Still Quarrying 7: John Updike.

John Updike was recognised as one of the major American authors of the twentieth century.  He died in 2009 of complications arising from prostate cancer.  In that same year a volume of poems called ‘Endpoint’ appeared which reflected on his past life and the experience of his final illness.  One is entitled ‘Hospital 11/23 - 27/08’.  It is not the most optimistic of poems reflecting as it does on the inevitability and indignity of death and the shallowness of the exchanges he has with visitors.  

On death:

‘God save us from ever ending, through billions have.

 The world is blanketed by foregone deaths,

 small beads of ego, bright with appetite,

 whose pin-sized prick of light winked out,

 bequeathing Earth a jagged coral shelf

 unseen beneath the black unheeding waves.’  

Thinking of his family as they visit he remembers himself falling into ‘the conversational mode’, particularly with his grandchildren:

‘ . . . politely quizzing them

 on their events and prospects, all the while

 suppressing, like an acid reflux, the lack

 of prospect black and bilious for me.’  

He brings to mind those he has loved and lost and the struggles they had as they approached the final challenge.  Nothing encouraging for him there.   ‘Grampop in his nightshirt on the floor;/my first-wife’s mother, unable to take a bite of Easter dinner . . . my mother in her blue knit cap, alone/ on eighty acres, stuck with forty cats,/too weak to walk out to collect the mail,/waving goodbye from her wind-chimed porch.’  

His hope was that ‘Endpoint’ would bring a prospect of a future ‘reset in crisp exotic type  . . . a miracle! . . .’ which he could read.  It’s not absolutely clear  what he means by this.  Continuation of this life?  The opening up of a life beyond death? At this moment the one source of relief he has from the darkness of his thoughts is the sound of his wife’s voice on the phone: ‘ . . . I need her voice;/ her body is the only locus where/my desolation bumps against its end.’  

Another voice has broken into his day, however:

‘A clergyman - those comical purveyors/of what makes sense to just the terrified - /has phoned me, and I loved him, bless his hide.’  

Like many lines of poetry I have lingered over this without feeling I totally get it.  There is something patronizing perhaps even dismissive about the tone that puts me off and yet Updike is definitely on to something.  In a sense we clergymen are ‘comical’.  The best comics are those who are literally eccentric, apart from the centre of things, drawing our attention to things we see but have not noticed, calling us to recognise things about ourselves that perhaps are best left hidden.   Clergymen represent things that people would rather forget, big issues like right and wrong, forgiveness, death and then what?  Sadly sometimes those who rise to prominence in popular culture are those who help people forget.  The less like a clergyman you are the more acceptable you are.  ‘He is not like a minister.’  

I once conducted a funeral after which the grandson of the deceased said to a Christian friend: ‘It was a bit heavy-going wasn’t it?’  The problem was that as well as paying tribute to the deceased I read from the Scriptures, briefly shared the Christian hope of Resurrection and offered prayers.  The friend responded: ‘What do you expect a Minister to do?‘  

Updike is on to something.  Perhaps we are called to proclaim a message that ‘makes sense to just the terrified.’  Sometimes this is what it takes to see in Jesus ‘the Way, the Truth and the Life.‘   Terror of the power of evil, terror of the burden of failure, terror of the inevitability and perhaps gross indignity of death.  Who else is facing these issues, addressing them honestly and offering a way forward?   The American ‘humourist’ Joe Queenan has commented on funerals in his own country:

‘Funerals have become a cabaret.  There is no recognition that someone has died.  Eight or nine friends get up and tell jokes and talk about your golf game.’  

Terror has been taken from the grave not by the hope of Resurrection but by a refusal to acknowledge that something momentous has taken place and implications remain.  Frederick Buechner chides preachers who hold back the things that are of ultimate importance:

‘The joke of it is that often it is the preacher who as steward of the wildest mystery of them all is the one who holds back, prudent, cautious, hopelessly mature and wise to the last when no less than St Paul tells him to be a fool for Christ’s sake, no less than Christ tells him to be a child for his own and the kingdom’s sake.’  

So, yes, Updike has got it right whether he knew it or not.  Lord help me to be a ‘a comical purveyor(s) of what makes sense to just the terrified.‘   In the end, it’s when we face the terror that we know that peace that Jesus promised to all those who will trust in Him:

‘Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you.  I don not give you as the world gives.  Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.‘  (John 14: 27.) 

Updike says of his clergyman: ‘I loved him, bless his hide.’  I like to think there is hope there, an openness, and that in the end what he purveyed made sense.   

Still Quarrying 6

I still have my first edition of ‘Joni’ published n 1978 and although I wasn’t there I remember her coming to Pickering and Inglis Bookshop in Bothwell Street Glasgow to sign copies.   

Joni Eareckson’s story is well known, at least within the Church.  Paralysed from the neck down after a diving accident at the age of 17 she has over the last 50 plus years developed a worldwide ministry which has touched the lives of millions.  Her books contain challenging insights into the nature of suffering and its place in Christian experience.   I remember being taken aback with her confident declaration that she is a better person paralysed than she would ever have been able-bodied!  But that’s Joni.  Meeting the challenge head-on and trusting in the ways of our Heavenly Father however baffling they may be at times.  

Naturally she frequently addresses the issue of healing.  This has caused her some heartache over the years.  Not so much that she has remained unhealed but due to the insensitive and frankly ignorant comments of fellow Christians.  She still has people suggest that her remaining paralysed is a result of unconfessed sin.  Thankfully she is able to maintain a proper perspective on this.  She prays for healing but if it doesn’t happen she accepts this as God’s good and loving plan for her life.  So much has been achieved for the good of others and the advancement of Christ’s Kingdom because of that diving accident.  

I have been rereading ‘A Place Of Healing‘ published in 2010 where she documents the onset of chronic pain which leaves her greatly debilitated.  Since then she has had two bouts of cancer one of which is still currently under treatment.   I confess I did say: ‘Lord, don’t you think she has had enough?‘   But her response to this remains the same as it has to all the physical trauma she has suffered:

“When I received the unexpected news of cancer from my oncological surgeon, I relaxed and smiled, knowing that my sovereign God loves me dearly and holds me tightly in His hands.  What good is it if we only trust the Lord when we understand His ways? That only guarantees a life filled with doubts.”

Again, I think perspective is the key here.  Joni has always been clear that the biggest problem in her life is not disability or cancer but that tendency we all share to block God out of our lives.   And it’s true.  If my cancer disappeared tomorrow I would still have a battle with my selfishness and willful resistance to God.  Healthy in body but still in need of a deeper healing.  Here’s Joni again:

‘The best thing about heaven will not be running or walking, touching or holding.  The best things about heaven  will be a pure heart no longer weighed down  by sin and selfishness.  And I can say that from this wheelchair.  Glorified bodies?  Hey, bring it on.  But a pure, glorified heart?  That’s the best.’  (‘A Place Of Healing’, p. 198).  

Still Quarrying 5

People talk about fighting cancer.  I must admit that appeals to a competitive streak in me but I wonder just how helpful it is to think in those terms.  How do you fight it?  Certainly maintaining a positive frame of mind, eating as well as you can, exercising to some extent - all of this helps.  But in the end you are in the hands of the doctors and what they think is the best way through.  You have to be content to be in a largely passive position where instructions are given and things happen to you and you are called to trust in the judgement of the experts.  I don’t use that word in a Michael Gove way.  I actually believe in experts.  There are people who know better than I and I am glad that they are with me in this moment.  

Even more important than placing myself in their hands, however,  is the trust I am called to place in my God.  I often think of David when he returned to Ziklag with his men to find  it destroyed by fire and their wives, sons and daughters taken captive.  ‘David and his men wept aloud until they had no strength left to weep.’  (1 Samuel 30: 4).  David found himself isolated and under threat of stoning from his resentful men but ‘David found strength in the Lord his God.‘   How did he find that strength?

First of all, he had the promises of God.  He had been assured that he would come through this time of uncertainty, harassed and harried by Saul,  and become King of Israel.  Secondly, his instinct when faced with this crisis was to ‘enquire’ of the Lord.  (1 Samuel 30: 8)  He realized the presence of God to know His will.  

This is the way forward in developing my trust in my God.  I need to focus on the promises that are given to all God’s people, not least the assurance that all things work to the good of those who love the Lord.  And prayer should be as the Apostle Paul envisaged it, continuous.  These are the means whereby strength is gathered.  In the end, if there is a ‘fight’ then it is not with the cancer but with myself and being able to say with the Psalmist: ‘I trust in you, O Lord; I say “You are my God.”  My times are in your hands . . .’  (Psalm 31: 15).  

Still Quarrying 4

It was Easter Day 2009 and it felt strange to be sitting in a pew instead of standing in a pulpit.  I had been signed off sick and this was my second Sunday away from St Paul’s.  As I looked around the city centre Church I saw two other ministers.  One I knew was recovering from serious surgery and the other I found out later had been struggling with a stress related illness.  At one level, it might have been best if we had stayed at home.  I know my mind wasn’t fully focussed and it was an effort to sing even the majestic Easter hymns.  But today of all days we wanted to be with God’s people, to draw strength from the fellowship and to hear the preached Word.   

I would like to be in Church this morning.  I had hoped that it might be possible for me to continue to attend but at the moment energy and concentration are low.  I have to learn to be content with my present circumstances in the spirit of Philippians 4: 11-13:

‘...for I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances.  I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want.  I can do all this through him who gives me strength.’

I may not be with God’s people today but I know I am remembered.  Paul’s experience in Lystra comes to mind in Acts 14.  He had been stoned almost to death ‘but after the disciples had gathered round him, he got up and went back into the city.’  (verse 20).  I’m not physically present but certainly held in prayer. That is a ‘gathering round’ which encourages me to hold a vision of a return to the city.    

Still Quarrying 3.

Second chemo yesterday.  Sitting in the Beatson Cafe yesterday we met a Milngavie man and his wife.  He is waiting for a rehabilitation place in St Margaret’s Hospice.  Four people  with different lives but bound together by cancer.  It made me think of John Green’s book later made into a movie, ‘The Fault In Our Stars’.  It’s the story of two teenagers, Hazel and Augustus, who come together through their common experience of cancer.   Hazel describes themselves as citizens in ‘the Republic of Cancervania.‘   It’s like that.  When you are in the Beatson so many people pass you by.  You don’t know them, perhaps will never see them again, but you have this disease in common.  

In the lift yesterday there was a young man in a wheelchair with a line in his nose.  Obviously receiving intensive chemotherapy.  His carer asked me if it was still raining outside.  I said: ‘You know, I couldn’t tell you.  I’m a bit spaced out.‘   The young man smiled and said: ‘I know how you feel.’  

Someone I don’t know, perhaps will never see again, but in that moment a bond.  Strangely, it brought a flicker of reassurance.  It made me think of Someone I know who knows me and what I am going through and can provide  me with everything needful for this time:

‘Therefore, since we have a great high priest who has ascended into heaven, Jesus the Son of God, let us hold firmly to the faith we profess.  For we do not have a high priest who is unable to empathize with our weaknesses, but we have one who has been tempted in every way, just as we are—yet he did not sin. Let us then approach God’s throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need.’  Hebrews 4: 14-16.

Still Quarrying 2.

It began ten years ago.  A persistent feeling of tiredness led me to the doctor.  Blood tests revealed an abnormality which was eventually diagnosed as ‘monoclonal gamopathy of undetermined significance’.  A bit of a mouthful more commonly abbreviated to MGUS.  (Yes, Fergus has MGUS!)  As it stood there was no immediate cause for alarm but there was a possibility that this could develop into Multiple Myeloma, a blood cancer.  I had never heard of this but subsequent reading and online surfing revealed how serious this could be.  To put it as simply as possible there was ‘bad stuff’ in my blood that could lead to bone deterioration, kidney failure along with other unpleasant symptoms.  

There followed three monthly visits to the clinic to monitor my blood.  Eventually there was a movement along the spectrum from MGUS to Smouldering Myeloma until last year an MRI scan revealed bone lesions in my pelvis and sternum.  During this ten year period I experienced very few symptoms.  In fact, my physical fitness was at a high level with frequent visits to the gym and the same high level of satisfaction in my ministry.  There was also the marriage of my son Stephen to his English rose Mary and the subsequent birth of our first grandson Busby.  The news of the advancement of the disease, then, was a shock.  

Just before Christmas 2017 it was decided that treatment had to begin with infusions of a drug called Zometa which it was hoped would strengthen the bones against any further deterioration.  (Whenever I put ‘Zometa’ in my diary it looked as though I had an assignation with a being from a distant planet!)  Chemotherapy was postponed for the time being.  It was not envisaged that the Zometa would come with any significant side-effects but I felt myself slowing down, visits to the gym became less frequent and my treasured early morning start to the day became a memory.  

The ‘Watch and Wait’ approach over that year became frustrating.  What were they waiting for?  Over the years I had accumulated a number of stories of people who eventually developed catastrophic symptoms.  If there was a way to avoid that surely it should be taken?  This was a lesson in trusting the judgement of those who knew better and who had been such a support to me over the years.  When the time came in January this year there was no longer any doubt that the treatment should begin.    

It is early days yet.   I have two chemotherapy treatments a week along with a daily drug regime.  The immediate side-effects have been sleep disturbance and a kind of ‘spaced out’ feeling.  It is strange to be at the other end of the caring relationship.  I’m used to visiting people undergoing cancer treatment and seeking to bring the encouragements of the Gospel to them without really knowing how they are feeling in that moment.  If in the providence of God I come through this time there will be a whole new depth to my pastoral work, a very welcome side-effect.  

This is the thing.  We all want to avoid suffering and Scripture tells us this is a sign of a world gone wrong.  But there can be so many positive outcomes.  Think of Paul and his ‘thorn’: 2 Corinthians 12: 7-10.  What about Peter and the refining process: 1 Peter 1: 3-9?  And Jesus on the Cross achieving the greatest good for humankind in a tortured body.  

Suffering is a mystery but there enough hints in God’s Word to assure us that whatever we go through falls within the overarching good God is working out for His creation.  I can’t stay away from Romans 8 these days.  Here’s verse 18: ‘I consider that our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us.‘    

Still Quarrying 1

My first chemotherapy treatment was yesterday, Shrove Tuesday.  We have come to think of this as ‘Pancake Tuesday’, a time for feasting prior to the deprivations of Lent.  Originally, however, this was a day of contemplation, a time to consider those things that most need to be changed in our lives.  The word ‘shrove’ comes from the old English word that carried a sense of confession, penance, absolution.  My take on Shrove Tuesday, then, would be an opportunity to aspire to a deeper Christian discipleship, leaving behind self-centredness and half-heartedness and moving towards a fuller expression of devotion to Jesus and a deeper commitment to His ways.  

What does that mean for me in this moment, side-lined through ill-health and receiving treatment which promises to be debilitating?  

The way I see it is that the fundamental challenges are still there.  No matter what my physical condition I am called to stay close to Jesus, standing on the promise that nothing will ever separate me from His love and seeking to be the best witness I can be to the Gospel.  

This could be a time of self-absorption.  Understandable to an extent but all the more reason to remember others who are affected by my condition.  This has changed the lives of Gabrielle, the family, my friends and the congregations I am privileged to serve.  These are challenging times for them and I need to hold them all in prayer.  

Perhaps most importantly, I do not cease to be a Christian witness.  How a Christian lives and suffers is important and, as in days of health and strength, we should never cease our preparedness to respond to any kind of need.  The Christian writer John Piper himself a cancer sufferer has written a pamphlet with a challenging, some might say provocative, title: ‘Don’t Waste Your Cancer’.  He sees the cancer experience as a time to draw closer to our Lord, to bear a particular witness, and to appreciate more what God can do through a suffering life.  I will be praying that my time will not be wasted.