I walked onto the unit looking for a man who had attended one of my recent growth groups. It was a long, open unit with ample gathering space for small groupings of patients. “Brad” had put in a request for a “spiritual consult.” In other words, he had requested a visit from one of the chaplains. I spotted him at a table with a couple of other patients. He was a tough-looking guy and was regaling the others with his stories. They were captivated by him. There is a delicate discernment process to know when to break into a conversation and when to wait. His spiritual consult request constituted a request for care at the mental health hospital so, just as a physician would pull a patient out of an activity for a consult, I would do the same.
As I approached the table, my CHAPLAIN badge in full view, he stopped talking and the three of them looked at me. I gave him an out by saying, “You asked for a conversation with a chaplain. Is now OK or would you like me to come back later?” He appeared embarrassed, looking from me and back at his friends. With a shrug, he said, “I guess now would be OK.” He assured the table mates he would be back soon and we headed to an area of the unit that offered a modicum of privacy.
As we walked together he backpedaled, stating, “I’m not sure why I asked to see a chaplain. I’m not really that religious.” We found a place with two chairs facing each other at an angle. I asked him how he was feeling about his time at the psych hospital. He gave vague and positive answers and then began to get into some of the details that landed him there. His addiction put his relationship with his partner in peril. She demanded that he seek treatment or she would move out. He had two small children that he loved dearly and knew he needed to change for them. He yearned to be a better father and provider for their needs. He spoke of his failings and all that the addiction cost him. While he had requested a “spiritual consult”, he didn’t go near the topic of spirituality. I listened and responded to his story, allowing him to identify the dominant feelings in his life.
After twenty minutes of emotional sharing, he paused. With eyes fixed on the floor, he asked, “I wonder if you would be willing to say a prayer?”
The not-very-religious man who downplayed his request for a spiritual conversation needed a conversation with God. He didn’t know how to initiate that conversation himself so he entrusted that to me, an ordained minister who was “professionally trained” to carry on a dialogue with the Divine. I told him I would be glad to offer a prayer. He bowed his head and I prayed over him and the circumstances in his life he had so vulnerably shared. As I closed with an “Amen.”, he wiped the tears from his face with his sleeve and choked out a thank-you. He got up and stumbled toward his room, unable to contain his emotions.
I was grateful for that spiritual consult. He was one of the many patients who taught me that meeting people in their own space and listening to their story could open them up to a healing spiritual encounter. Having been in parish ministry for over 30 years, I was accustomed to meeting with people who had chosen to come to the church and who, therefore, acknowledged that they were on some sort of a faith journey. In the institutional setting I could make no such assumption. My role was to listen empathically so that the patient would find healing in the affirmation given them. I heard so many stories of trauma and abuse and was always moved by their courage to keep moving forward. I was deeply humbled that they would invite me into their most vulnerable moments. I introduced spirituality into the conversation when they seemed to welcome it—and sometimes when they didn’t. I learned that spiritual angst was often a central component of their mental health struggle and that opening up to God in prayer was accepted far more often than I—or they—would have imagined.
The transition from parish ministry to chaplaincy has necessitated theological stretching on my part. Even in an institution with “Christian” in its name, I could make no assumption about the other person’s foundational beliefs. On one of my units, the lead physician was Muslim. He welcomed chaplains’ participation in our daily team meetings, inviting an opening meditation and prayer. I prayed to the God who unites us from several different faith groups. I prayed to the God that some around that table did not believe in, evidenced by their shuffling papers during my brief prayer. Others wished that the Christian God of their own faith tradition was affirmed more fully. I learned in the setting of the mental health hospital and, presently, in hospice care that the saying attributed to St Francis serves me well: Preach the Gospel at all times. When necessary, use words.
In 2 Kings 5, we jump back more than 2500 years to find a story of two men stretching beyond their cultural boundaries to connect. Elisha was one of the most revered prophets of the ancient Hebrew people. Naaman was a commander of the Syrian army, responsible for a battalion of soldiers. His name translates to mean “pleasantness,” an attribute not particularly evident in this narrative! One man was esteemed for his military prowess, the other for his spiritual insight. One was Jewish, one was gentile. One derived his power from human authority, the other from the anointing of God. What about the servant girl? She was a lowly female slave advising a powerful male slave owner. She was Hebrew, he was Gentile. Her livelihood depended on his support. An important factor is to notice that Naaman suffered from leprosy, a disease that normally led to social isolation and castigation. It was highly unusual that a man with leprosy would be given the power Naaman was. Not surprisingly, he was desperate for a cure, desperate enough to listen to his slave girl and embark on a journey. As the story stretches beyond the cited passage, we meet a servant employed by Elisha. His name was Gehazi. How significant that he was named whereas the servant girl was not.
Naaman was incensed that the heralded Hebrew holy man couldn’t be bothered to come out of his home to greet him. Elisha simply sent word through a messenger who directed the military man to travel a bit further to the Jordan River where he was to fully immerse himself seven times. Known as a muddy river, Naaman was insulted. Imagine the courage it took for his servant to suggest to his Brigadier General boss that maybe he should stretch beyond the confines of his particularities and do what the absentee prophet directed! There must have been a trust between them—or his servants were able to remind Naaman of his desperation because he went, he dipped and was healed.
There are so many points in this story where cultural understanding would have brought an abrupt halt to the interactions. Maybe choices are being asked of us through this text? Will we spend our day in prayer, like Elisha or developing a battle plan, like Naaman? Will we stand with the disenfranchised or demand places of honor at banquets that honor the accomplishments of our esteemed colleagues? Do we embrace our faith tradition or that of our neighbor? Are we sick or are we well? God is present throughout this pilgrimage that brings healing to more than just Naaman, the Syrian Commander. When God is at work, healing is doled out extravagantly.
So maybe we don’t have to choose sides, a radical thought given our clanish nature. Maybe there is wisdom in the conjoined conjunction developed in the mid-19th century: and/or. Normally “or” can be exclusive, forcing choices between two options. And/or is a grammatical conjunction used to indicate that one or more of the cases it connects may occur. The “or” is understood to be inclusive. An And/Or approach to living requires more listening, more loving, a greater willingness to get off our high horse, like Naaman finally did so that he could dip his fragile flesh into a dirty river. And/Or is willing to believe that I might be enriched by the perspective of another because of our differences. Interestingly, this conjunction has been criticized as being ugly in style and ambiguous in legal documents. Many grammar gurus recommend against it. How ironic that the use of this conjoined conjunction that broadens inclusivity is controversial for some grammarians!
I hosted a trip to the Holy Lands in 2016. Our guides gave us equal exposure to the Jewish and Palestinian populations, each residing in their walled-off territories. Israeli police were everywhere, holding their guns casually to remind us that they were ready and willing to use them. We were there during the Jewish celebration of Sukkot, the Festival of Booths, that praises God for the harvest. It seems intentional that Hamas attacked Israel on the last day of Sukkot this year, bringing a violent end to the Jews’ usual celebration. On our visit, Israel proclaimed a 7-day holiday to honor this Sukkot, unexpectedly closing the borders between the Palestinian and Jewish territories. One of our evening presentations had to be canceled as it was a dialogue between men of the two dominant faith groups. With the borders suddenly closed, the Palestinian man could not cross the heavily-armed gate to our hotel which was on Jewish turf. We were disappointed.
Two days later, our group traveled into Bethlehem. Tour buses are allowed to travel much more freely than the two separated faith groups. Bethlehem is in Palestinian territory. We returned to our spacious bus after visiting some shops and our guide announced that our canceled presentation would happen–now—on the bus! We were introduced to two fathers who, years earlier in separate incidents, had each lost a young daughter in the regional violence. One father was Palestinian, the other Israeli. Since we were in Palestinian territory, the Muslim father was able to join us. The laws are more lenient toward the Jews so the Jewish father was permitted to travel through the guarded check points to speak to us. We sat quietly in our seats, eager to hear their stories.
They took turns recounting the heartbreak of learning that their child had been killed from gun violence while going about her normal daily activity. Heartbreak fueled their hatred toward the enemy and they each fixated on revenge. This emotion consumed and exhausted them. Each learned of a support group that gathered parents who lost children in the regional conflict. ANY parent, regardless of faith or neighborhood, was welcomed. What a crazy notion to bring enemies into the same room to vulnerably speak of their unfathomable loss. Wearied from their unrequited desire for vengeance, each separately chose to go to this group. The Jewish father said he had never sat in the same room with a Palestinian before. Out of this uncomfortable setting, an unlikely friendship was forged. As they told us their story, their banter between each other was friendly. They made good-natured jokes about the other. We marveled at the warmth these dear friends shared, men whose sorrow led them to stretch beyond generational hatred. They now speak to groups of the surprising source of their healing. We listened with rapt attention in this long, narrow amphitheater otherwise known as our tour bus. So much of what we witnessed in those eleven days saddened and distressed us. This rescheduled presentation was a highlight for each of us. We were all moved to tears at times because of the hope these bereft fathers radiated. They had finally found healing from the least likely source: the loving presence of their enemy.
In John’s vision from Revelation 21, a promise is made of a new creation where God dwells in the very center of our lives. The One on the throne removes the sorrow and death of earthly life and replaces it with glory. John obediently wrote down the details of the revelation in this passage that we frequently read at funerals: “Behold, I make all things new…” Notice that God does not promise to make new things, which is bad news for merchants and amazon delivery services! Existing things are replenished, remodeled, repurposed, rebuilt to meet our deepest needs. The present power structures that tear at our hearts—whether personally or while watching wrenching images from far-away places—will be left at the gates of this heavenly city so that tears, sighing, sorrow and death no longer threaten us.
Is this promise only available in the afterlife? Are we without hope for healing while in these fleshy bodies? Or can we invite the God of Jesus Christ to help us stretch beyond our human prejudices so that we can be the answer to someone else’s prayer? Looking in on our national politics, this would seem impossible. Broadening our scope, we feel guilty about our relative safety when seeing images of the horrific violence in the Ukraine/Russia and Middle Eastern wars. We wrestle with a feeling of helplessness that easily leads to despair.
We know from the story of Naaman and the entire Book of Acts that the Holy Spirit can unleash a power that catapults us into actively loving the very people we have wanted to hate. The Spirit unites us with those very different from ourselves if we are willing to meet them where they are. We don’t merely meet them in the middle. We listen intently to them so that we can love them for the person they are while anchoring ourselves more firmly in our own expression of the faith. Can we remove the blinders to stretch beyond our favorite rivalries and hatreds? Can we listen to someone’s story with empathy and not judgment? Can we love our neighbor as we love ourselves? I fervently pray so!
Preaching Life 