Are You There God?: A Pastor’s Health Episode Raises Spiritual Questions
Religion Unplugged believes in a diversity of well-reasoned and well-researched opinions. This piece reflects the views of the author and does not necessarily represent those of Religion Unplugged, its staff and contributors.
(OPINION) Here’s a tip. If you ever have to take a trip to the emergency room, just say these four words:
“I’m having trouble breathing.”
I showed up at an ER a few weeks ago thinking I’d either picked up COVID-19 or else pneumonia, both of which I’ve had before. In my experience, those two illnesses feel similar.
My wife Liz insisted on driving me. I had a fever, a cough and couldn’t catch a deep breath. I’d tested my oxygen on an oximeter. It was in the low 80s. Not good.
I figured I needed Paxlovid or an antibiotic.
When Liz and I reached the ER, the intake clerk gave me a clipboard of paperwork to fill out. Then I said those four magical words, and instantly the whole plot changed.
The clerk snatched the clipboard out of my hand. She called out something over her left shoulder that I couldn’t hear through the glass barrier between us. The doors to the ER’s innards swung open, and a woman in scrubs appeared.
Then I was on a gurney in my own private triage room. I’d guess less than two minutes had elapsed since Liz and I entered the hospital.
Soon I had an IV in my arm, a tangle of wires stuck to my torso, and the prongs of an oxygen hose in my nose. I had two doctors, a physician’s assistant, a squad of nurses and an assortment of techs, all hurrying in and out, monitoring vital signs and asking questions.
“Gee, this could be serious,” I thought. “This could be for real.”
It was like starring in a real-life episode of “The Pitt.” Except I wasn’t the heroic doctor about to save the day with a brilliant off-the-wall diagnosis.
I was the poor sap about to code.
Long story, I spent the next 24 hours undergoing every test known to medical science. I was x-rayed, ultrasounded, stress-tested, shot full of radioactive dye and scanned.
The medical folks tossed around terms like “heart failure” and “blockages” and whatnot. In the end, it turned out I had none of those things. Neither did I have COVID nor pneumonia.
What I do have, the doctors determined, is atrial fibrillation, an irregular heartbeat. In my case, its symptoms were exacerbated by a petulant sleep apnea that my CPAP machine wasn’t touching. (I’ve since received a new machine, which is supposed to be better.)
Also, I already knew my thyroid had sprouted several benign nodules. But I learned the nodules were pressing on my windpipe and restricting my airflow.
I’m back home again, feeling almost normal, looking forward to — OK, dreading — probable surgery on that thyroid and an autumn now booked full of appointments with specialists.
Still, there was a significant period in my hospital visit that Liz and I both thought this might be it. “The big one”, as Fred Sanford used to say.
From a spiritual standpoint, my experiences on that front were disappointing. Troubling, even.
I believe in telling the truth when faith comes rushing in to redeem a dark situation and brings with it a peace that surpasses understanding. I’ve seen such things happen to others and to myself.
But if you’re going to tell the truth about those times, you also have to tell the truth about all the other times, when faith seems to have no effect whatever.
My ER visit was one of those latter times. During that ordeal, thinking I might be on my last legs, I never had any sense of God’s presence. No epiphany. No reassurance. No still, small voice.
There wasn’t much fear, either, for some reason. Just a big silent nothing.
In fact, about 18 or 20 hours into my stay, I was lying beneath a machine that was taking pictures of the dye coursing through my innards. I was in the room by myself. The technicians watched from an adjacent room.
As I tried not to move and my mind darted from here to there, it occurred to me I hadn’t prayed once since arriving at the ER the day before.
I can’t remember exactly what I said, but my prayer started with something along the lines of: “I don’t know why I’m in this situation. I don’t know if there’s any purpose in this. I don’t even know if you’re there. If you are there, I don’t know if you’re listening. But if you are there and you’re listening, I’d appreciate some help.”
The response: stone silence.
If you’re of a skeptical turn, you might be thinking, Well, of course, there was nothing but a big yawning silence in response to your prayer. That’s all there is — nothingness. A void doesn’t have a voice.
Someone else might say, Hey, you weren’t dying after all, so you didn’t need a word from God.
But I have heard from the other side, in tough moments big and small. Not often, but clearly enough, it’s changed my life. What’s more, I’ve sat by the bedsides of ailing friends and family as God spoke to them and changed them.
There’s something real there.
Yet, sometimes, for no discernible reason, that same God is so silent he might as well not exist. That’s part of the story, too.
During my time in the hospital, all I felt was my own humanity. I thought about the next test I was scheduled for. I thought about the uncomfortable hospital bed. I thought about Liz, my son, the grandchildren.
But not about God. As nearly as I could discern, he wasn’t thinking of me, either.
It’s all a mystery. It’s all untelling.
Paul Prather has been a rural Pentecostal pastor in Kentucky for more than 40 years. Also a journalist, he was The Lexington Herald-Leader’s staff religion writer in the 1990s, before leaving to devote his full time to the ministry. He now writes a regular column about faith and religion for the Herald-Leader, where this column first appeared. Prather’s written four books. You can email him at pratpd@yahoo.com.