CPE: "Are you an Angel?"

I found her sitting in the windowsill outside the chapel door, quietly weeping as I was walking to the chapel office to type up my notes for the day.  People often seemed to halt at the chapel door, as if they were pondering whether they were allowed in.  Were they afraid that God would not welcome them in, or if the people around them would be annoyed by their crying?  people looking indecisive about whether they should be in a holy space tend to push me to make an introduction.

I introduced myself.  She was an older Roman Catholic woman, in her 70's perhaps. She spoke with a fairly thick Italian accent.  Not "Jersey" Italian; Italian Italian--she had emigrated in her teens.  I introduced myself, took her by her hand and arm, and with her permission led her into the chapel and to a pew.  The tears and wails of the faithful should be just as welcome in the presence of God as shouts of joy, laughing, singing, chanting, and praying.

We spoke for 50 minutes.  Actually, she spoke, I did a lot of listening and passing her tissue.  Her husband was in the hospital, and she was facing the decision about whether he went into assisted-living (with money they didn't have) or whether to hire someone to come take care of him (with money they didn't have).  

Should she sell the house?

Was God punishing her and her husband?

At the end of our time together, she said, "You know, I have seen angels twice.  Both times they warned me about something bad, and helped tell me what to do.  I remember what she looked like, it was the same one both times."

"You've been looking for her recently, yeah?"

"Yes, but I haven't seen her yet."

She looked up from her lap to me, "Are you an angel?"  

"No ma'am, I'm human.  But maybe I am one sent."

I didn't tell her, but her question did strike something within me.  

My birthday is October 2nd, 

also known in the Roman Catholic Church 

as the Feast of the Holy Guardian Angels,

which is not a bad set of patrons to have.

CPE: "If you were God, what would you say?"

Over my time at the hospital, I met a few people in spiritual crisis right outside the chapel.  People seemed to halt at the door, as if they were pondering whether they were allowed in.  Were they afraid that God would not welcome them in, or if the people around them would be annoyed by their crying?

  

I walked up to Martin* as he was standing near the door of the chapel.  This was the second day in a row (that week) that I ran into someone near the chapel door.  Martin’s body language suggested indecision as to whether he should enter the chapel or not, which alerts to me spiritual indecision/crisis. People in prayer I tend to leave to prayer; people looking indecisive about whether they should be in a holy space tend to push me to make an introduction.

It was clear that I needed to introduce myself.

"Hi, my name is Robert, I'm a chaplain."  

"Hello, chaplain Robert, My name is Martin and I just need you to listen.  Is there a place we can talk?

We found a place.  Martin was suffering from clinical depression. 

Martin was “depressed, suicidal, and not afraid to die.”  The reason he came to the hospital was because he had another medical condition that was very painful.  As he said, he was “not afraid to die, but afraid of how he would die.”  

He told me of his anger at God because of the death of his sister. 

He told me that he had a significant amount of theological training, none of which mitigated his anger at God.

He later had surgery and was admitted to the psychiatric ward. 

He knew the CPE curriculum; 

He knew my training, and so he knew some of the boundaries of what I may or may not comment on.  There was little pressure for me to perform theologically since his training surpassed mine, and on one occasion he did say that he “didn’t want pat theological answers.”  

I laughed and immediately replied, “Good, because I’m not going to give you any.”  

Martin knew that I was trained to listen, and so I was able to set myself to that task completely. 

But that changed about three weeks later.  I went to visit him on his last day in the ward; he was going to be discharged in an hour after three weeks in the psychiatric ward.

"You know, I’m still angry with God," Martin said.

"Yeah, I figured that wasn’t going to go away anytime soon," I replied, "but it still seems like you are on speaking terms with him."

"Yeah." He fell silent for a few seconds. "I wonder if I would get struck by lightning if I were to walk into the chapel…"

A minute passes.

"Robert, I want you to do something for me..." another pause. "If you were God, and you saw me walk in the chapel, what would you say?"

I chuckled, "Martin, you took CPE! You know that’s a trap of a question!"

"Yes, but please humor me."

The air suddenly weighed twice as much.  There were so many ways an answer could go wrong.  Everything in me told me not to answer that question. 

But for a little twinge.  I realized that it was not that the air changed weight, but a thin space opened; an inbreaking of the Holy had settled. We had God's full attention.

Come, Holy Spirit, I prayed, and gave myself a few seconds.

In the steadiest voice I could muster, the most locked gaze I could conjure, I said, "If I were God, and if I saw you walk into the chapel, I would say, “That’s Martin. He has a chemical imbalance in his brain that is hard to control, and he is angry at me. I love him anyway."

Martin looked down for about a minute.  I was on eggshells, and trying not to show it.  When he looked up, tears were in his eyes and his voice trembled.

"Thank you, Robert. You could have given me some sentimental crap or unloaded thirteen theologians on me. But you kept in mind that I have a clinical condition. It’s something that few ministers may remember."

_______

When do we have permission to speak for God? 

When do we have permission to speak from God?

We are all so (rightfully) careful about speaking in God's name.  We've seen that people can abuse this responsibility (I'm thinking of Pat Robertson, among others).

But if there are three things, and only three things about God of which we can be certain, it is these:

God loves us.

God loves you....yes, you.

God is love.**

This is not something to hide.

To be whispered sheepishly.

To be forgotten conveniently.

To be hidden ashamedly.

This is something to be lavished on the world.

To be shouted jubilantly.

To be repeated resolutely.

To be shared widely.

People forget.

remind them.

People disbelieve in guilt.

Set them free.

People are scorned.

Help in healing.

People may laugh.

Persist in love.

People may deride.

Persist in love.

People may mock.

Persist in love.

If we Christians would be known for our love,

we should not be afraid to say that God is a God of love,

and we should not forget that God can be known by our attempts to show this same love to others.

Amen.

_______

*Martin is not his real name.

**1Jn4:8, Jn3:16ff, etc.

Of Jonah and Playing Fair

If you have never done so, go read the book of Jonah.  It's four chapters long (about two pages).  And it's fun.  I'm giving a darker reading.  For a different reading (and a funnier tone that highlights more of the complexity of Jonah's text, see Megan Castellan's wonderful sermon).

_______________________________

We had begun our Sunday school lesson on Jonah

But we ended up on Susan.*

Susan never played fair.

And as we ended 

I asked usual my question about

for whom and for what we should pray.

The seven year old boy said to me. “I want to pray that Brooke would die,”

 “I don’t think we should pray that,” I replied,

“Maybe we can pray that she learn to play fairly.”

“No,” he said, “If she were to be nicer to me, I would not be able to forgive myself.”

What the boy meant was, if Susan started to be nice to him,

He would feel guilty about wanting her to die.

He knew he should not dislike her,

But as long as she was not nice to him,

He could feel better about not liking her back.

The seven year old boy does not fully realize it,

but he gets the story of Jonah.

At least, he is in Jonah's shoes.

Jonah was called by God to warn Nineveh of their impending doom.

Jonah ran away from this call

Not because of anything so mundane as laziness

Or mere disobedience,

But because he knew there was a chance

The Ninevens could change.

And Jonah knew God was too merciful for his own liking.**

Perhaps that is why God specifically chose Jonah.

God uses Jonah to prove a point to us.

Our standard of forgiveness is finite

And forgiveness can hurt;

To the point where we would ask for death instead.***

And we should forgive anyway.

*Not her real name, and she wasn't in the room.

** Jonah 4:1-3

***Jonah 4:3, 8, 9.

Last wishes (in pseudo-poetic form)

Burn me.   

Let my smoke rise and my ashes sink.   

Let my dust blow where it will.   

Let me return from whence I came.  

A composite of carbon, water, oxygen, 

and the spark of the Divine

Amongst all other composites of primordial elements 

and slivers of the being of God 

immanent in all we see around us.   

Remember me in Church and in liturgy

gathered around every altar at every Eucharist with you

joining you as we sing, 

“Holy, Holy, Holy…”

**CPE gives one the opportunity to consider what happens after death, both to the body and to the soul.  The above was from a reflection I wrote about an autopsy I watched.**

A Ten-Year Lament

In remembering 9/11, I find it difficult to separate the attack-- acts of evil and enormous loss-- from that which followed in our national soul, psyche, and history.  The response that came most naturally for me when I reflect on 9/11 is lament and confession.  


My hope is that this is not interpreted as an affront to the memories of those who perished in the attacks.  Rather, I would ask if the last ten years, condensed in the following, is the legacy they would want to claim.
______________________________________

A Ten-Year Lament

Dear Lord,

Ten years ago our nation was attacked.

We watched it on TV.

We saw the death and the destruction.

We witnessed an act of true evil,

      The kind of radical evil that sees no difference between a soldier, a civilian, or a child.

      A hate that sees no difference between a human and a rodent to be exterminated.

We haven’t learned much have we?

We don’t seem to do well when the drums of war drown out your still, small voice.

We repaid evil for evil even as we tried to do good.

We took the fight to our enemy as we sang about how putting “a boot in their ass was the American way.”

We joked about how a nuke could solve the problem

    And prided ourselves on being the civilized ones.

We determined acceptable levels of collateral damage, the certain number of probable dead civilians that required presidential approval before an airstrike.

We started wars on shady intelligence.

We dusted off communist torture manuals and started to use them.

We committed war crimes.

We were told to shop.

We were told to remember our soldiers a certain way; and that any other way to think of them would be unpatriotic.

We compromised on the equipment our soldiers needed.

When an army specialist asked why he did not have necessary materials to protect his life, we were told that “you go to the war with the army you have,” but we didn’t get an answer as to how that applied to a pre-emptive war we started.

We low-balled the estimates and actual numbers of injuries and deaths of our own children as they fought.

We tried to make sure we didn’t see our children’s coffins in newspapers.

We had an easier time low-balling the number of non-Americans we killed.

I’ve never seen a funeral for them;

merely short videos and pictures of fathers carrying their dead, blood-stained daughters; 

and a string of white house and DoD press releases decrying the tragedy and the necessity.

This year, just shy of the ten year anniversary of the attack, we killed the man we believed to be responsible, and we received the predictable reminder that the war is indeed never-ending. 

Father, if you forgive us according to our ability to forgive, then at this point we have to trust in your grace, for our deserving of it is non-existent. May you be merciful upon us all. 

But, God If you can do something, then…

O God, the Father of all, whose Son commanded us to love

our enemies: Lead them and us from prejudice to truth;

deliver them and us from hatred, cruelty, and revenge; and in

your good time enable us all to stand reconciled before you;

through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen. (Book of Common Prayer)

The shape of the blog for the next few weeks.

Just a few housekeeping notes.

Before I even ended CPE, I knew I'd be in a rough spot for a few months.  The program is grueling, and less than a week of down time would not be enough to recover mentally, physically, and spiritually.  Add to that hurricane preparations, and I am coming into this semester with a lot of baggage that I need to work through.

Last night I started to process what CPE meant to me personally and theologically.  The two posts represent the styles I am most likely going to use:  reflection/sermon and pseudo-poetry.  These types of posts may probably dominate the blog for a month or two; and I will make an effort to balance the tragic aspects of the work with the comedic and joyous sides of life.  On this side of CPE, tragedy is less bothersome.  My blog will reflect a new-found comfort (desensitizing?) with tragedy with the risk that posts can sometimes turn into “downers.”  My hope is that, as a practice, I will also look for hope in the situations I write about, and some practical application for my own life should flow from my writing and thinking.

There is a new way to subscribe to this blog!  Just enter your email in the bar at the top of the page to get e-mail updates as I post.  I will continue to post to Facebook, but as settings change and one's circles of friends is managed by algorithms determined by how often you interact with me through news feeds and whatnot, subscription will give you a direct and easy way to keep up-to-date with the blog.

Thank you for reading!

Broken furniture and the morgue

The morgue was in the basement.

I guess this made sense.  The pathology lab was there.

But so much other stuff was in the basement.

Things seemingly abandoned,

broken beds awaiting repair, surplus furniture, 

things that there was not room for anywhere else.

Including their daughter.

I wonder if they made a connection between the stuff in the hallway

 and their daughter

 as I escorted them to view her body.

But I did.

And I hated the hospital for it.

"Being a fellow pilgrim" and/or "Walking her to CAT Scan"

One day this summer, while serving as a chaplain at a local hospital, I was paged to respond to a possible “stroke code.”  I arrived on the unit and asked one of the nurses about the patient. 

            “Oh, she’ll be on her way down to CT scan soon.  Poor thing, she had back surgery a few days ago,” I was told by a nurse.  A CT scan would help determine if she indeed had a stroke.  At that moment the patient, a woman in her sixties, was being wheeled out of her room by a technician.  I walked up to the bed and introduced myself.

            “Ms. Jones*, my name is Robert; I’m the chaplain on this unit.  I hear you are going to CT scan now, would you like me to come back later or to join you?” She nodded at the latter suggestion and seemed to mouth something but she could speak in only a whisper, and barely that.

I walked beside her bed as we made our way through the labyrinthine halls of the hospital, down two floors to the imaging labs.  It is difficult for me to imagine the view from Ms. Jones’s perspective; I’ve not been in a hospital bed in a long time.  The halls which seem confusing when walking upright must be more difficult to understand when all you can see are the ceiling panels and lights, the occasional wall, the elevator, and passing people’s heads.  In a hospital it is easy to feel lost, physically, emotionally, and spiritually.  

The waiting/staging area for imaging is a large blank room, but the lights were half-off throughout, which made it seem smaller and a bit more oppressive to the senses.  It was a gloomy place.  The technician parked Ms. Jones’s bed and went to prepare the scanner.  Aside from myself and Ms. Jones, there was one other person in the room, a staff person.  I pulled a chair bedside and took Ms. Jones’s hand when she offered it to me. 

We spent the next ten minutes in near silence.  As I said, she could not speak above a whisper, and she seemed distant and anxious.  There were a few questions and answers exchanged.  What was more important was to sit there with her; to keep her from being alone. I offered a prayer for her. 

When the technician returned to let us know the lab was ready, Ms. Jones looked at me and squeezed my hand.

“Is it possible for me to join you?” I asked the technician.

“Oh sure, that’s fine,” the technician replied.

I held Ms. Jones’s hand as we continued our trip through another set of hallways and then into the CT scanning room.  The machine looks imposing, but not as large as an MRI. 

I held her hand until it was time to lift her from her bed to the machine.  I stayed for the scan and spoke to her during it, although from the same small room that the technicians were in.  After the scan I held her hand as she was taken back through the hallways to the waiting/staging area to await transport back to the unit.  I stayed with her until I was paged to an incident in the ER and made a mental note to visit her again.  When I told her that I needed to go, but that she would see me again, she mouthed “thank you.”** 

“Walking with someone on their journey” and “pilgrimage” are popular ways of thinking and talking about spirituality.  Many congregations and pastors talk about the need to “meet people where they are” and “join them in their journeys.”***  Experiences such as the one with Ms. Jones helped me realize that good spiritual practice—and good pastoral practice—is both metaphorical and literal; spiritual and physical.  It means walking with people through the hospital, or the funeral home, or the protest march.  It means being present to them in a real and tangible way in the scariest and hardest moments of their life; like when they may be asking themselves if they just had a stroke as they recover from a painful back surgery...and then being transferred from one bed to a machine and then back to a bed to get a CT scan after this back surgery, with the resulting back pain.    

            Perhaps, the greatest witness to Christ is not how loud or how reasoned a Christian’s arguments are about the faith, but about the Christian’s willingness to let go of the illusion of pristine, drama-free lives we supposedly “earn” through our relationship with God, and join people as they/we walk through uncertainty, pain, doubt, fear, and death.  It is a bit harder to follow a person into these spaces when we’d naturally rather just hear and see and experience their joy and happiness alongside them.  Yet in all of these moments, one can finds glimpses of the Divine.

Being there matters. 

Staying there matters. 

           

 _________

*Ms. Jones is not her real name.

** I did go back to visit during that shift but she was asleep whenever I would come by.  As a general rule of thumb, and knowing how hard it is to sleep in a hospital, I didn’t wake her.

***The sentiments seem to come close to cliché, and maybe I think it seems clichéd just because I hear it nearly daily at seminary.  But I know I benefitted from such an attitude when I was willing to give Christianity another try.  

Five wedding blessings

I wrote these as part of an assignment.  I thought I'd share them.

May you be mindful that you are each no longer an island unto yourself;

That you now live and, move, and have your being in the heart of another

So completely

That your absence or silence is felt at the elemental level.

Amen.

May you know that you are not two people expected to face the world alone;

That you may trust this community gathered with the vows you have made to each other,

And that we welcome your joys and sorrows in love, forbearance, and expectation.

Amen.

 

May you be wary of the will to power which haunts all human relationships;

which does not automatically disappear with the wearing of a ring,

That you may avoid its pitfalls of anger, selfishness, jealousy, estrangement, and apathy.

Amen.

In times when you can’t avoid the will to power,

May you know when and how to ask and give forgiveness when you hurt each other,

That grace may prevail where we all fail.

Amen.

May the eye of God dwell upon you every day of your lives,
May the foot of Christ be a guidance to you in times of joy and turmoil,
and May the shower of the Spirit pour upon you richly and generously

As your lives together continue to grow more closely knit.

Amen.

Family History in Unexpected Places

Yesterday I had an unexpected run-in with a bit of my own family history, in a poignant way.

I walked into a Pastoral Care office at the Hospital of St. Raphael after lunch, and one of our chaplains was sitting with two sisters (nuns, in habits).  As we were working in the kitchen around them and their conversation, I overheard one sister say that she was an Apostle of the Sacred Heart of Jesus.  I stopped in my tracks.

"Sister, are you based here in Hamden?"

"Yes."

"Did you know Sister Caroline Berra?"

A second passed, "I was with her when she passed away."

Sr. Caroline was my grandfather's aunt.  She left St. Louis, MO in August 1941 to enter the religious life.  She professed her first vows August 24, 1943 and took her final vows July 1, 1947.  As far as I know, her life of ministry was completely based in the Hamden/New Haven area.  She celebrated her Golden jubilee in 1993, and passed away March 22, 1995.  March 22 is a day of memorial for Caroline at the convent.

"Caroline was my grandfather's aunt."

Sixteen years had passed since Caroline's funeral, but without missing a beat she said, "Oh, are you from St. Louis too?"  

"No, sister, my father left St. Louis for college.  I was born in Mobile, AL.  But I've been to St. Louis occasionally to see family.  You know, I knew the convent was in the area and I've driven by it occasionally but I wasn't sure what the rules were for visitors.  Would it be possible for me to visit and pray with you all?"

"Of course, we would love to have you, just call and let us know you are coming," she said, smiling. 

I constantly ask myself this question:  what is the power of a coincidence theologized?  Working in a Catholic hospital, and with the convent 10 minutes away, there was always a chance I would meet a sister of the order. 

But...

Over the past six months, I've felt called to visit the convent and I don't know why.  It could be to reconnect with part of my family and the religious heritage that is attached.  It could be something that will only be revealed there.  What has stopped me was not knowing the rules about visiting the convent, seeing that I'm a man.  Now I feel like I have permission.  And I'd want to visit sooner rather than later.  I expect I'll go before the fall semester begins.

Random Thoughts from an On-Call Shift in the Hospital

The hospital all but clears out at 8pm on a Sunday night.  Doors are locked.  Lights go down.  A hushed tone falls on everyone.  Patients go from wanting visitors to wanting sleep; though sleep would be nice whenever they could get it.  As the sun crawls against the sky, the chapel goes from a bright red hue (thanks to the stained glass) to a muted yellow provided only by lamps.  Tonight, after a day of constant walking around, I felt the desire to go outside, to take notice of something beyond a room or a hall or a patient, and acknowledge God in the cyclical changes and patterns that we always see around us.  It is the epitome of trying to avoid tunnel vision.

O gracious Light,
pure brightness of the everliving Father in heaven,
O Jesus Christ, holy and blessed!

Now as we come to the setting of the sun,
and our eyes behold the vesper light,
we sing your praises, O God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

You are worthy at all times to be praised by happy voices,
O Son of God, O Giver of life,
and to be glorified through all the worlds. –Phos hilaron

And in front of the hospital, I offered prayers for all inside.

At some point this week I decided that the best way to spend my 'down' moments during my on-call would be to polish the rosary I inherited from my grandfather.  That moment appeared around 9pm, and as I sat down to polish, a few things struck me.

First, I haven't polished it since I received it, which struck me in the moment as a bit of negligence.  I polished it with the same attention I used to give to cleaning weapons.  Second, I then realized I was seeing it the same way my grandfather would have seen it when he received it possibly 50 years ago.  Third, cleaning something makes you slow down and look carefully at the object.  The rosary is all sterling silver, but there are several places where one can see where my grandfather made quick repairs with small rings of different metals.  It was a well-used rosary by the time it got to me.

Polishing the rosary---the getting-ready-to-use--- then struck me as a deeper metaphor for my religious/spiritual journey.  When one looks at my family one either sees Roman Catholicism or some form of the Baptist denominations.  Religious histories seem to converge at me in the family tree.  I am the one outlier (to my knowledge) being neither Catholic, nor Baptist.  I'm taking the identity of the Episcopal Church, known as the via media or "middle way" between Roman Catholicism and Protestantism.  I was raised Baptist, and with that came a suspicion of almost all things Roman, even as half my family tree were faithful members of the Roman Catholic Church.  The sentiment was muted yet definitely present in the Baptist Church in which I grew up. 

My journey into the Episcopal Church could be seen retrospectively as an investigation of what in the Roman Catholic tradition seemed to be particularly meaningful to me.  What had denominations like the Baptists thrown out to quickly or rebelled against with misplaced fervor?  And yet, I know I'm not Roman Catholic either.  I've been bandying around the idea that I may be Anglo-Catholic, but I'm not sure what that means in any objective sense (and there probably isn't an objective measure), nor do I know what it means personally.  At the moment, the closest I can get to markers of my Anglican identity is that I'm a High-Church progressive with a blue-jeans mentality, trying to sift through Anglo-Catholic worship and theology for what seems true and feels authentic.  This year in seminary will begin the harder work of forming an Anglican identity.

But, to get back to the rosary, part of being in a liturgical church is that I am connected to Christians over centuries by the prayers that they handed down to us.  In like fashion, I am connected to my own family by taking up their prayers, such as the rosary.  Now I just need to learn the prayers; the beads are ready and gleaming.

Eulogies over a still-breathing body

Eulogies over a still-breathing body.

Ruach, the breath of God, of life, replaced with a hum and a hiss.

Deus ex machina taken literally.

Death stalled by a machine, not the spirit of life.

An interruption of the drama that was unfolding.

“No heroics,” she once said.

But it wasn’t on a piece of paper, so heroics were performed.

Now, the family must be courageous enough to stop the machine.

Not to kill, but to let-die.

She had years ago made the same decision for her mother.

The cycle continues.

Eulogies.

They were letting a great woman die.

Could it be that they thought they were killing the greatest woman

Who ever lived?

Who gave them life; a reason to live; an example to follow?

"She fought so hard."

Still, it was the “easy decision” with profound consequences

And mourning already begun.

“I’m hollow,” her daughter said.

“I’m guilty,” her sister said.

Pain floods from fresh wounds that will eventually turn into scars.

Scars that won’t hurt any more, but will bring pain back to remembrance.

Every time they see the scar.

The grief weighed too much. 

I felt it before I entered the room.

I absorbed it while I was there.

But grief mixed with love makes for some buoyancy.

I prayed for them and with them.

In between their sobbing and my own.

Other family members were coming into town.

To gather around later.

And all together

Remove the machine.

And wait.

“All of us go down to dust,”

The hymn says, “yet even at the grave we make our song: Alleluia.”

May it be so.

Even as our honest tears overflow.

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.