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By Jaque Banas
“Four years,” he said,
“four years with no sex, and I’m still a free man.” My sister relayed
her friend’s testimony—a man who had been dramatically delivered from
the homosexual lifestyle. Recently when I met him at a Focus on the
Family seminar “Love Won Out” I asked him, “How did it happen?” “Brokenness”
he said, “Although I was raised in a strong Christian home, I went
astray, and finally losing everything—mate, home, career, car, everything,
God used my utter brokenness to bring me home.” Today Jim is a pastor
and very passionate about helping others find their way home. I
enjoy meeting people like Jim, because as prodigal sons they understand
that the Biblical story is really about the Father’s love and not the
son’s waywardness.
Last year after having a mammogram and an ultra-sound I was told I had
breast cancer. In the pressing hours that followed I intuitively knew I
was about to encounter a deeper connection with Father’s love, and that
I was going to be made vulnerable. I didn’t know how this matter would
play out, I just knew it would, and I told my family that this was all
I knew for sure. Following the diagnosis I was faced with several
choices: get a biopsy, see what you can do about getting Medical
Insurance, have the breast removed, drink carrot juice and forget about
going the medical route, and so on. But no matter what choices were
before me, facing my fear was harder than facing my options. I couldn’t
sleep, and with salivating glands not working, I couldn’t swallow food.
All I could think about was death and dying, so I finally sank into
Father’s love and embraced impending death; it was in these hours that
I received enough peace to sleep like a baby. I’ve often observed those
who are vulnerable, and I’ve wondered what it takes to melt before
others in this fashion. Some people are so open about their wounds, and
though I admire their courage, my inclination to withhold mine stemmed
from the fear of having them further trodden. Raised by a previously
incarcerated father, I was taught to be strong no matter what, and no
wonder! He had endured the hell of prison for fourteen years, and was
now instilling me with his belief that it is imperative to keep a stiff
upper lip. Later when both father and mother had nervous breakdowns, I
as the oldest felt extremely vulnerable, but I hid my feelings behind
the “tough exterior” I believed was necessary to survive. When my
father later deserted the family (I was only nine) I “held a stiff
upper lip,” but I also grew a rejection complex the size of Texas, and
my chances for experiencing the courage that comes from being
vulnerable diminished. In psychological terms this “I’m tough” posture
is known as the “hero child syndrome.” It occurs in oldest children who
carry the belief that if things fall apart they’re in charge.
Little
did I know that it would take a word like “cancer” to break my tough
exterior, or that the diagnosis was a gift coming to give me courage.
When I finally had to consider, “What does this pain or wound mean?”
and pose questions to my heart like, “Does God really love me? Is He a
respecter of persons? Am I hiding in denial? What am I afraid of? Is it
death? Am I afraid to face the truth—or myself?” the walls started to
break down. The realization that hit me the hardest was that I needed
to forgive myself. For what? For the long hatred I’d held for who I
was, for whatever path I had taken to bring me here, for not knowing
better, for siding with my accusers, and for not being on my own side.
That was when I made a solid and conscious decision to quit judging
this or any situation as either “good” or “bad.” As long as I live for
my own agenda I miss out on the very life God is trying to give me. I
gave up deciding for myself whether or not the situation was dangerous,
and I found myself secure in Father’s hands. “If He sees this as
‘good’, I said, “then what is ‘not good’ is in His care.” My decision
has had profound implications resulting in unadulterated trust for
Father. No matter how it plays out I know I am safe in His love, and
this realization is, to me, worth whatever it takes to have it. I see
that I don’t need my walls anymore, and I don’t have to be strong,
because His love for me is all the strength I need to live today and
all my tomorrows.
What did I do about my health? I began to
play the Bible on CD (read by Alexander Scourby—I love his voice). I
listened mostly to the book of Matthew and re-heard the stories I’d
read countless times where Jesus healed all manner of sickness and
disease. When I first re-committed my life to Christ in the early
eighties (I’d been baptized in the fifties but turned prodigal
nonetheless), I was introduced to a course on healing taught by my
Pastor, Glen Curry. Glen was passionate about Jesus’ miracles, and for
years he taught from texts such as “Christ the Healer” by F.F.
Bosworth, and “The Fourth Dimension” by Dr. Yongi Cho. I was there, and
I believed with him. I thought back to those days and pulled out the
texts for review. As I read I asked myself, “Jaque, do you really
believe the Bible or do you concur with the majority that miracles have
since passed away? Do you believe that Jesus Christ really is the same
yesterday, today and forever? Or are you just giving lip service and
mental assent like countless others? Do you think the Medical Community
has the total truth for you, or is Christ the Healer still your
answer?” I knew my answer; I still believe in the Healer—I believe His
intent is forever the same—I believe He still heals ‘whosoever’ will
receive, but in recent years I haven’t taken His healing miracles
seriously—I haven’t felt the need—my own remedies had long sufficed and
snuffed out the passion my heart once held for Christ in this mode.
I
have always loved the evidence of God’s love (glory) shown by those
vulnerable enough to receive healing. I still hear Jesus’ words playing
the strings of my heart, “According to your faith be it unto you.” I
trust those words—He means them—they work accordingly. When I follow my
heart I always experience the peace that passes understanding. When I
follow the counsel of reasonable men and women I have no peace, so I
follow peace. Peace is the Umpire telling me to wait—not for instant
healing, but for God’s guidance in this very personal matter. Does He
want to put mud and spittle in my eyes? I will let Him. Does He want to
cut the breast off? I will let Him. Whatever He says from within me
I’ll do, because I trust Him right here and right now.
During
the past year He’s led me to clean up my environment and cooperate with
the brilliant intelligence within my own body. He’s led me to Holistic
Doctors—my current mentors of choice. I’m a good patient. I feel good.
I’m finally on my own side, living my own life rather then living
vicariously through others. I’m vulnerable. I’m human. I’m not in
charge. Thank God.
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