Grit to Gift

Grit to gift

Strange how grit

should turn to gift,

and yet,

it is so.

Some resurrections

are slow:

not easily won

but worked

from difficult stone.

Can it be I come to love

the taste of bitterness? -- 

the sharp, sweet smell

of the real,

against which

piety fails.

--Katherine Charnley

I have just finished eleven weeks of work as a chaplain in a trauma hospital, and it was not enough.

It is strange to say this about a job that required me to work upwards of sixty hours per week, stranger still when that job required me to work for twenty-four hours straight once each week. It borders on insanity to say this about a job that demanded the emotional equivalent of marathon endurance as I moved from a death to a trauma to an emergency baptism to a new cancer diagnosis, all within a few hours. To miss this job when it came hand-in-hand with the heavy emotional work of self-reflection -- forcing me to face the parts of myself I'd sooner ignore -- is truly madness. But there it is: eleven weeks of chaplaincy in a level I trauma hospital were not enough for me.

I took a second unit of clinical pastoral education (CPE) this summer in order to test myself, to see if I might (or might not) really be called to chaplaincy as a part of my pastoral vocation. During the eleven short weeks of the intensive CPE internship, the hospital threw nearly every possible crisis my way, as I knew it would. It is impossible to describe everything I saw and did: some of it is too tender to repeat to those unprepared to hear it, and every call was filled with the intimacy and delicacy of sacred space. In brief, I was called to serve as part of the trauma team on call, where I saw the bloody and grief-filled aftermath of accidents and crimes; to support families as they chose to remove life support from their loved ones; to help the ill and dying say goodbye to those they loved; to baptize and name critically ill babies; to walk the long journey of stem cell transplants with leukemia patients; to bear witness to the stories of those with sickle cell anemia; to embrace many people as they wept; to offer blessing after blessing after blessing in a hospital where the balance of life and death seems deeply unfair much more often than it seems just.

Yet amid all of this, I consider myself abundantly blessed.

Katherine Charnley's poem "Grit to gift" helped to orient me for the past weeks. The blessing of hospital chaplaincy is not easily won at all. I can remember a particularly difficult afternoon on call when I returned to the office feeling like the hospital was so rough and unfair that it was the emotional equivalent of sandpaper, removing the top layer of my skin. Yet to offer care in such a place as a hospital is to be deeply in touch with the real, to encounter God's baffling presence at the heart of grief and suffering. For now, I find that I encounter God and the Holy with more immediacy and power as a hospital chaplain than I do anywhere else. The hospital is my sanctuary, "the sharp, sweet smell/of the real/against which/piety fails," even when the only odors in the air are blood and antiseptic and grief.

As the difficulty of the grit continues to transform into gift, I am able to say that I would repeat these eleven weeks of chaplaincy in a trauma hospital in a heartbeat -- and mean it with my whole self.

She Restores My Soul

Today is called "Good Shepherd Sunday" in some churches; according to the lectionary, the twenty-third psalm is among the readings for the day.

We sing this gorgeous setting by Bobby McFerrin at Wednesday sung morning prayer at Yale Divinity School, calling upon God our Mother as our good shepherd. I love affirming God as a female presence -- it can feel like a relief amid the flurry of masculine depictions of the Holy One; soul-restoring, even.

Glory be to our Mother and Daughter and to the Holy of Holies...

Parable

Written as one reflection among many upon hospice and palliative care chaplaincy.

Leaving work, I stop to take a photo of roses in the evening sun.

It is mid-October, yet the hospital gardens are still blooming, and I am amazed.

I bend closer, frame the shot, focus, shoot: only once.

On the bus ride home, I can’t stop looking at the photo of the roses,

perfection in a single lucky shot.

Their petals, full of light, are a microcosm of the hospital,

each organic fold a room I entered today.

The brightest is V---’s, the sun streaming in, and he is beaming up at me,

glad to be recovering from chemo in full-bodied light.

The sun slants across the other side of the bloom and I am with A---’s wife,

now nearing the end of the second week of her vigil

and napping at his bedside as the sun touches the blinds.

Shade lends a blue tinge to the lowest petals and I am holding C---’s hand gently,

my other arm around his daughter in the ICU, full of cool daylight;

this man who taught me how to glow with gratitude now dying

as we pray together, grappling with our farewells.

Oh, roses, roses, when the sun touches you, you are lit from within,

even in this fragile season.

Does this radiant work not do the same to me?

Is there awe in my face, and an inner glow,

light reflected and absorbed?

Faithful Thomas

I preached this sermon at St. Paul Lutheran Church in Old Saybrook, CT on April 15, 2012, the  first Sunday after Easter. The Gospel reading for the day was John 20:19-31, the story of "doubting Thomas."

If you were in worship last Sunday, here or elsewhere,

you might remember the reading from the gospel of Mark.

If you don’t, here’s a review:

finding the tomb empty,

the women who had come to anoint Jesus’ body early in the morning

fled in shock,

telling no one what had happened to them.

The limitless joy of Easter Sunday

only lasts for a little while.

In the four different gospel accounts,

Jesus’ followers are amazed by the resurrection, to be sure,

but they also come back down to earth,

asking Jesus and one another:

what next?

This Sunday, we ask the same questions with them,

and we begin with the story of the person

sometimes called “Doubting Thomas”

in the gospel of John.

Yes, I know we just read the gospel,

but please imagine the story with me once more:

Jesus’ eleven remaining disciples,

reduced to ten because of Thomas’s absence,

huddle together in a small dark room,

doors and windows barred tightly.

They speak in hushed voices,

hoping their presence will go unnoticed.

The air is thick with fear, and for good reason:

will the mob that set their beloved teacher’s death in motion overnight

turn on them as well?

Peter is there;

he felt the threat firsthand,

and he knew the pain of choosing his answer carefully

on that horrible night just three days ago

when he was interrogated—

not once, not twice, but three times—

whether he was one of Jesus’ followers.

The disciples keep quiet in the locked room,

barely breathing.

In the shadows, they look like a group of immigrant workers

praying that an ICE raid in the neighborhood will pass them by;

they look like Afghan civilians

fearing that the midnight bombings

will mistakenly strike their home.

All at once, Jesus is in the room,

despite the barred doors and shuttered windows.

On a night full of fear and devoid of safety,

Jesus bears words of peace and blessing and freedom.

In defiance of fear’s paralysis,

Jesus moves freely.

But Thomas isn’t there to meet him.

He is not out on an evening stroll:

it would have taken something urgent

to tear him away from the tenuous safety

of the little locked room.

Maybe it has fallen to him to brave the hostile streets

to find food for the tiny collection of leaderless disciples.

What was it like when you returned, Thomas,

when you found your friends talking about Jesus’ visit?

Did you wonder what had gotten into them?

Was the constant state of fear

exacting its heavy psychological consequences on your companions,

the people with whom you were supposed to be safe

now suffering from a strange delusion?

And what was the heartbreak like,

to hear your friends speak of a living Jesus

when they had not even begun to recover

from the trauma of witnessing his death?

Fast forward one week.

Thomas is present this time,

unable to leave his friends:

maybe he is worried sick about them,

unwilling to leave them on their own;

maybe he is angry at their adherence to their delusion

and is determined to force the absurdity of their words

to wrestle with the massive weight of his own grief.

But here is Jesus again: wounded and whole.

Thomas is stunned.

He asks no more questions.

This, then, is the story the gospel narrates today:

a tale of dark rooms both metaphorical and physical,

full of fear,

opened by the only One

who can roll away the heavy stone of grief.

“Doubting Thomas,”

our religious heritage calls Thomas in this story,

as if Thomas is somehow flawed

because he did not believe immediately

in the resurrection that everyone had seen but him.

Tradition uses Thomas as a negative model of the spiritual life:

we really shouldn’t have to ask to see Jesus’ wounds

in order to believe,

should we?

Instead of being doubting Thomases,

we’re supposed to be faithful disciples,

the ones who receive Jesus’ blessing and breath and commission

just by believing in it—

and if belief is a stretch for us, we must be doing it wrong.

Except…

this is not how the life of faith works at all.

Instead, the path through a life of faith

is strange and twisting,

full of doubts and questions.

I cannot pretend to be an expert,

but I know that every single person

to whom I’ve ever offered care as a minister,

in the parish, in the university, and at hospital bedsides,

has experienced the same challenges to their faith

that Thomas has;

everyone asks hard questions

about what we are supposed to believe as “truth,”

just like Thomas.

But through the fear and grief,

Thomas stayed with his companions,

asking questions,

wrestling with what he did not understand,

until he too

saw the wounded and risen Christ.

Doubting Thomas needs a new name:

let’s call him Faithful Thomas.

Thomas is faithful because he endures an entire week

of crippling grief and doubt

before Jesus’ second appearance.

When you are reeling in the aftermath of shock and tragedy,

a week is a long time.

Do you remember

how long the week following the 9/11 terrorist attacks felt

as you struggled to recalibrate your understanding

of the entire world around you?

Have you spent even one week

locked in the dark room of grief,

waking up every morning

to find your doors and windows barred,

the pain of reality aching in your heart every day?

Have you lived in the shadow of clinical depression,

when each day feels so long,

when you just don’t know how you’ll make it to the evening—

and as you fall asleep at last,

you can’t imagine managing one more day tomorrow?

Faithful Thomas spent a long and heavy week

balancing his own deep grief

and fear for his safety

against the strange words of his companions.

He could have fled, of course,

trying to outrun the threat and the pain,

but he made the courageous decision to remain,

with no expectation

that the risen Christ would appear to him as well.

Things are not so different

in church communities like our own.

We pray prayers, sing songs,

and even confess the core of our faith in a unison creed,

but in worship, we pray and sing as the people we hope to be,

not always as the people we are.

To walk into a church filled with alleluias

when there is no alleluia in your own heart,

when you don’t understand where Christ can possibly be in your life,

is more common than you might think,

and it takes courage to return.

Doubt is no sin; instead, it is a sign of deep faith—

to come here even once

and to wrestle with the strange questions of our Christian tradition.

It is the other side of the bright coin of the life of faith,

always spinning in the air.

When we ask difficult questions,

we deepen our faith

and our relationships with one another.

We are faithful Thomases, all of us.

There are many questions to ask, of course.

What does it mean that Jesus is present with us when we gather?

Why does it matter that we worship God at all

when God’s deepest call for us is service to others?

Where is God in our lives?

Where is God calling us to next?

Other questions are more painful:

four weeks ago in hospice,

a family member asked me,

“Why is God taking all the good people away?”

It is good and right to wrestle with these things.

They are not roadblocks God puts in the way to test our faith

but rather the fiber of which life is woven—

sometimes soft and delicate,

sometimes too coarse to wear against our tender skin.

Like faithful Thomas,

we continue gathering in community

and wandering along the rocky road of faith,

even if we’re not always convinced of the so-called “good news”

falling from our companions’ lips,

even if we’re sometimes unsure

if we have ever felt God’s presence

or seen the risen Christ.

It is an act of love and faith

to struggle and to remain,

to ask difficult questions in a community that will not be ruptured by them.

Even when we grapple with what we do not understand,

Christ our wounded healer returns to meet us,

again and again,

inviting us to touch the marks of his crucifixion

if that is what we need.

So do not stop asking questions, my sisters and brothers.

Do not blame yourselves

if it is not yet Easter in your heart.

Wrestle with what challenges you.

Face change, engage with difficult questions,

and imagine the future together—

for in doing so, you are as faithful as Thomas,

and when you least expect it,

you will meet the One

who will grant you peace beyond understanding,

the One whose wounds grant you wholeness.