A prayer before CPE

Eternal One,

Tomorrow I begin Clinical Pastoral Education.

I trust the students going through the program with me.

I know most of them well. 

I will know them better.

There has been nothing to set off warnings within me about the pastoral care department.

I've found them to be wonderful people--professional, caring, and observant.

Everyone I know who has gone through the program has told me that it will be the most difficult and rewarding thing I will do in my time in seminary.

I believe them.

The benefits seem obvious.

The next two days are orientations, and may be the easiest days of the program.

Then the hard part begins.

The tragedies and the joys.

The banality and the poignancy.

The uncertainties of life and finalities of death (at least, until the coming of the Kingdom).

The little sliver of white, the little sliver of black, and the whole spectrum of grey in between.

The loss of control over one's life; mine or my patients'.

The illusion I ever could count on such a thing as control.

The presumption that I can offer such a thing to others.

Oh.

That presumption.

That is what is keeping me up tonight, God.

That is why I needed to write when I should be asleep.

I like tidy.

This job will not be tidy.

I like peace.

There will be drama.

I like being knowledgeable.

I will never know everything.

I think I can accept all of this.

But it does not feel possible to accept it right this second.

This divide scares me.

But it is not the only division.

Someone once wisely observed that I am so afraid of doing harm to another person's spirituality that I envision the Holy Spirit between the other person and me.

Not as a help to me; but a shield for them.

But when I keep you out there in front of me, God, I cannot hear you.

Another cacophany takes over.

My doubts.  My "fixes."  My natural inclination to push away rather than to embrace.

My harsh, harsh internal critic holds court. Prosecutes me. Defends me. Convicts me. Acquits me. Sentences me.  And, very rarely, pardons me. 

The obvious then presents itself. 

Of course I'm not supposed to do this without You. 

Of course I will trust You. 

Of course You will forgive me.

Of course You and the world will challenge me.

I signed up for this.

(...Or did You sign me up for this?  I think we know the answer to that one.) 

O God, make speed to save us; 

O Lord, make haste to help us.

Two years ago, over the course of a week, I stood in front of a hospital door and recited these lines.

There was no way of knowing what the "perfect" resolution would be.

There was no way of knowing what I would be called upon to do in the course of the day. 

This was my most honest prayer.

It is still my most honest prayer.  Isn't it, God?

Is this Your point?

I don't know what perfection looks like, so why ask for it, expect it, or worse yet seek to create it?

     It's presumption.

My life is mine to live and I cannot live the life of another, so my answers are not theirs?

     It's presumption.

The point is that it isn't me.  It is You.

     Any otherwise, and it's presumption.

I'm the flesh in the room, meeting the other flesh in the room.  

But I'm not the Creator.  

But I don't make normalcy.

But I can't heal cancer.

Maybe, just maybe, the best I can hope for is to be a midwife and to prepare the space for Your new creation and Your comfort.  May I not forget that You dwell in me, and I in You...and You in everyone else.

God, be present.  Keep me mindful of Your purpose and to hear Your murmurings.

Christ, be present.  Keep me mindful of Your incarnation,Your knowledge of our painful existence, and the remedies thereof.

Spirit, be present.  Keep me mindful that I've always done better to acknowledge and hold  You within me than push You out as a defense mechanism.

In the name of the undivided Trinity, Amen.