It had been a bad day
in a bad month
in a series of bad years
that blurred together

nothing ever seemed to change
a Chinese water torture of sameness
drop
after
drop
after
drop
after
drop
of mundane sameness
vanilla…

he was tired, no more than that
he was fatigued, exhausted
exhausted
as usual
from the grinding repetition
of shaving
of brushing
of showering
every day
day in
day out

He felt a cost, a visceral gasp
a spiritual ache
somehow…
in something
somewhere …

He grew wearier, if that was even possible
driving in
driving out
day in
day out
every day an adventure in monotony…

He yawned, his need for oxygen
unable to trump
the blaring radiospeak
the white noise of transcient
djs voicing apathetic opinions
on important issues of irrelevance…

His body grew numb…
slogging through traffic
longing for a song, any song, a broken melody
to sever the talk
to break the mold
to crack the veneer
of
day in
day out
nothingness

I should write something, he thought
a clever turn of phrase
a poem, perhaps
at least a reason why
but…that seemed unlikely
He grew drowsy
wearily contemplating an inconceivable explanation

I might be interesting for a moment or two, he mused
someone else
may be spared
of walking the same steps
driving the same drive
listening to the same talk
sleeping the same sleep
those scavengers that haunted Ebeneezer
picking amidst the gossip
entertaining a smorgasbord of possibilities
cracking the veneer
of
day in
day out
nothingness

His eyes closed further
yawns increasing by the second
he was so tired, so spent, so done

Yet, it wouldn’t be long
only seconds
5 of them probably
of anguish and pointless struggle
of panic and idiotic regret
He thought it ironic,
the body’s struggle and longing for this

He understood
it came to him
in many moments
in countless days
in never-ending years
he was nothing but a foot
removed from a half-empty bucket of water

He laughed until he shook,
an epileptic frenzy
feeling alive, senses tingling
hair standing on end
the sun clinging to his face. . .

He kicked over the chair.

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strangers come and strangers go
what is a stranger I will never know
is it a friend?
recognizable but distant
smiling with arms crossed
nodding with eyes turning away
fumbling with an iPhone
scanning the horizons
alarms ringing
propriety served . . .

strangers come and strangers go
what is a stranger I will never know
is it a lover?
hearing without listening
to thoughts
disclosing without sharing
pain
touching but not feeling
emptiness

Perhaps . . .

maybe just maybe
I am the stranger that comes and goes
who I am nobody knows
I could be smart as some but dumb as others
I could cry for justice sitting on the couch
gelatinous

for down is up
and up is down
google but please don’t bing

Or . . .

you can look it up
in many books, some movies,
and a few well thought out greeting cards

amidst all these strangers that come and go
who they are nobody knows
a speculation
a guesstimate if you will
emerges
in this jungle of strangers
viewed as
some being friends, a few being lovers

we still don’t know
who these strangers are that come and go
because
we are still alone

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He shivered . . . violently
a wave of biting cold
crashing on his body
cascading in waves

Bereft of the shelter of affirmation
Bereft of the clothing of victimization
Bereft of the vehicle of rationalization

he stood alone . . .
seeing . . .
touching . . .
tasting . . .
feeling . . .
himself for the first time . . .

He was weak to this world
unaccustomed . . .
obfuscated by its vulnerability and potentiality
overwhelmed by its lack of limits and parameters
incredulous by its freedom to question while being grateful for its pain

His armor was finally gone
as was his shield
his mask
and his blanket

He reminisced . . .
they protected but were burdening
they deflected but were cowardly
they affirmed but were veiled
they comforted but were infantile

The biting cold of this brave new world
invigorated him
at the instant of his vulnerability
during his grasp of the desert of the real

For you see,
he finally became substance not hologram
a being finally…and…fully human

and . . .

cognizant of the journey to come . . .
ultimately culminating
in defining him . . .

For you see,
he stood alone.

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If you want an interesting perspective from a seminarian as well as some excellent writing, check out this blog at:

http://porkchopsandwalletchains.blogspot.com/

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He couldn’t put his finger on what was wrong . . .
His act remained the same . . .
He drew gasps of admiration
Provoking envious gales of laughter,
even with a bad act, a performance filled
with pissed off passion and heartfelt arrogance
conjured up respect
often grudgingly…

He was vital after all . . .
his schtick
his act
his guile
his performance

His troupe needed him . . .
He saved them once, actually more than once . . .
He remembered
instances
where they could have died
complete, final
deaths
suffocating, anguishing, tormented deaths
moment by moment
piece by piece
visceral
spiritual
deaths by angst

They were unable to move
he thought,
barely covered by
the flesh of dignity
picked at
chewed on
torn away in chunks
by a consumptive
omnipresent
beast
hungry for a
soul of its own . . .

I protected us, he reflected
I distracted the beast,
Showing flashes, shiny moments,
glimpses of what it wanted to see
I fooled the beast, he thought
It thought it was me
achieving
successful
entertaining
respected
liked . . .

That he knew for sure

Yet, he knew his curtain was making its way downward
The flesh
wasn’t flesh at all
but another disguise
a veil

He always thought of himself as valiant
a knight in shining armor
But the armor became suffocating
sucking the breath
out of the troup
rendering it something that it was not . . .

And so it goes . . .
The death of the performer
birthing
or better yet
resurrecting
a fragile being
not so eager
or deft
or persuasive
or beguiling
or pleasing
and definitely not entertaining
or popular . . .

but real . . .
unrecognizable,
feeling,
disturbing
and threatening . . .

but real . . .

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I smell old . . .

the smell of the
same clothes
the same undershirt
the same underwear
the same socks
the same shirt and pants . . .

I smell old . . .

my nostrils flare
violently in disgust
blowing does not rid
me of the stench,
the bellhop
of death . . .

I smell old . . .

Is it me?
My spirit is willing
my flesh becoming
weaker by the moment
by the day
running out of years . . .

I smell  old . . .

or

could it be . . .

fear reeking
the horror of
inheriting
the weakness
the spineless
the gutless swallowing
of a toxic
insanity
defecating on
the light
of hopes and dreams?

I smell old . . .

the decaying predator’s
stomach
still bilious
from the carcass
of prey
dead before its time . . .
The claws
shake
the snarled beak
quivers
but the poison
of death,
its perfume
of despair
permeates
desecrating the air.

I smell old . . .

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I was empty . . .

And he was gone
swallowed up in a sea of white stones
The ripple bearing his name declared him a corporal
an identity worn, torn, and faded . . .

A buzzard peered over this sea
motionless . . .
Gripping a triangle with unsteady talons that
quivered and shook
Motionless . . .
because . . .
It could no longer fly, circle, pounce, and kill
but . . .
Could only spew venom
hoping to find a target

It was mere minutes before the buzzard sighed . . .
nary a tear at her lost prey
The prey who at her beckoned call
fed her . . .
Not only with his flesh but with his soul as well…

It was finished

And . . .

I was empty . . .

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I am

a rainbow of emotions

from excruciating sadness pulling

on my chest

and tugging at my soul

to

tearful and transcending joy at

breaking free

from

past chains

and captive prisons

and

all the colors in between  . . .

I am

flummoxed, discovering on my last day

a coffee cup planter

on the table

where we have group

next to where I always sit

camouflaged

in the open space by my internal world

I am

told

advised

consoled

encouraged

that other opportunities emerge

dressed in a different color

maybe lavender, possibly chartreuse, hopefully shamrock

but God forbid, gray

but . . .

although . . .

however, and in retrospect

they will be

a little less golden . . .

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My theology of pastoral care focuses on transformation; that is, the change from a state of “brokenness” to a “healing” state of being.  All humans from the day they are born are broken.   Psychologist Abraham Maslow, for example, identifies physiological, psychological, and spiritual limitations humans need to address in order to survive.  The ultimate human limitation is death.  In the OT – because of humanity’s disobedience – God removes the choice of eternal life.  According to Genesis 3:23-24, “So the Lord God banished him from the Garden of Eden to work the ground from which he had been taken. After he drove the man out, he placed on the east side of the Garden of Eden cherubim and a flaming sword flashing back and forth to guard the way to the tree of life.”  As such, God makes death the end of life.

For humanity, this awareness or “shadow” of death brings about suffering.  The suffering of Jesus Christ – depicted in Matthew 27 – portrays the dehumanization of Jesus associated with the Roman soldiers and prominent Jewish religious figures dividing up his few possessions (35), insulting him (37-40), and / or physically abusing him (30).  If the body of Christ represents humanity, then people suffer from not being fully human.  The imagery associated  with an extremely frightened and diminutive woman, praying, begging God for her life within the vast cavity of a hospital’s pre-op facility magnified her helplessness, compromising her ability to be fully human.  Christ crying out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Mark 15:34; Matt 27:46; Psalm 22:1) vividly underscores this imagery.

As such, transformation seems to require suffering.  When performing pastoral care, patients possessing physical problems with predictable positive outcomes not only experience little suffering, they seldom require pastoral care.  The specter of their death remains dormant and out of their awareness.  These patients barely see me, looking past me for the last doctor or procedure prior to their discharge.  Conversely, suffering patients, consciously or unconsciously, seem to search for transformation, seeking a shift from being broken to becoming healed.  This search emanates from the inherent presence of a divine spark — discussed throughout this blog — found in humans and in all of God’s creation.

Because suffering extends beyond the physiological, it connected patients to me both emotionally and intellectually.  In Acts 2, the Holy Spirit creates this connection mysteriously by uniting the disciples with those who spoke in different languages and enabling them to prophesy.   Six of my conversations with patients stood out, for reasons that often was mysterious, based on something in the conversations that “struck me as unusual.”  After the first few conversations, I began noticing the diversity of metaphors popping up in the conversations that resonated with my own emotional and psychological issues.  One particular woman patient,  for  example, connected with me emotionally regarding the suffocating limitations of playing the role of “performer” and the transformation from the victimization associated with such a role to the freedom associated with writing  poetry.  As such, the Holy Spirit’s influence seems dynamic, bringing hurting souls together yet simultaneously providing valuable instruction (see John 14:26; 1 Cor 2:10-11) for both patients and chaplains.

Yet, transformation also requires death in a different sense than previously discussed.  Death of the saliency of restrictive and toxic roles is necessary for human beings to begin to heal.  Problematic interactions between family members often create maladaptive family systems. The growing conflict and disassociation between my parents, for example, forced me to adopt unhealthy personas.   As a child, I adopted the role of “comedian” to dissipate any lurking tension in our home.  A more problematic persona, for me, became the role of “standard bearer” for the family.  A growing anxiety attached itself to this role as both my parents declared their despair and disdain for each other.  To keep the family together, I felt I had to achieve.  These and other personas coalesced into my role as “performer.”  Through interaction with patients, this role cast me as “victim,” passive and responsive to my parents’ expectations, ambitions, and goals for my life.

Resurrection represents the culmination of transformation, the creation of life anew.  In contrast to the brokenness of humans discussed earlier, Jesus declares himself to be the resurrection and the life (John 11:25).  Where God once guarded eternal life, God (incarnate, a transformation as well) now makes eternal life available for humanity.  God transforms as humanity transforms, by mutually interacting with each other.

Yet, resurrection does not completely erase the lessons of suffering.   Responding to Thomas (John 20:25-28), Jesus shows his wounds from his crucifixion to Thomas, and has him touch them.  The wounds of suffering were real for both patients and me,  informing us in the transformative process.  In providing pastoral care, for example, it becomes necessary to be cognizant of patient issues that may obstruct “being present” with patients.  For me, for example, elderly women presenting as “motherly” – both positive and negative presentations – potentially “press my emotional buttons,” in response to the suffering I experienced interacting with my mother.  If I am unaware of these issues, I potentially compromise my pastoral care with these patients.  Moreover, these issues never completely leave.

In conclusion, my theology of care accentuates the role of transformation in achieving a shift from “brokenness” to “healing.”  This shift does not occur in isolation but requires reciprocal interactions.  Jesus Christ’s suffering, death, and ultimate resurrection provides a metaphorical understanding for presenting my theology.  People of different faiths (e.g., Islam), however, would experience difficulties with Jesus Christ as a metaphor.  For other faiths, different metaphors for transformation exist.  For Islam, such a metaphor would be the “Day of Resurrection.”  Muslims believe that God preordains the Day of Resurrection albeit unknown to humanity. The Qur’an describes the suffering preceding and occurring during the Day of Resurrection and emphasizes bodily resurrection; the Qur’an proposes that the gathering of humankind follows resurrection, culminating in their judgment by God.  For Islam, then, the transformation is collective not individual.

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I am a loser…

I got lost, trying to find him in this damn place…

I am a loser…

I lost my life a long time ago and now he is losing his…

I am a loser…

I lost his middle name; dammit, quit asking me questions…

I am a loser…

I lost my cool when he lost his clothes…

I am a loser…

He loses his heartbeat as my heart stops…

I lost my breath as he loses his…

I am a loser…

I search my bible for a meaning I know is there, but now is lost…

I am a loser…

I am frantic and he is lost…

gone…

forever…

I am a loser…

I have lost…

my love…

my friend…

and my life continues…

I am a loser…

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