; like being fifty
> and thinking that booze, seducing women, and making money are the real
> 'biggies' in life." I began to look through my mental file cabinet under
> 'S' where I had filed Tommy as strange. It seems as though everybody I
> try to reject by classification, God sends back into my life to educate
> me.)
>
> "But what I really came to see you about," Tom said, "is something you
> said to me on the last day of class." (He remembered, I thought!) 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 something 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 or may not be there,
> I just quit. I decided that I didn't really care about God, about an
> afterlife, or anything like that. I decided to spend what time I had
> left doing something more profitable. I thought about you and your
> class, and I remembered something else you had said: 'The essential
> sadness is to go through life without loving. But it would be almost
> equally sad to go through life and leave this world without ever telling
> those you loved that you had loved them. So, I began with the hardest
> one, my Dad. He was reading the newspaper when I approached him.
>
> "Dad." "Yes, what?" he asked without lowering the newspaper "Dad, I would
> like to talk with you." "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 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 really 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 to open up 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 them."
>
> "Ooh ... I was ready for you, but I don't know if I'm ready for your
> class."
>
> "Tom, think about it. If and when you are ready, give me a call." In a
> few days, Tom called, said he was ready for the class, that he wanted to
> do that for God and for me. So we scheduled a date, but 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
> statement about love, thank you. 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,
> John Powell, Professor Loyola University, Chicago
>
>
>
> Lorie Vincent, CED
> John Powell, a professor at Loyola University in Chicago writes about a
> student named Tommy in his "Theology of Faith" class:
>
> Some 40 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 slightly cynical tone, "Do you think I'll ever find God?" I
> decided instantly on a little shock therapy. "No!" I said very
> emphatically "Oh," he responded, "I thought that was the product you
> were pushing."
>
> I let him get five steps from the classroom door, 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 Tommy had terminal cancer. Before I
> could search him out, he came to see me. When he walked into my office,
> his body was very badly wasted, and the long hair had all fallen out as
> a result of chemotherapy, but his eyes were bright, and his voice was
> firm for the first time, I believe.
>
> "Tommy, I've thought about you so often. I hear you are sick," I blurted
> out.
>
> "Oh, yes, very sick. I have cancer in both lungs. It's a matter of weeks."
>
> "Can you talk about it, Tom?" I asked.
>
> "Sure, what would you like to know?" he replied.
>
> "What's it like to be only twenty-four and dying?"
>
> "Well, it could be worse."
>
> "Like what?"
>
> "Well, like being fifty and having no values or ideals; like being fifty
> and thinking that booze, seducing women, and making money are the real
> 'biggies' in life." I began to look through my mental file cabinet under
> 'S' where I had filed Tommy as strange. It seems as though everybody I
> try to reject by classification, God sends back into my life to educate
> me.)
>
> "But what I really came to see you about," Tom said, "is something you
> said to me on the last day of class." (He remembered, I thought!) 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 something 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 or may not be there,
> I just quit. I decided that I didn't really care about God, about an
> afterlife, or anything like that. I decided to spend what time I had
> left doing something more profitable. I thought about you and your
> class, and I remembered something else you had said: 'The essential
> sadness is to go through life without loving. But it would be almost
> equally sad to go through life and leave this world without ever telling
> those you loved that you had loved them. So, I began with the hardest
> one, my Dad. He was reading the newspaper when I approached him.
>
> "Dad." "Yes, what?" he asked without lowering the newspaper "Dad, I would
> like to talk with you." "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 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 really 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 to open up 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 them."
>
> "Ooh ... I was ready for you, but I don't know if I'm ready for your
> class."
>
> "Tom, think about it. If and when you are ready, give me a call." In a
> few days, Tom called, said he was ready for the class, that he wanted to
> do that for God and for me. So we scheduled a date, but 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
> statement about love, thank you. 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,
> John Powell, Professor Loyola University, Chicago
>
>
>
> Lorie Vincent, CED