"Wholeness" is part of the warp and woof of Adventism. Pursuit of wholeness has shaped our theology, influenced our diet, guided our evangelism, and played no small part in the way we look at education. One of the universities I attended has as its motto "Mens, Corpus, Spiritus," a tribute to well-rounded, holistic education. For years, I lived close to another Adventist university that aspired "To Make Man Whole."

Still, I suspect that few of us have devoted much sustained thought to the concept. For me, at least, wholeness has often come across as a noble institutional catchword, the subject of great analysis and symbolic of something, yet highly subjective and at times void of substance—sort of like one those flags that flutters behind politicians running for public office.

Until recently, at least. Earlier this year, I passed through an experience that hit me with the subtlety of a brick between the eyes and forced me to rethink such matters. I have a new appreciation for wholeness now, and I suspect that we can’t begin to understand it unless we have at least glimpsed what it means not to be whole.

My experience started at the end of January. Chills, fever, and aches had me convinced me that I was coming down with the flu. As the fever worsened, I also developed something that resembled a urinary tract infection. Nights stretched out forever, and my spirits waned. Soon I found myself at the doctor’s office. "It’s your prostate," she decided. "It’s much too large for a man your age." She looked me in the eye. "You need to see a urologist—right away." She had seized my attention.

I made an appointment the next day, but the urologist couldn’t see me for two weeks. Meanwhile, the symptoms disappeared. On the day of my appointment he was optimistic, but he wanted a blood test "just to make sure." If it betrayed abnormalities, he would order a biopsy. One more week passed. Then, late one afternoon, his nurse called. Things still weren’t right; a biopsy would be scheduled four weeks down the road.

Patience is not always one of my virtues, especially when I find myself at the mercy of medical schedulers. Still, I know deep down inside that I should be thankful for the luxury of access to modern medicine, no matter how inconvenienced I might be. To our ancestors, illnesses and accidents often went untreated, conditions might worsen, and life could change drastically for those who survived. Twenty, thirty, forty years, might pass without any hope for improvement, forcing them to make do as best they could, achingly aware of the way things once were, the way things really should have been.

Nights were hard. At times, I would awaken with a start, then run through a kaleidoscope of thoughts searching for a happy ending to my story. The Gospels were almost always there, as were the people Jesus healed, especially that woman with a twelve-year "issue of blood" (Luke 8:43).

As my wife lay beside me, breathing softly in the dark, I wondered to myself. Was that woman also married? My eleven-year-old daughter slept down the hall. Did that woman have any children? Did she want any more? Had the illness shattered her plans? Was she frightened and bone tired, too, stuck as she was hour after hour with uncertainty and the terror of painful, undeniable evidence that things just weren’t right?

To me, the central character of the Gospels comes across as a divine Creator-Healer—not as a judge, advocate, or avenger. With people like that woman, Jesus had only a few short moments, and he chose to spend them in a way that dissolved the focus of their concern, transformed treasured back memories into reality, and left no doubt that he had the power and cared enough to make every element of their being right.

He made them whole. No catchy slogans; no institutional branding; no weighty analysis—in one dazzling moment of truth he gave them an overpowering message of who he was and the way things should be. What they did with that insight must be one of the greatest untold stories of all time.

On April 11, the urologist’s nurse telephoned. "I have good news," she said, "the biopsy was negative; you don’t have cancer." I choked up with tears. In that instant I reached across centuries, clasping hands with cripples, blind people, lepers, and a bleeding woman who knew all too well the unspeakable pain of brokenness and the joy of what it means to be made whole. In my own small way, I had glimpsed the meaning of wholeness.

The phone was silent for what seemed like minutes. The nurse must have known that I couldn’t talk. "Thank you," I finally whispered.

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