I’m sitting in a healing prayer training class and hearing stories of limbs growing, wounds coming together, tumors disappearing- all under the outstretched arms of praying tongues.
And in all honesty it freaks me out. Makes me uncomfortable. Not “my kind” of Christianity.
But the speaker leans forward and softly addresses that burning question: when we pray for healing why are some the receivers of miracles and others not? I think of my own mother- the young mother of two small children, a cherished wife, and a talented midwife. For months we asked and begged for healing. We even believed that God had promised it to her. What kind of God would let a mother of two small children die?
I think of Baby Joel snuggled in our arms while prayers poured out of our mouths like a waterfall. If love and prayers were all it took why isn’t he here learning to crawl and tasting his first solid foods?
I think of Ajuma sitting in a hospital with his face twisted in pain and a father so committed he took our breath away. For months we used up all our resources and like a teaser he improved. Were we naïve to believe it was working?
And despite the prayers and the money and the love God took them all away.
This God that can grow limbs and heal wounds and shrink tumors… why not a mother with two small children? Why not an infant who hadn’t even experienced life? Why not the little boy with a family willing to give up the world for him?
The speaker smiles and says, “we don’t know. This healing business: it’s a mystery”
It’s a mystery. And somehow there is freedom in that. Freedom to stop thinking and trying to come up with an answer. Freedom to just trust this God of the universe. Maybe I don’t have to have it all figured out. Maybe I don’t need a well supported opinion for every issue. Maybe it’s okay to sometimes just accept that it is a mystery.
There is humility in learning to submit to mystery. To bravely admit, “I just don’t know.”