If you read the title of this post and thought, “Well, obviously, Hannah…” and that’s a no-brainer for you, then keep reading. And if you didn’t think that, then definitely keep reading.
Here’s the thing: I know the story of Lazarus. I can’t overemphasize how many times I’ve heard it and learned about it. It’s amazing. But you know what? Not until I read a book this summer did I think about the fact that Lazarus still died.
I don’t mean that he died and Jesus famously wept and then even more famously raised him to life. I mean after all of that—the death, weeping, and resurrecting—Lazarus still died. For some reason, that thought had never once occurred to me.
“Okay, great…” you may be thinking, wondering what the point is. Well, the fact that Lazarus still died has been a transformative idea in my life and way of thinking over the past few months, and it’s had a significant impact on the way I view ministry and what I’m trying to do with Still Waters, the faith-based cancer retreat I’m starting.
For some background, I was reading Louie Giglio’s The Comeback over the summer, and it was a great read. With the name, it might sound like a pep talk, or some pseudo-spiritual “best life ASAP” self-help book, but it was way more than that, and it actually takes on {and demolishes} the prosperity gospel, so it’s grounded theologically.
Here’s what I read that has made such an impact:
“See, even if you are healed from an illness, you’ll still die at the end of your life. Lazarus came back from the beyond, but he later died when his time was up. You don’t want your whole story to be, ‘I got healed while I was alive.’ You want your whole story to be, ‘I was raised up when I was dead. I was raised up to eternal life when I was spiritually dead in my sins.’ That’s the greatest comeback of all.” –Louie Giglio, The Comeback
If you know me, you know that I am not a scientist. Even if you know just a fact or two about me, you know that I love writing and books and all the things that typically categorize people as “non-scientists.” Usually people are categorized as “science-minded” or “art-minded,” and while I think those are narrow definitions because many scientists have been artists and vice-versa, I fit into that bad stereotype because I. am. just. not. a. scientist.
That truth matters because I know that I will not find a cure for cancer. Someone might—I hope they will—and it could be soon, but it will not be Hannah McGinnis {or at least this Hannah McGinnis}. So if I have a heart for people with cancer and want to help them, the possibility of my doing so through cancer research must be thrown out the window since I neither have the mind nor the finances to make that happen.
If I can’t be a scientist helping cure cancer or even in a scientific field promoting cancer advocacy or a billionaire donating to cancer research, how can I help people with cancer? I’ve asked myself. Does it even matter as much if I’m not helping cure them?
I believe it does, and here’s why: Lazarus still died.
Cancer research is great. Please don’t think I’m saying it’s a waste of time or that I callously don’t care about a cure. I am happy and thankful to be alive currently. I do very much care about a cure. With a cure, my grandma and aunt and so many others would still be here, and the lingering scars of sorrow from their loss wouldn’t.
However, the {hard} reality is that my grandma and aunt still would have died. Lest you still think I’m too callous, let me bring that even closer to home: I have been “cured” of cancer {even though no one actually uses the word “cure” anyway}, yet I will still die someday.
So a cure is great and wonderful, and I want one so that people stop having to deal with my nemesis Cancer, but ultimately, on this side of heaven, a cure is temporary. As Giglio points out: do we want our story to be: “I was healed while I was alive” or “I was raised to life while I was dead in my sins”?
This truth about Lazarus has changed how I view ministering to those with cancer. I want a cure and healing so that instead of dying, people are brought to health. But since a cure only temporarily staves off death, more than a cure, I want people who are dead in their sins to be brought to life in Christ.
Maybe cancer—which has a tendency to bring people to their knees, face mortality, and take stock of their lives—is an avenue by which God will bring people to “the life that is truly life” (1 Timothy 6:19), whether they are physically healed or not. Maybe my cancer is the avenue by which I get to speak truth into people’s lives during the valleys and in the dark places.
These aren’t revolutionary thoughts, and to some, they may simply sound like a reiteration of the things I’ve been saying and writing for a while anyway. The shift is subtle on the surface but profoundly important underneath: it’s a shift in my entire way of thinking.
This has been running through my mind the past couple months, reminding me of the ultimate goals of our retreat and ministry. Terms like “felt needs” and “real needs” from grad school keep arising as I think about the felt need of healing from cancer in contrast with the real needs of eternal healing and resurrected lives.
We also talked in grad school about what’s most important: meeting people’s physical needs first so that you can speak to their spiritual needs, or meeting their spiritual needs first since nothing else ultimately matters. There are great points to both arguments—if people in developing countries are dying of malnutrition, meeting their physical needs has to happen to have any shot of speaking truth to a living human. And yet, what good does meeting a physical need do if that person, like Lazarus and me, will still die?
At church a couple Sundays ago, the same guest speaker who talked about cliff-jumping and which I reflected on this summer was back, and he said something that was so perfect for what I’ve been feeling:
“Our cancer did not put Jesus on the cross; our sin did.” –Ryan Pfeiffer
In context, his point was that we need to pray for healing for cancer and illness and broken circumstances, but ultimately none of those things put Jesus on the cross, so there’s a deeper need than the “felt need” of cancer, illness, and broken circumstances. There’s a need that’s soul-deep, the one that has to do with our sin which put Jesus on the cross, the thing that truly needs healing.
So what does that mean? Well, first of all, pray for healing. Please pray for healing. Again, I want a cure. So pray for a cure, and pray for those who are working to find a cure. But ultimately, everyone who is cured {including me} will still die someday, so maybe cancer is the avenue by which God will bring some people—cured or not—to true life in Him. Pray for that soul-level healing, that along with physical healing will come the healing only Christ can bring to our lives.
Lazarus and his ultimate death have clarified my mission: stewarding the fact that I was healed while I was alive to pour into those who are dying—physically and spiritually—so that our stories aren’t just, “I was cured while I was alive” but “I was eternally healed while I was dying.” If you want to know more, check out our Still Waters website, email me (see contact page), or leave a comment because I’m passionate about this and excited to share! We would love to have partners with us in this journey as we minister to those who, like all of us, need healing.
And so may we live into who God has called us to be today, living the life that is truly life, living in light of our ultimate healing despite our present circumstances.