The bomb. In modern times it’s become something of a symbol. Of terror. Of despair. It’s becoming an increasingly frequent horror to hear of another terror related bomb detonating somewhere, causing irreversible grief and loss to the innocent. The word ‘symbol’ though doesn’t quite fit, as symbols are by definition images, pictures of something; whereas bombs – real bombs in the real world, rather than in James Bond movies – are invisible. The real horror of the bomb is that you don’t know it’s there. Not until, in an instant, it isn’t there anymore. And then it’s too late. The Boston Marathon bomb of 2013 is the one that I personally always recall to mind. An innocent community event turned into chaos instantly.
Cancer is a bomb.
3 months ago everything was fine. Then, out of nowhere, my mum was diagnosed with cancer of the duodenum which was quickly upgraded to terminal. This form of cancer is rare and also unusually aggressive. It moved fast.
A bomb is, in its essence, a mess. It’s the instantaneous turning of any order, beauty and structure within its radius into random chaos, the very process of which wreaks destruction and death. Assassins don’t tend to use bombs (I presume) because assassins have specific targets. They are trying to do something particular. They are trying to be precise. Bombs are not precise. They don’t have specific targets. They aren’t trying to do anything to anyone in particular. Who is caught within the bomb’s radius is random. And who in that radius is killed and who is maimed and how they are killed or maimed is random. The mess itself is the point. Recently a bomb detonated in a marketplace in the Philippines. For some reason some ordinary men, women and children were walking through the blast radius at the moment of detonation and others weren’t. Had the bomb detonated even minutes earlier or later the people whose lives were ripped apart forever would’ve been different. The bomber doesn’t care. Chaos for chaos’ sake. Death for death’s sake.
And cancer is, in its essence, simply a mess. Cancer is nothing more than the turning of the order, beauty and structure of a person’s body into random chaos. Chaos that wreaks destruction and death. There doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason for where this bomb will go off. My mum was incredibly healthy. No reason why her life was swiftly cut short by a very rare and unusually aggressive form of the disease. No reason why it devastates a body the way it does. Shrapnel could’ve just as easily not hit the liver as hit it. And the anarchy explodes outward beyond the person and shrapnel maims everyone nearby, but not necessarily all in the same way. Cancer is a mess that starts as a tiny point and spreads outward with unstoppable force like an explosion. It might explode a lot more slowly than a bomb, but that doesn’t mean you can outrun it. It’s still inescapable.
When I was younger I found conspiracy theories kind of interesting. But when I read up on some I was struck more by the conspiracy theorists themselves than their theories. For the conspiracy theorist, the conspiracy isn’t just something they think happened in the world. It expands into an over-arching narrative to explain the world in its entirety. The conspiracy theory becomes a meta-narrative of the force of evil in this world, a force that has a sinister plan and purpose for the world as a whole and is working secretly and non-stop to fulfill it. But what the conspiracy theorist has failed to understand about evil and which I have now experienced is this: evil has no plan or purpose for the world other than to rip it open. Evil doesn’t seek to make the world into anything. It simply wants to demolish. Why? Well, why not? ‘The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy…’ (John 10:10) Chaos for chaos’ sake. Or is Bashar al-Assad and ISIS and whoever else bombing Syria into a crater because they have some goal and desire for the country? Evil is evil for evil’s sake.
In the end, what’s scary about a bomb isn’t that it’s loud and explosive. It’s that it’s pointless and indiscriminate and yet completely irreversible. And what struck me as mum’s life drew to a close was the horror of how pointless but irreversible this tragedy seemed to be.
I’ve spoken a number of times from the Bible on suffering, but nothing prepares you for when you experience it personally. People always depict the life of having faith in God as a walk through the countryside, with some ups and downs in the path, or being gently carried along a beach. They never depict it as finding yourself in the crater of a bomb blast. Trusting God is hard. So hard. Hard when the Bible asks hard questions about why there’s suffering in the world but gives no ultimate answer. Hard when suffering is unfair. Hard when all the evidence the world gives you seems to point in the opposite direction to that of a loving God who’s in control of things. Hard when prayers are met with silence or even what feels like mockery.
Early on I would confront God in the hospital chapel. Was just a quiet space for it really. I was grappling with what exactly I was trusting in. No circumstances indicating God’s love. No explanations for how this all fit into something good. No reassuring feeling of divine presence. What I had in my mind however was a picture of the cross, Jesus dying on a cross. God choosing to step out of safety and into the darkness and chaos of this world, to suffer in it in order to overcome it. Jesus stepping into the meaninglessness destroying the world to make something meaningful out of it. It isn’t any explanation of why evil is here but when I considered Jesus doing that I asked myself, ‘Can I trust him?’ I answered ‘Yes’.
Not that trusting Jesus removed any grief. From that point on we were all still living in the bomb blast. Awful fear and anxiety. Guilt. Loss. Helplessness. Feeling nauseous. Seething anger with no one to aim it at. The fraying of relationships. People saying ‘helpful’ things. The anguish of seeing the toll on someone you love steadily increasing. The world feeling cold and empty. Every consolation you hoped and prayed for – a decent amount of time with Mum at least, the chance to say a proper goodbye, the end to at least come quickly – ripped away one by one, feeling like a cruel joke. Nothing left not maimed by shrapnel. More angry questions at God left unanswered. More silence after prayer. And now moving ahead with a massive hole left in everything.
I want to write much more about faith in darkness and Jesus in the darkness soon. This post has been much more about the darkness itself, I know. And I know that cancer isn’t the only darkness in people’s lives. I’m just sick of a Christian culture that thinks it can down play the reality of evil and suffering in faith, bring about nice answers or a sense of uplift. One day I walked into a Christian bookstore looking for just a little thing I could buy to help me remember as I looked at it the truth of God in the message of Jesus. But all I found filling the whole place was treacle like this:
Bible verses certainly. But verses ripped out of their contexts of chaos and pain and disorder and draped in an anesthetising image able to give only a general feeling of uplift when times are generally good. When life turns dark it evaporates like a fog. Never a mention of Jesus dying on the cross, which is the heart of the matter.
It’s not real. At some point, for everyone, life turns into a disaster zone. At some point everyone faces death. And nothing, nothing, can prepare you for every vain hope and survival strategy you’ve developed over however many years crumbling to nothing in an instant. At that point, either Jesus died and rose, or bust.