Outside the Women's Hospital

A woman who is holding a teddy bear sits in a wheelchair in front of the hospital waiting for her ride home. About 10 feet away from her sits another woman in a wheelchair, also waiting for a ride home, but this one is holding a newborn baby.

In our hospital, women who lose a child—either through stillbirth or infant death—are given a teddy bear. The bear is not in any way intended to take the place of the baby, but rather is something to hold, something to serve as a small comfort in a time of great pain. It is also a reminder that their loss is real.

The woman with the bear glances at the woman with the baby, and I see tears form in her tired-looking eyes. I step over to her and say, “My name’s Jim. I’m a hospital chaplain. May I wait with you?” She nods.

I kneel beside her and take her hand while, with her other hand, she still clutches her bear tightly. We weep together in silence for about five minutes until her husband appears with their car, in which I see a very new and very empty baby seat.

As I help her to the car, the woman squeezes my hand and says, “Thank you.” I turn to go back inside, and I notice the woman with the baby still waiting for her ride. But now she is crying, too. She says, “Did I hear you say you were a chaplain?” When I answer “yes,” she asks, “Would you say a blessing for my daughter?”

“Of course." I hold the woman’s hand and place my other hand on the sleeping baby’s beautifully round, soft, bald head.

“Spirit of life and love, we give thanks today for this child. May she be happy and healthy and a blessing to all who know her. We do not understand the great mystery from which each of us emerges and to which each of us returns. But we pray that, while we are here together, we might all be angels for each other, bringers of peace and grace and love. Bless this child, bless this family and bless all who know joy and all who know suffering. This we pray now and always. Amen.”

CPE: What To Do When Everything Is a Crisis

For my clinical pastoral education, I am serving as a chaplain in a hospital that is a major trauma center, which means that ours is a crisis-driven department of pastoral care. As chaplains, we prioritize our calls as follows: (1) deaths; (2) traumas; (3) codes (generally called when someone’s heart or breathing stops); (4) urgent support; and (5) routine support.

During nights and weekends, when there is only one chaplain to cover the entire hospital complex (some 800 beds), we rarely have time to do anything but respond to deaths, traumas and codes. At these times, literally everything with which we are dealing is a crisis.

And what are we charged with doing during crises? Several things:

1. Be the calmest person in the room. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say *seem to be* the calmest person in the room. Simply having an apparently non-anxious presence can be a real gift to people in the middle of a situation that is wholly and madly chaotic. Being such a calm presence is certainly easier said than done, of course—especially when there is so much screaming of orders on the part of the medical staff and wailing pain and grief on the part of patients and their families. Still, I have found that at least the pretense of a calm demeanor is actually possible in most cases, and it gets easier as one gains experience in these situations.

2. Serve and advocate on behalf of patients and their families. In our trauma bays, chaplains are the ones who draw the privacy curtains, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity for those who are laid out on the examination table, often bruised and bleeding, with their clothes cut from their bodies. And we are the ones who often remind medical staff that there are family members in the waiting room who need to know what is going on with their loved one. And we are the ones who fetch the doctor when the answers they have given to family members are confusing, misleading or incomplete. We are the ones who take the family from the emergency waiting area to the intensive care unit, who show them where the restrooms and cafeteria are, who ask them if there’s anyone else who needs to be called.

3. Pray when requested and as needed. I’ve had to learn how to pray with people as I never have before. As chaplains, we are asked to pray in nearly every imaginable situation in the hospital—at births, deaths, just before surgeries, at times of great despair and loneliness, at times of confusion and misunderstanding, at the times when life-and-death decisions are being made, and—every now and then—at times of joy. I have changed from being a person who almost never prays (unless you count the many times I’ve said, “Please, God!” sotto voce over the years) to being a person who is praying all the time—both at the hospital and when I’m away from the hospital.

So, during on-call shifts (and much of the rest of the time) we get to see a lot of blood, raw pain, unedited grief and, occasionally, astonishing moments of grace. These last moments often come about only after hanging in there through all the other stuff.

There’s a reason why these “crisis shifts” at major trauma centers are mostly staffed by intern and resident chaplains who are serving for fixed periods of time. The intensity of the experience can be a source of awe and can also be thoroughly exhausting. Over time, such work takes its toll, even if one is the best self-nurturer in the world. As for me, I am grateful for my CPE experience and for the work of the many people who minister to those who are in the midst of crisis.

CPE: Learning by Leaping

The other day, I had another one of those moments where I found myself thinking: "If you'd told me a few years ago that I would be doing this, I would have said, 'No way.'"

In this case, I was standing in a hospital room surrounded by a large Spanish-speaking family, holding in my arms a beautiful, dead infant girl, whom I was anointing and blessing. The child's mother lay across the hall in the surgical intensive care unit, very near death herself after a terrible car wreck that occurred as the family was on their way to the hospital to deliver the baby.

In that room, at that moment, there was immense, raw pain. The pain of hopes dashed, loved ones lost, dreams shattered. And there was love.

I had hoped that I might get through my summer of Clinical Pastoral Education (CPE), without having to deal with an infant death. But there I was, and there was the baby who died before she could be born, and there was the family, seeping pure grief from every pore.

With the help of an interpreter, I spoke with the family for a while. But, aside from the anointing and blessing, I had little to offer to these people other than my presence. I have no idea if my being there was any help or not, but I do know that I felt privileged to have been a witness to this moment of stunning sorrow.

As awful as this scene was, it was also a great gift to have been allowed to be with these people at this time. And there was no doubt in my mind that this moment was holy. At least for a little while, their great sadness was also mine, and together we lifted up what was lost, blessing all that might have been and all that has come to pass.

Singing the Names of God

To mark my 50th birthday, I made a pilgrimage to the Satchidananda Ashram-Yogaville in Virginia to sing with Krishna Das, who is a leading voice in the world of devotional chanting. His call-and-response songs are based on traditional Hindu kirtan but often with new melodies and new instrumentation. KD accompanies himself on harmonium (a small reed organ with hand-pumped bellows), and his band includes a violinist, two hand drummers, electric bassist, and finger cymbalist.

The evening began with a video of the ashram’s founder, Swami Satchidananda (who died in 2002) talking about the nature of sound and how it relates to yoga and meditation. He put forth the idea that sound is the highest or most refined form of matter. And the sound that one reaches toward is a universal hum: Om, Amen, Amin are all expressions of this same hum. The most basic and the most difficult to attain essence comes down to this hum.

He also talked about the Ramayana, the great epic Hindu poem, and how Ram (an incarnation of the supreme being Vishnu) had to wait for a bridge to be built to go across the sea to rescue his partner Sita, while Hanuman, the monkey-man companion of Ram, simply chanted the name of Ram and flew across the water. Swami-ji asked: So which is more powerful: Ram or the name of Ram?

In the introduction to one of his songs (My Foolish Heart/Bhaja Govinda), Krishna Das told the story of the aging Sanskrit scholar who was told by the Indian saint Adi Shankaracharya, “Bhaja Govinda,” meaning “Sing the names of God.” In other words, this man did not have long to live and better get busy with what really matters, rather than mere rote learning.

In fact, we all better get busy singing the names of God. And what are the names of God in our own lives and in our own experience? In his popular book about end-of-life issues, Ira Byock talks about “The Four Things That Matter Most.” They are: “Please forgive me.” “I forgive you.” “Thank you.” and “I love you.”

I would like to suggest that when we give voice to those four things, we are “singing the names of God.”

When we forgive ourselves we are on the path of compassion. When we forgive others, we are moving that compassion outward and extending mercy. “Thank you” is a prayer and perhaps the best expression of gratitude. And to say “I love you” is to impart that which is most important—the love that will not let us go and that, when shared, is the love that holds each of us in it.

Compassion, mercy, gratitude, love. We need to give form and voice to them all of our days. And then our lives may become a part of the great song that connects all to all. May it be so!

Om. Amen. Amin.

What have I learned in my first year of divinity school?

To Prophesy and To Praise

As we wrap up our community studies class, we've been making connections between brokenness and worship. What do we do as ministers to address what is broken in the world while holding up that which is praiseworthy? Is there really any difference or distinction between what's broken and what's worthy of praise?

Mary Oliver, in a recent O interview with Maria Shriver, says something interesting about being a "praise poet":

Mary Oliver: I like to think of myself as a praise poet.
Maria Shriver: What does that mean?

MO: That I acknowledge my feeling and gratitude for life by praising the world and whoever made all these things . . . Wendell Berry is a wonderful poet, and he talks about this coming devastation a great deal. I just happen to think you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. So I try to do more of the "Have you noticed this wonderful thing? Do you remember this?"

MS: You try to praise.

MO: Yes, I try to praise.

So, on one hand, we have Wendell Berry as the prophet/poet who holds up a mirror in which we see the havoc unfolding on our planet. And, on the other hand, we have Mary Oliver as the praise poet who holds up a mirror in which we see the beauty that is manifest in the world. In some ways, of course, this dichotomy is false. Certainly, Berry has praised and still praises, and Oliver has pointed out brokenness in small and large ways.

But I want us to remember that, whether we are prophesying or praising, we are still holding up the same mirror. In it, you can see both the beautiful and the broken. In fact, you cannot see the beautiful without seeing the broken. And you cannot address the brokenness until you have started to appreciate the beauty of everything--whole, broken, remembered, suddenly realized, healed, rent and scattered.

All of it praiseworthy and all of it broken. All of it made holy by the sacred "and" that allows us to hold apparently disparate visions simultaneously.

The world is additive. Reductive logic works in small ways for small tasks, but it does not reflect the nature of the universe.


It's always "and." Again and always "and." The greatest songs of praise emerge from the cracks in the world. And the only chance we have for healing and wholeness is to remember that these songs must be sung.

Intensive Classes as Baptism by Complete Immersion

Since Meadville has migrated to its new educational model, weekly, residential, semester-long classes are a thing of the past--rather like afternoon tea at the parsonage. And in their place are these absolutely crazy things called intensive classes, in which a whole semester's worth of learning is crammed into one week (more or less).

For the typical intensive course at Meadville, you do most of your required reading ahead of time, then attend one week, 6-8 hours each day, of lectures, discussions and various other learning activities. And after that, you have a few weeks to a couple of months to write a paper (or several papers) or produce some other artifact that demonstrates what you have learned.

Just to make things a bit more interesting, you are also doing some intense socializing/bonding with your classmates during the intensive week--oh, and attending whatever other extracurricular activities the school cooks up.

These classes are better than traditional classes because, at least for one week, you have to be pretty much totally invested in the class you are taking. You're forced to eat, breathe and think the material--waking, sleeping and everything in between. This baptism by total immersion in the material ensures that you get soaked to the bone in whatever you are studying.

Traditional classes, by contrast, are more like baptism by aspersion. You do have to show up for a couple of hours every week while a few drops of wisdom are sprinkled about your scalp, but there's no guarantee that you'll remember the experience at all. And memory of the actual experience is key, I think. It's difficult for me to imagine that I will ever forget sitting in a room with my classmates all day, every day for a week and laughing, crying and moaning together as we try to get a handle on whatever it is we are studying/experiencing.

There is value added in the emotional intensity that gets attached to the otherwise somewhat dry intellectual matter. Mixing some sweat and tears with the dust of the intellect results in something sticky that stays with you longer than the kind of learning you experience in a more traditional class.

What's harder about intensive classes is that they are exhausting. They are exhausting for everyone, but especially, I think, for those of us who tend toward introversion and really need a certain amount of alone time in order to process and regain some energy. But such is the life we are called to--a life of daily full immersion.

And for seminarians, it seems entirely appropriate that each class involves a kind of intensity that is something like a religious experience.

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.