Nell Newton
July 28, 2013
The process of building a minister includes a certain amount of disassembling the person who wanted to become a minister. There are many ways this is done -countless personal essays, stacks of reading, somber committees that decide one’s fitness -but one of the most discombobulating assignments is Chaplaincy work. The experience is expected to upend a student’s certainty. And afterwards, they usually write at least one sermon about the experience. This is be one of those sermons! My CPE Sermon
Reading
Untitled Poem
by Theresa Ines Soto
posted on Facebook – used with permission
Jesus. Never had to go to seminary.
He was wunderkind.
He never had cerebral palsy; He died
Once though. Jesus never had a broken
scooter, but over and over, he had a
broken heart. Me too, once or twice.
Sometimes I think I won’t
Make it, can’t do it. About that, Jesus said:
It takes more than bread
to stay alive. It takes a steady stream
of words from God’s mouth.”
God’s words for me are:
the sunset, the boats on the lake,
the perfection of all the ways God
is reflected in Beloved Community.
Jesus. Did the work that fell to Him
Until It Was Finished. I don’t even
Have to die to complete my work,
But maybe I can hold on for one
More day. Maybe that would be good.
Theresa Ines Soto is 41, a Latina, a 3rd-wave feminist, a lawyer, a seminarian, and a woman who has cerebral palsy. She walks with a cane and uses a scooter to get around. The scooter she uses now is a cheap one that goes slowly and is prone to tipping. She had a really great, really expensive scooter, but it was stolen last year.
She was born prematurely and her parents were told she wouldn’t live. Then they were told that she would live, but she’d never walk or talk. Then they were told that she might talk or walk, but that she’d never have the mental capacity to be independent. Each time they heard this information, her parents said “Okay”. She appreciates their willingness to love their daughter no matter what.
For me, spending time with Theresa means slowing myself down a bit. I slow my pace to match her scooter as its battery drains during the day. It means that I slow my ears down to the cadence of her voice which is quite clear and articulate, but slower. It means that I have to slow down my brain to make it work more carefully to notice how it would automatically presume that because her body is different, that her mind must be different too. I am better for having slowed down with Theresa. She’s going to make a difference in our denomination.
When she prays, it is with a relaxed forthrightness that is startling to my ears.
Sermon
UU Minister – Some Dis-Assembly Required
In the few years that I’ve been paying attention, I’ve noticed that seminary students who are entrusted with a pulpit will inevitably trot out some predictable sermons. There will be a ponderous sermon on Unitarian history – complete with footnotes – it’s really just a summary of a recent research paper. There will also be a sermon or two on The Seven Principles, or The Five Smooth Stones. There will usually be a chirpy sermon along the lines of “Let’s not forget the Universalists!” And, there will be, should be, a sermon where the student talks about their chaplaincy internship. It’s in these internships where we get our heads out of the books and throw our bodies into the front lines of pastoral work, generally in a hospital setting. And this, dear kind people, this is my chaplaincy sermon….
I was warned by others who had already completed their chaplaincy programs: “You’ll get what you need to learn about from chaplaincy.” One friend told about a student who had been uncomfortable with death and dying and, naturally, while on call, he got lots of experience with death and dying patients. He had waaay more than any of the other students. And, by the end of their program he was much better equipped to deal with death and dying.
During chaplaincy, non-theists start feeling connected to something larger and theists start arguing with a god who allows so much suffering… Yep. Whatever you need to work on, it will find you during chaplaincy training. I knew this when I was assigned to work at Brackenridge hospital last fall.
What did I need to learn about? The chill of dread rose up as I contemplated where I might be harboring unspoken resistance or denial. Would I be faced with blood, trauma, sick kids, sick parents, or something so un-doing that I couldn’t imagine being able to handle it??? Each time I started an overnight or weekend shift, I was gripped with a quiet worry that THIS time I would be forced to confront my deepest fears. And, each time, I simply found myself going about the work that was asked of me – listening, crying, hugging, joking, praying, and filling out the paperwork afterwards. I never came home completely undone or unable to speak my own name.
Here’s the work we were doing – most of the time it was just visiting with patients who were otherwise bored, or lonesome, but often we were called to show up during times where people needed spiritual or emotional support. It seemed like the other students in my program had it much harder – their shifts were filled with fighting families, multiple trauma victims, and worse. My shifts weren’t exactly picnics – no sooner than I’d lie down to rest then my pager would go off. But I seemed to get easier nights, simpler problems, less complicated paperwork… What awful undoing was waiting for me?
Among the hospital workers you were never supposed to wish them a “quiet” night – that would jinx it for sure. So, instead I would wish folks a “boring” night. And, then, I found myself saying a small and private prayer. A friend of mine sends his prayers to the Great To Whom It May Concern, but I found myself asking a Great Mother to hold the entirety of the hospital with compassion and to support the caregivers as well as those needing care. I’ve never thought of myself as a Goddess worshipping sort, and I wasn’t trying to make a theological point, but it seemed like the right thing to do. The Great Mother just seemed to be closer at hand in the hospital.
You see, despite all of the training we went through to prepare for the work, once we were let loose onto the hospital floors and into patient’s rooms, we all reverted to instinct and improvisation. And each of us found that the only way we could serve was to be exactly who we already were. The title “chaplain” just gave us a bit more authority to do it well! We simply lived into what was expected and asked of us.
A nurse called late one evening. A patient needed surgery, but was nervous. Could I come? Sure. Outside his room the nurse pulled me aside – the patient was a young man whose leg was mangled in a wreck. He was all alone and scared. In the nurse’s opinion, he needed some Mama energy. Well… as luck should have it… He was only a couple years older than my own son — handsome, pale, and frightened. He had never had surgery before and was afraid that he wouldn’t wake up from the anesthesia. I held his hand, smoothed his hair, listened, and placed a blessing upon him. The tears that he had been fighting back spilled out easily and he finally relaxed enough to agree to go ahead. I walked alongside his bed as he was wheeled down to surgery. I gave his hand a little squeeze and promised him that I’d be up to see him later. Then as they rolled him into the surgery area, I placed another silent blessing upon him, the surgeons, the nurses, and the man who was cleaning the hall floor at 11:00 at night. Later on I stopped by his room. He was bleary from the anesthesia, but he recognized me and grinned when I congratulated him on surviving.
And that was the Great Mother at work. I obeyed her imperative to soothe the children no matter what their age.
On another occasion I was called to visit a mother who was unraveling. She was almost vibrating with worry over her toddler whose head was wrapped with yards of tape to hold monitor wires in place. I helped him start a Thomas the Tank Engine video and then sat down to visit. The mom was exhausted not just with the worry over her son’s seizures, but with the dread of dealing with other family members who were emotionally more reserved. She felt like wailing and weeping, and felt judged and self-conscious. As we chatted I praised her beautiful child’s curiosity and appetite and listened to her fears and bravery. Finally I offered her the blessing that every parent needs to hear: “You are a wonderful mother and you are doing a good job raising this child.” She took a deep breath, nodded gratefully, and went back to patting her son to sleep.
And that was the Great Mother at work. I gave voice to her deep compassion for the terrifying work of parenting.
Caring for humans is messy, stinky, and funny. These bodies are the stuff of dirt and humor. Indeed, the word “humor” is rooted in the Latin for bodily fluids… And, often, what I brought with me into patient rooms was not just a readiness to witness the divine, but to also witness the absurdity and silliness of our selves.
One day I found myself offering a completely improvised prayer – actually all of my better prayers were spontaneous, jazz riffs created with whatever we had handy – and this prayer was with a woman who was stuck in bed, unable to walk because of pain in her hips, or, as she put it more delicately, her “backside”. The prayer included a desire to see her become unstuck and able to move easily into her future days. Our prayer was light and hopeful and not very serious. Two days later I visited and she had been up and done a lap around the nurses’ station! “It was that prayer!” She laughed, “I told my kids that you prayed for my BUTT and anyone who would do that is someone I can get along with!” I demurred, “Well… I figured that your butt is part of you, and you are part of all that is holy, so it made sense to me….” We laughed and the healing continued.
And that was the Great Mother at work. She is delighted by our laughter, as it bubbles up and lifts us into our creative moments!
So what was it that finally came undone during my chaplaincy work? What was that dark place that I had to look at and accept? Well… I had to accept that that elegant theologies only get you so far. After a point it’s your bodily presence and being that counts. And, more humbling, I realized that my mother was right all along.
And how was my mother right all along? My mother is a classic UU Church Lady. She wears sensible shoes, brings bean salads and an angel food cake to potlucks, and, yes she drives a Prius. My mother was the one who first tried to teach me about The Goddess. But, back then I smiled and nodded. Like so many daughters when their mother tries to pass along good advice, I dismissed it as simply a romantic personification. Perhaps that worked for her theology, but it wasn’t part of mine. Meanwhile, as I read the 18th Century German Liberal Theologians, and Lives of the Great Humanists, I bogged down. My eyeballs wearied and I felt as if there was really no place for me in this work of ministry. I should just go back into the kitchen and give up. How will I ever sound like someone who knows their stuff? As it turns out, I never will with any certainty. And, that’s okay. As a chaplain, I learned that it’s more important to show up than to be certain. The Great Mother showed this to me over and over. Does this make me a full-on Goddess Worshipper? I’m not sure.
“I hate this!” a man moaned. “I feel so bad that everyone has to work so hard to take care of me. I don’t want to be a burden to my family. They have better things to do!” How many times did I hear this from people who were ashamed of their vulnerability, pinned down by the weight of their infirmities, and feeling guilty of taking more than they feel that they deserve. In this world, in this culture, we are supposed to be upright individuals who create our own destinies as full agents. And when we wind up in a hospital bed, all of that is thrown upside down. We become needful and our agency is narrowed by the margins of pain. And, yes, we must depend upon others to care, and clean up, and help us to survive. We must turn to one another for support in walking and guiding the spoonful of food. And, often, those other people are complete strangers wearing drab uniforms.
When I heard that moan, I would assure a patient that this was their time to rest and receive. When it seemed appropriate, I would remind a patient that she is a child of god, and that god’s love guided all of the hands caring for her and to open herself to this love. And, for people who chafed at the indignity of the situation, or felt unworthy, or wondered why they should even bother to survive, I suggested that, truly, our highest purpose is to be with one another. That spilled out of my mouth one day, when tears were running down my own cheeks. It was completely unplanned, spun out of the thin air of that room. The work we are here to do is to simply be with one another. That’s all.
Now, if you also find time to fully and truly love your god and love your neighbor as yourself, then you might even have struck upon a religion worthy of attention! But in the meantime, take this simple observation, based upon experience: The work we are here to do is to simply be with one another. We are given instinct and intellect, and we will make use of whatever resources are at hand. We will find silliness and tears make it all easier, but how well we do that work – how well we be with one another — is how our lives will be measured. How do I know this? My mother, and the Great Mother, told me so!
© 2013 Nell Newton
Podcasts of sermons are available for free on iTunes. You can find them here.
http://itunes.apple.com/podcast/first-unitarian-universalist/id372427776
