Why A Cure Isn’t All I Desire

Today’s post is from guest contributor Lily (they/he/she), who is a doctoral student at a large Midwestern public university, where they research international institutions and queer studies. They have a background in interfaith organizing and social justice education, and are passionate about facilitating dialogue on how young people of faith can participate in movements for peace and social justice.

Today’s liturgical readings for the 23rd Sunday of Ordinary Time are available here.

Recently, I had the opportunity to read Amy Kenny’s book My Body Is Not A Prayer Request: Disability Justice In The Church, and I was struck by Kenny’s assertion that the Church is missing out on the prophetic witness and blessing of (disabled people, and hence) disability. Amidst a host of other beautifully elucidated points, Kenny lays out an important distinction that I believe Catholics around the world need to keep in mind as we encounter today’s liturgy; the difference between curing and healing.

As Kenny explains, curing is a rapid, individual, and physical process with the sole purpose of eliminating disease or disability. It’s what we in Western society are often seeking when we visit a doctor’s office, hoping to find a way to fix whatever symptoms we’re experiencing. Healing, on the other hand, is a much richer, deeper, slower, messier, and more complex process of restoring one to communal wellness. It involves restoring interdependence, spiritual wellness, and interpersonal relationships, and can often take place even without the elimination of disease or disability.

As a queer Catholic who also lives with chronic illness, I’m pretty familiar with both the pursuit of healing and the pursuit of a cure. Today, I’m hoping to share with you how I see my faith fitting into both of these pursuits, with the hope that you will take away from my reflection at least one idea that complicates your understanding of the relationship that disabled/chronically ill people have with the Church.

Not all chronically ill people are seeking a cure, but as it happens, I am. I’m frequently bouncing from one doctor’s office to another, hoping to find the medication/supplement/therapy regimen that will take away the pain and fatigue that I have lived with for nearly three years now. Very often, sitting in a waiting room, I’ll find myself praying for a cure–praying that this new doctor is the one who holds the key to me being able to live the life of an ‘able-bodied’ 23-year-old (whatever that means); that I’ll be able to wake up tomorrow not exhausted or in pain.

In that moment of prayer, however, I’m frequently choosing to ignore a couple of inconvenient facts: even if I found a cure and woke up not sick tomorrow,  I would still carry with me the grief over  all the time I seemingly lost while being sick, the anger that I didn’t come across the cure faster, the weight of all the relationships and opportunities that slipped away because of all those times I couldn’t get out of bed or couldn’t walk up a flight of stairs, and so much more. Even the best doctors can’t make these go away.

While, on one hand, I wish I’d never developed this chronic illness, I’m also acutely aware of how it has brought me into community with some incredible disability justice activists, and shown me how to be in solidarity with some of the most marginalized of God’s people, made clear how my liberation is intertwined with that of many other groups, and exposed to me the way that the Church falls short in being able to care for a whole bunch of communities. So, (while at times begrudgingly,) I accept that this seemingly senseless pain is somehow a part of God’s plan for my life.

In the absence of a cure for my suffering (or even if it does exist), what, then, can healing, especially in the context of the Church, look like? The answer to this question is remarkably similar to the answer to a different question I’m faced with pretty regularly: in the absence of my ability to marry my partner in the Catholic Church, what can an affirmation of my full personhood by the Church look like?

While I’m still working out my full answer to this second question, a few suggestions come to mind immediately. The Church can provide pastoral care that is sensitive to the needs and experiences of queer Catholics, focusing on understanding, compassion, and accompaniment, recognizing the struggles that we face. It can publicly affirm the inherent dignity of queer Catholics by speaking out against discrimination, violence, and unjust treatment based on sexual orientation or gender identity. It can officially condemn practices like conversion therapy, which aims to change an individual’s sexual orientation or gender identity, recognizing the harm such practices cause. It can reassess its language regarding LGBTQ+ issues, avoiding terms or phrases that are harsh or exclusionary.

In the same vein the Church can support the healing of disabled and chronically ill individuals, for those who want and haven’t found healing yet, by adopting holistic and community-based approaches that emphasize spiritual wellness, inclusive practices, and support networks. The work must first begin by tackling ableism within the church, ridding ourselves of any savior complexes, and promoting accessibility not just within liturgies but also within all programming. The church must also do the work of advocating for social justice and accessibility to address systemic issues that disabled/chronically ill people face, recognizing that individuals’ experiences of disability are shaped by other aspects of their identity, such as race, gender, sexual orientation, and socio-economic status. Most importantly, while engaged in this work, the Church must stay committed to prioritizing the needs and desires of disabled/chronically ill people, and commit to being accountable to those most impacted by the evils of ableism.

In the meantime, you’ll find me sometimes praying for a cure, but almost always praying for healing.

—Lily, September 8, 2024