Recently, I found myself at Old Town Coffee in Bandar Bukit Tinggi, engaged in a heartfelt conversation with my dear friend, Pastor Tan Sin Guan. The weariness etched across his face during his sermon had caught my attention, prompting me to reach out for a chat. I was aware that he had just triumphed over a challenging battle with Covid, an ordeal he candidly admitted he once believed might claim his life.
As we settled into our conversation amidst the cozy ambiance of the coffee place, a heavy yet unspoken nuance lingered in the air. I had summoned Pastor Tan not only to inquire about his well-being but, in a way, to share a possible farewell – a last meeting, a goodbye. I expressed my desire to exchange both a hello and a potential goodbye, acknowledging that it could also serve as a farewell to me.
Our dialogue meandered through various topics, touching upon his frequent hospital visits and my struggles with gout. However, it was the exploration of pain that became the focal point of our conversation. Throughout my years in seminary, discussions on pain and the fear it invokes emerged frequently, often addressed indirectly or skirted around. People, it seemed, were hesitant to reveal their own pains.
In my own experiences, sharing my pains would inevitably awaken the latent healer in those around me. Everyone became an amateur Sinseh, offering recipes and remedies. While well-intentioned, the inundation of supplement pitches and miracle cures via WhatsApp and through friends who had been silent for years became a stark reality.
Here's what I've come to realize: pain is not the adversary we often perceive it to be. Despite its excruciating physical and emotional toll, pain serves a purpose. The perennial question of why a benevolent God allows or creates pain looms large. Pain, I believe, has two fundamental purposes.
Firstly, it serves as a guardian, protecting us from harm. We instinctively avoid actions that cause pain, whether it's cutting ourselves or exposing ourselves to fire. Pain is a guide, preventing us from repeating thoughtless acts.
Secondly, the pain that accompanies injuries or wounds is a testament to our resilience. It communicates that recovery is possible and that pain is not eternal; it can subside with time.
Yet, what about instances where pain persists, refusing to relinquish its grip? This is the profound challenge. Prolonged suffering prompts us to confront our mortality, forcing us to weigh the value of continuing to live amidst relentless pain versus the allure of release through death. I've heard the pleas of the elderly and friends suffering from chronic pain, crying out for release. When death finally arrives, there is a collective sense of relief – for them and for those who stood by in helpless empathy.
The absence of pain can also sow emotional confusion, especially when dealing with a loved one in a coma. The silence of a comatose individual offers no indication of their pain, leaving loved ones torn between the hope for recovery and the difficult decision of letting go. The uncertainty surrounding the duration and conditions of awakening adds to the emotional turmoil.
In sharing these reflections and conversations, I acknowledge that many among us bear burdens in ways that elude understanding. Let me assure you that not all seemingly negative experiences are devoid of purpose. Perhaps, in some small way, this article can provide solace and understanding to those navigating the complex landscape of pain.