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A week ago, my wife’s uncle Tom died. I have known Tom all my life. Tom took great delight in reminding me that if it weren’t for him, I would never have met his niece & my life would have been miserable. I’m prepared to allow him that much — the credit for meeting his niece — okay — and for the bit about my life being miserable too. For both of us — my wife and me — Tom was something of a spiritual mentor, an occasional dispenser of sage offerings and a bit of a country doctor too.

Long before I had ever looked sideways at his niece, he dropped by to see how I was doing during a bout of something or other. He wasn’t my doctor; he just wanted to be sure I was okay. He and I shared an affliction — migraine headaches. Shortly after I was married, I had a particularly nasty headache that required a shot of Demerol and enough codeine to give a blue whale a taste of nirvana. After I’d been asleep for more than thirty hours, Tamiko grew concerned and called for Tom’s advice. I will never forget waking up to the sight of Tom standing over me, hand drawn back and about to slap my face. I grabbed his hand. He smiled and said, “I think David’s just fine. He’s aware enough to know that he doesn’t want his wife’s uncle hitting him any more.”

A year ago January I was taking a course called “Health, Spirituality and the Christian Life.” For our first assignment we had to prepare an illness narrative. Tom had just finished chemotherapy. Although a non–smoker, he had developed lung cancer. I gave him a call and explained the assignment and said that I would be interested in knowing what a medical doctor had to say about the experience of a serious illness. Tom agreed that it would be an interesting exercise and would give him a more structured opportunity to reflect. So he invited me over for a morning and we sat together in his office and chatted.

However, it would be inaccurate to say that the conversation’s interest lay only in the fact that Tom was a medical doctor. There were a couple of other reasons why a conversation with Tom would be particularly valuable. First, Tom was a doctor’s doctor. Although he had started his career in a general practice, he soon found himself drawn into the administrative side of things with the Ontario Medical Association, eventually serving as its secretary–general in the ’70′s. He was a “big picture” man who was instrumental in formulating health care policy for the province. He later went on to serve as medical director at Canada Life. Second, Tom was a medical doctor who was deeply religious. He was active in his local congregation, always making a point of engaging people who were standing on the margins, drawing them in, making them feel valued. This habit found particular expression with the church’s young people and he made a point of leading youth groups and confirmation classes.

Half way through our discussion two things happened. First, in an extraordinary irony, I started to get a migraine headache, so we broke for a few minutes while I took a shot of Imitrex. He was ever the doctor and quite concerned for me, and I couldn’t help but see the humour in this. The second thing — after I had returned to my seat and returned to my now somewhat incoherent questions — was an unexpected show of emotion. In his office was a cork board that covered an entire wall. Although he had cleared off most of it, there was still a small cluster of cards made from construction paper. I recognized the name on one of the cards and realized that these were thank–yous from the last confirmation class he had led before his diagnosis.

I pointed to the cards and asked: “Do you ever see yourself leading a confirmation class again?”

There were tears in his eyes. He shook his head. Then he said something he had said at the outset of virtually every group he ever led: “I believe that young people are entitled to ask their leaders absolutely anything. And they are entitled to an answer — no hesitation — no waffling — just the straight goods. If they ask: ‘But what do you believe?’ I should be able to say exactly what I believe. And trust me, if I come across as a phony, that’s the first thing they’ll sense, and then they’ll ignore everything after that.” He shook his head again. “But now, I’m not so sure. I don’t think I can give them that assurance.”

I disagreed with Tom — never an easy thing to do, given his charismatic presence and a daunting gift of persuasion. Still, I hold fast on this one point where I believe Tom was wrong. I don’t think anyone ever expected or demanded certainty of him. What they sought and got was authenticity. He said it himself: they would know if he were a phony. I remember little of the what he taught; overwhelmingly, I carry with me a remembrance of the how — with warmth and conviction; with honesty & integrity. A person can have all those things without knowing anything for a certainty.

In June, several months after our discussion, it came time for my daughter’s confirmation. Beforehand, I was sitting in the hallway of the church. The confirmation class was let out and my daughter walked past on her way to the sanctuary. And behind her was Tom, wearing a huge grin. He had led the final session of my daughter’s confirmation class. To my daughter’s benefit, Tom had proved himself wrong. He still had much to offer.

Tom’s funeral was on Wednesday. Afterwards, in the evening, I found myself preparing a chapter from the Book of Acts for a greek seminar on the following day. I came upon three verses from Acts 14, nothing particularly noteworthy, nothing you’d ever find in the lectionary, but (maybe because of the funeral) I found myself thinking about things in a fresh light. It was the story of how Paul & Barnabas came to Lystra. A man who had been lame since birth was listening to Paul, and Paul, seeing that he had faith to … what? The word is “sauthenai,” passive infinitive of “soizw,” often translated as “to be saved.” “Seeing that he had faith to be saved.” Except that’s not really what it means.

The word “soizw” in greek is like the word “salus” in latin, from which we inherit the word for salvation. Both “soizw” and “salus” refer to health and healing. The word we use in english tends to lose this nuance & limits salvation to a kind of rescuing. It brings to mind images of american troops liberating france or of EMS personnel responding to a 911 call. And yet when Paul saw that the man in Lystra had faith to be saved, he was probably looking at the man more through the eyes of a medical doctor. The man had faith to be made well. And so I came up with my own translation: “…and Paul, seeing that the man desired to be made whole, said to him in a strong voice …”

Nowadays, the medical profession, much like the theological profession, tends to get caught up in the idea of salvation while ignoring the importance of salus. They will cure us, whatever the cost. And yet this is an impossibility. We all must die. And if, as caregivers (whether medical or spiritual), our only purpose is to offer salvation, then we will inevitably fail. However, if we acknowledge that salus is always possible, then we make for ourselves a space where we can enjoy huge success. I witnessed one such success as Tom died.

Tom was readmitted to hospital and diagnosed with leukemia. He began another course of chemotherapy, but not so intensive as before. It became apparent that his salvation did not lie in cure. But salus was already at work. I think it’s fair to say that salus had been at work throughout Tom’s life. And it had its fullest expression as he approached death. One of his doctor’s recommended a hospice where Tom could have round–the–clock palliative care in a residential setting, and so my wife’s aunt made the decision to have him transferred there. Tom thought it was an inspired decision, and he told her so.

Again, it is the how of Tom’s life that speaks to me. I see now that there was never any need for salvation; Tom had been working it out all the way along, working it out through his natural instinct of care, and through his insistence that nothing short of the truth was ever good enough. And so, in this space, I offer some small measure of my gratitude.

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