What happens when cancer and the Gospel get together?

More than 40 years ago, my dad just missed getting drafted to go to Vietnam. Two weeks ago, Vietnam caught up to him in a different form: Cancer.

This is not the “We’ll just remove this spot here, Mr. Irwin, and you’ll be done by lunchtime” type of cancer. This cancer is a Viet Cong ambush in the jungle at night. Oh, you have a family? You’re a “good guy” who lives a clean, moral life? You’re a pastor whose job it is to help people? This cancer doesn’t give a shit.

I actually don’t like this personification of cancer. All of my life, I’ve listened to people talk about cancer as an “enemy” against whom they “battle” or “fight.” This makes sense. It is a battle for survival that, at its worst, surely feels like World War I trench warfare.

The thing is: Cancer is your own body. It’s your own cells. You battle your own body. You kill your own body in order to save it. Personifying cancer as an external enemy helps muster up the focus to go to battle. However, cancer is not external at all. It’s internal. It’s you killing you. Madness.

When it comes down to it, we really do cherish our bodies (despite occasional dissatisfaction with our hair or weight). They are the vessels for our very lives. All that we hold dear, we hold in a tangible way because we have our bodies.

This is what makes me sad about cancer. The body–that partner in life, that precious vessel–goes mad and loses its way. You watch it happen, helpless to do anything about it.

Cancer is your body. Your cells. Lost and out of control. Prodigal.

Now, Dad has the cancer. I don’t. He’s going to become the family expert on the subject. But on this day–Day One of his chemotherapy–I wonder: What is the appropriate frame of mind for what is happening?

We make anger the dominant emotion and warfare the dominant paradigm for cancer treatment. We compound what we consider to be a negative situation with more negativity.

What if, instead, the appropriate emotions are compassion, kindness, and love? What if our paradigm should be one of growth, renewal, resurrection? What if our attitude toward our bodies–toward cancer itself– could be: “I’m sorry you’ve lost your way. I’m sorry you are so far from where you need to be. You’ve always been there for me. Now, I’m going to be there for you. We’re going to find our way home together.”

It sounds ridiculous.

But then, so does the Gospel.

In a way, cancer is a reenactment of the Gospel.

God creates the world. He puts human beings in the world to enjoy and steward it with him. He makes us vital organs in this cosmic body of his.

And we! Rather than choose to be vital organs we end up as cancers instead. Rather than give energy and life and vitality to this world, we so often consume those things. We use up the world. Waste it away.

What is God’s response to us? How does God treat his own cancer?

In the Gospel, we know that God treats us with compassion, kindness, patience. God shows us tender mercy.

If the Gospel is ultimately about resurrection from the dead, that resurrection does not come by anger or judgment or violence. While we talk of “kicking death’s ass,” God seems to regard death with as much concern as you might regard a leaf falling from a tree.

“So?” God says. “I’ll grow a new leaf there after a season of winter. And the old one will fertilize new life on the ground. Not only do I put life back where death took it for a moment, I make even more life. You give death too much credit. It’s a matter of course in the cycle of things. Why are you wasting so much time worrying about death? You could be enjoying the life and love I’m giving you this very instant. Do you believe that I’ll be there for you the next instant? And the next? And the next? Then lay down your weapons and rest, weary soldier. Do you realize that the more you fight, the harder you make it for me to hold you? Let your fighting days be done. I have overcome the world. My peace I give to you. Will you receive it?”

Easy words to imagine and write when I’m not the one with chemicals dripping into my bloodstream and a tumor growing in my skull.

But this is the Gospel. And if you believe it, as I do, it is true. This autumn in which we suffer so much can be a spring in which we grow so much more.

The cells in our bodies–cancerous and healthy ones–die every day by the millions. For the cells that die, new cells come to life. And the miracle of it all is that our core being remains the same despite the constant death and resurrection of our physical makeup. Even nature makes it plain: Death is not the ultimate reality. What is really real is the life at the center of who we are and the love powering it. This is a gift from God that nothing can ever take away.

Please pray for Dad and our family that we will turn this thing on its head and discover the meaning of the Gospel. Pray that we will grow stronger in faith, hope, and love even as our bank accounts and bodies grow tired and weak.

Most of all, pray that God grant Dad a foretaste of resurrection. What Dad will go through with this cancer will be close to death. I’m asking that if God gives Dad a taste of death that he will also give him a taste of resurrection. I want my dad to be around long enough for my son to know him well. I have a lot of confidence in the medical professionals, but I reserve my faith for God alone. Thank you for your love and prayers.

Grace and peace.