25th November “Ours is the only Church where the sceptic stands at the altar, and where St Thomas is regarded as the ideal apostle” ‘The Decay of Lying’ Oscar Wilde

 I have for some time regarded my lot as a very blessed lot when it comes to patron saints. This was not always the case. For three years I served as a curate dedicated to St Paul, Apostle, Evangelist and all round know-it-all. On 25^th January, instead of celebrating Rabbie Burns, after whom I was named, I had to wax lyrical on the Conversion of St Paul, a saint I am singly ambivalent about.

Imagine my joy then when almost exactly 10 years ago I was appointed to a parish dedicated to St Thomas the Apostle, my favourite saint. I have always loved saints who reveal humanity in ‘broken earthen jars’ as St Paul said, rather than saints who thank God because they speak in tongues more than anyone else, as St Paul also said. 

St Thomas shows us humanity and how it deals with life at its most human, both courageous and fearful. I thank God that St Thomas and its people have been with me when I have been courageous and fearful. This reality has been brought home to me thanks to yesterday’s arguably joyous consultant’s appointment.

Three weeks ago I had the promised colonoscopy and the NHS Trust brought in the best cinephotographer they had. The learned professor was accompanied by an assistant cameraman… I mean doctor. He wielded the endoscope with all the finesse of a boom-mic operator with St Vitas Dance. The learned professor was happy with the biopsies, and I was left with the gate of John Wayne. This procedure was to confirm the suspicions of the MDT’s diagnosis of on-going lymphoma activity. Thus, it was to seal the deal as to when I would have the promised Salvage Chemotherapy (I wonder which Charm-School graduate came up with that name?), Bone Marrow Transplant and, to quote the previous consultant, “Six Months of Hell”.

However, yesterday I was told that the biopsy revealed no lymphoma. Staggered at the volte face I asked for supportive evidence, and at that moment was one with St Thomas.

I should, like the other disciples on Easter Day, have rejoiced unreservedly, instead I wanted to metaphorically place my hand in the side and finger in the wounded hands.

My lot had changed in an instant, but the lot of lymphoma is that the shadow of the cross casts its darkness upon you.

I still need to have further scans, procedures and so on before the ‘fullness of the resurrection’ can be declared. Hence, like St Thomas before me, I cannot dance outside an empty tomb, but merely fall to my knees. True faith St Thomas shows us is not just about resurrection, but the omnipresence of crosses.

TV Advertisements for Cancer Charities during the afternoon promise unadulterated joy and tears when such good news is delivered, I feel numb and more than a little anxious.

That is my experience. Once again I am off-message. Perhaps then I should ignore the semi-mocking prompting of my family to submit the most unflattering chemo picture of me to one these charities. The morbid composition sees the cat sat behind me licking her lips as one more obstacle to her world domination looks like being removed, the dog lying next to me, just happy to be on the furniture, and then my grey figure grinning bald as a coot with alopecia. Under this macabre tableaux vivant are the words: “Just £5 a month could help Robert…”  

Yet, thankful I am in my Thomasian way, because, for now, I am promised Christmas with those I love most, holy communion with those who have shown me such love, and no more terrible photographs of me looking like I am off to a Comic-Con as one of the Coneheads.