Fr. John and
Tommy
Fr. 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. 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 I called out, "Tommy! I don't think
you'll ever find Him, but I am absolutely certain that He will find you!" He
shrugged a little and left my class and my life.
I felt slightly
disappointed at the thought that he had missed my clever line - "He will find you!" At least I thought it
was clever.
Later I heard that
Tommy had graduated, and I was duly grateful.
Then a sad report
came. I heard that Tommy had terminal cancer.
Before I could search
him out, he came to see me.
When he walked into
my office, his body was very badly wasted and the long hair had all fallen out
as a result of chemotherapy. But his eyes were bright and his voice was firm,
for the first time, I believe.
"Tommy, I've thought about you so often; I hear you
are sick," I blurted out.
"Oh, yes, very sick. I have cancer in
both lungs. It's a matter of weeks."
"Can you talk about it, Tom?" I
asked.
"Sure, what would you like to know?" he
replied.
"What's it like to be
only twenty-four and dying?
"Well, it could be
worse. "Like
what?”
"Well, like being
fifty and having no values or ideals, like being fifty and thinking that booze,
seducing women, and making money are the real biggies in life.”
I began to look
through my mental file cabinet under "S" where I had filed Tommy as strange. (It
seems as though everybody I try to reject by classification, God sends back into
my life to educate me.)
"But what I really came to see you about," Tom said, "is
something you said to me on the last day of class." (He
remembered!) He continued, "I asked
you if you thought I would ever find God and you said, 'No!' which surprised
me.
Then you said, 'But He will find you.’ I
thought about that a lot, even though my search for God was hardly intense at
that time. (My clever line. He thought about that a lot!)
"But when
the doctors removed a lump from my groin and told me that it was malignant,
that's when I got serious about locating God. And when the malignancy spread
into my vital organs, I really began banging bloody fists against the bronze
doors of heaven.
"But God did not come
out. In fact, nothing happened. Did you ever try anything for a long time with
great effort and with no success?
"You get
psychologically glutted, fed up with trying. And then you quit. Well, one day I woke
up, and instead of throwing a few more futile appeals over that high brick wall
to a God who may be or may not be there, I just quit. I decided that I didn't
really care about God, about an 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 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,
LoyolaUniversity , Chicago
