Susi Pangerl's Last Lecture

Today was the last day of my intensive class, "Introduction to Pastoral Ministry," at Meadville Lombard Theological School. I'm feeling loss in at least three areas:

First, it's hard to say au revoir to my classmates. Most of us won't see each other again until the end of August or later. Although I've known this group of people for less than 9 months, I already know them better than many people whom I've interacted with for 30 years or more. There's a special closeness that we share, a bond that is formed in the insanity of intensive classes and all the related glorious chaos. I love them; they drive me crazy; and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Second, it's hard to say goodbye to the Meadville Lombard building, which has been sold to the University of Chicago and will no longer be Meadville's home, beginning this summer. Although I'm a first-year student, I recognize the history that is contained in this building, and I know that this physical place is sacred for many who have come before me--and will hold little meaning for those who come after me. It's a rusty, old, run-down relic; but it's OUR rusty, old, run-down relic, and it's hard to let it go.

Finally, my main regret as a Meadville student (actually, the only major regret so far) is that I will not have the opportunity to take another class from Susi Pangerl, a gifted and empathic teacher, who is not only extremely knowledgeable and wise but also passionate and engaged with students in a way that is increasingly rare. I have learned so much from her this week--not the least of which is how to maintain professional standards and integrity in difficult circumstances, while still being honest and authentic.

Today, Susi discussed the three elements of pastoral care which she has found most useful to remember. They are:

1. Show up (be there physically)
2. Be present (be there emotionally/psychologically in that particular moment in someone's life)
3. Speak the "truth" (not necessarily the facts, but the important truth that needs to be told)

I could go on--and maybe I will later--but for now I will simply say that these three things will be etched on my memory as I go forward. And, if and when I start to forget them, I will count on one of my colleagues to remind me so that I can jot them down on my hand again.

And someday in the future, I will walk past the building that used to house Meadville (or whatever building has taken its place), and I will remember this week, these lessons, these beautiful classmates and this wonderful teacher. I may weep, but I will also sing a song of praise and rejoicing.

Introduction to Pastoral Ministry: Loss, Grief and Death

The past couple of days of class have not been exactly lighthearted. Yesterday we covered loss and grief, and today we had an advance care planning seminar. For me, one of the most effective exercises we've done this week was one that gave us a small taste of what it is like to lose a lot in a very short time. There's a natural human tendency to make sense of the loss, to give it some meaning. But, in the end, most loss is senseless, I think. There are however ways of dealing with loss that fit it into the larger context of our lives.

Ritual, in particular provides a way for us to structure our grief and the ambiguity that surrounds any loss. Ritual also provides ways to think about the unthinkable and connect it to the narrative of a life. As ministers, we are extremely fortunate to have the opportunity to help make these connections in a way that very few people or institutions can do.

Today's Advance Care Planning session gave us some skills to practice in getting people to think about, and plan  for, their deaths. Such planning, while stressful, can be a real gift to individuals and their families when it comes time for some difficult end-of-life decisions. The palliative care physicians who led the class today were very impressive in their candor and in their remarkable dedication to providing care for terminal patients and their families. There are so many people in the world who do such good, hard work, and it is a real privilege to get to know some of them.

Attending to Cracks in the Universe

I'm enjoying and learning a lot from Susi Pangerl's "Introduction to Pastoral Ministry," the last course she will teach at Meadville. She is an extraordinary teacher and will be sorely missed.

There are a number of striking images that she employs to describe the process of pastoral care. One that especially stands out is that of cracks in the universe. When such cracks open up is when we, as givers of pastoral care, come into play. Most of the time, people are able to make meaning of their lives and of the world. But when that ability is compromised, when trauma or something else gets in the way of this meaning-making ability, people need some help.

And the help that's needed most often comes in the form of a living, breathing person who can walk or stand with the person whose world is shattered as we, together, reconstruct meaning. The process involves working with trauma, which can be defined as the inability to tell one's own story, in such a way that it becomes a part of that story.

It occurs to me that what's involved in this process is also what's involved in the best poetry: taking that which keeps us from seeing clearly and incorporating it into something larger that allows us to spiral outward and upward toward a kind of understanding that would not have been possible otherwise.

People are really amazing in their ability to right themselves after being knocked over by the awfulness of life. But most of us need someone next to us while we work our way toward a new center of balance. Fortunately, some of us are willing to step forward to be that someone. We bless each other when we are able to recognize, together, not just the brokenness, but also the light, that is revealed through the cracks in our shattered world.

Meanwhile, back in Chicago . . .

I'm back in Chicago and staying in the same apartment I stayed in during January intensive classes. Once again, I felt a need to spruce things up a bit, so I bought these flowers even before I unpacked.

I am looking forward to this week's course, Introduction to Pastoral Ministry, taught by Susi Pangerl. The assignments, which I've almost completely finished, have been challenging as they require a lot of deep digging into one's personal experience of difficult emotions, including shame and grief and loss. So it's hard, but I know that when we're actually engage in pastoral ministry its difficult to know how much of what we perceive is our baggage and how much is the other person's.

I'm very excited about seeing my classmates again, all of whom are such great people.

Waiting with the Quakers

Last week, I traveled to Pendle Hill, a Quaker retreat center near Philadelphia, to interview with the Unitarian Universalist Association's South/East Regional Sub-Committee on Candidacy (SERSCC). I am so happy that the interviews were held in this lovely, peaceful setting instead of in some generic hotel conference room. I decided to make a weekend of it, staying 3 nights and attending daily morning and evening worship services.

Photo by Tisha Moore

I'd not attended a Quaker meeting before, and, although I knew some basics about Quakerism, I never really understood unprogrammed corporate worship until experiencing it in person. There's something very moving about non-directed shared silence. As I sat with the others, I became aware that, although I had no idea what particulars were running through everyone's minds, we were really sharing something quite special.

In fact, it's only in shared silence that we achieve anything like perfect understanding--because the moment we open our mouths is when misunderstanding begins. So, at least for the time while we sit quietly together, there is an absolute absence of misinterpretation, an absence of misconstruance, miscommunication and inattention. In their place is, instead, an abundance of possibility and a sense of waiting patiently for something important.

What that "something" might be is so difficult to articulate that perhaps only silence can do it justice. God? Peace? Love? Yes, all those and more. But how much more profoundly these things are expressed in shared silence than in thousands of pages of theological ramblings. And how much more bonding a time of quiet can be than mere chatter. Half an hour of silent communal discernment can accomplish so much more, I think, than many hours of heated debate.

There's a very appealing intimacy about this particular kind of group-oriented direct experience of the divine. In the absence of anything explicitly stated, what we seem to be waiting for is whatever happens. And what else is there for us to revere but this moment and the next? For this moment is the container that holds all of life like a gentle, giant hand. In it, we are supported, caressed, held close.

I am grateful for the good people at Pendle Hill, who were kind enough to include us in their circle, holding us in the light and love of the moment.