John Powell, a professor at Loyola University in Chicago writes about a student named Tommy in his Theology of Faith class:
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. His hair hung six inches below his
shoulders. It was the first time I had ever seen a boy
with hair that long.
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. 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.
"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."
"But what I really came to see you about," Tom
said, "is something you said to me on the last
day of class." "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.
"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 fists against the bronze doors of heaven,
but God did not come out. In fact, nothing happened.
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."
"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 found me. You were right. He found me even after
I stopped looking for Him."
John Powell, a professor at Loyola University in Chicago writes about a student named Tommy in his Theology of Faith class:
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. His hair hung six inches below his
shoulders. It was the first time I had ever seen a boy
with hair that long.
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. 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.
"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."
"But what I really came to see you about," Tom
said, "is something you said to me on the last
day of class." "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.
"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 fists against the bronze doors of heaven,
but God did not come out. In fact, nothing happened.
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."
"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 found me. You were right. He found me even after
I stopped looking for Him."
John Powell, a professor at Loyola University in Chicago writes about a student named Tommy in his Theology of Faith class:
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. His hair hung six inches below his
shoulders. It was the first time I had ever seen a boy
with hair that long.
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
...