After the closing song

Almost every Sunday service, after the closing song is sung and the crowd starts to move out of the sanctuary, I am asked about a medical problem before I descend the stairs—from a stomach ache from too much coffee, to an anterior mediastinal mass that screams malignancy. I love talking to these brothers and sisters who call me “Doc” despite my protestations (“Just call me Lance”), but I’ve long since realized that this is their way of showing their endearment, their filial pride. It warms my heart that they think I can enlighten them as to what bodily issues they have, if they have cause to be worried, or if their own physicians are doing the right thing. I feel that these random consults are, in a sense, an extension of the clinic.

Indeed, illnesses know no boundaries, and people close to us, even those with whom we share the same faith and theology, can suffer the humbling truth that bodies disintegrate, organs fail, and cells malfunction. Such is the bittersweet reminder that our time on earth is finite, and to go to Heaven we must die. Those who have cancer at least have an idea of how the Lord will take them home.

This Sunday I pray for these dear brothers and sisters—that the Lord’s healing be upon them, that He guide their own physicians to give them the best medical care possible, and that He use these moments of pain and suffering to bring them closer to a deeper knowledge of Him—the great physician of bodies and souls.