Dying is a Part of Living

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My oldest son, Alexander (above), keynoted a fundraising gala last night for Camp Kesem, a summer program at William and Mary for children whose parents have cancer.

Last night was also the time the Orthodox Church names “Lazarus Saturday,” in which Jesus’s work of raising Mary and Martha’s brother from the dead tips inexorably into God’s own headlong descent to a grave of his own.

In his remarks, Alexander shared that he thinks of our family’s story according to the demarcation Before Dad Got Sick and After God Sick. It’s a permanent pivot for me too as I now think of the Lenten journey generally and Holy Week specifically in terms of what it means for us who suffer to participate in the sufferings of Christ. This time of year, several years ago, as I recovered from emergency surgery and braced myself for a year of what turned out to be arduous chemotherapy et al, I pondered the humiliation that occasions illness and how it all might be comprehended according to Christ.

After all, as Christ’s passion story shows us clearly— one of the reasons they're the bulk of the Gospel narratives:Dying is a very big part of living; that is, how we die is a part of how we lived our life.

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I wrote then:

A few days into cancer, however, was plenty of time for me to learn that humiliation is one of the ways stage-serious cancer manifests itself:

• Needing help to pee into the plastic jug because you don’t have the ab muscles to do even that for yourself

• Needing help to change your gown at three o’clock in the morning because—fun fact—night sweats are one of the symptoms of the cancer that’s now coursing through your marrow.

• Needing the surgical resident to pretend she doesn’t notice the crack in your voice and the tears welling up around your eyes as she asks how you’re doing

As surely as a cold begets a runny nose, this cancer had brought humiliation into a life where ironic pretense and playing it cool had been the norm. For example, the third or fourth night in the hospital, the nurse, who was about to check my vital signs in the middle of the night, was standing there in the dark just as I woke up suddenly, crying and breathless from the first of what would become regular panic attacks. She wiped the sweat from my forehead, tucked me in, and shushing me, said, “It’s going to be all right, sweetie.”

Like I was a child.

A pitiable child.

In those first few days, I heard from lots of people, and many of them asked me what it’s like, having this giant steaming pile of crap land in the middle of my life. And honestly, the first word that came to mind was humiliating.

Susan Sontag, who died of cancer herself, wrote, “It is not suffering as such that is most deeply feared but suffering that degrades.”

It was the beginning of Holy Week, the time when Christians imitate Jesus’ journey to the cross, so perhaps the question would’ve struck me even if I hadn’t gotten sick, but with cancer, the question certainly felt more relevant.

Here’s the question:

• Does Christ participate in our suffering and humiliation?

• Or do we participate in Christ’s suffering and humiliation?

If the answer is the former, then that means there is no permutation of our humanity in which Christ has not been made present. Whatever we go through, the theological line continues, we can go through it knowing our suffering is not unknown to God. God, like Bill Clinton, feels our pain.

There’s nothing wrong with that answer, I suppose. But suddenly, I found good news in the latter. We participate in Christ’s suffering and humiliation by our own. Just like the bumper sticker, a lot of people treat Jesus as though he’s the answer to our problems and questions: How can I be saved? Why do bad things happen to good people? How can I find prosperity?

But if we participate in Christ’s humiliation and suffering through our own, then that means Jesus isn’t an answer to our problems and questions. Rather, Jesus gives a means of living amidst life’s problems and questions.

Can you feel the distinction? Ever since that night I had to swallow my pride and ask the nurse to help change me, I could feel the distinction. Feeling humiliated on an almost hourly basis, I didn’t need or want a God who could feel my humiliation, who shared my pain. I needed, desperately wanted, a God whose own life can show me a way to live in and through it.

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