Thursday, August 16, 2012

pastor


My text message alerted me to call one of my patients immediately.  I quickly dialed, expecting to jump in my car and rush over.  Instead it was a simple question. "Chaplain? We are filling out a form for the funeral home and it asks us to lists our pastor.  We don't have a pastor.  Can we put your name down?

Mary pulled me aside during a visit with her dying mother.  "We just want a simple graveside service, but mother was never part of a church here.  Would you be our pastor?"

I love this about my job. Some of my patients are fully connected in active churches.  I'm the pitch hitter.  Some of my patients have slipped away from their churches.  I'm the reconnecter.  Some of my patients make it very clear they don't anything to do with church or religion.  I'm just part of the team, building a relationship, trust and providing a new picture of spiritual care. But for any of my patients that don't have one and want one, I'm their pastor.  What a privilege.

I've been thinking a lot about what it means to have a pastor.

It used to be so cut and dry.  You went to church.  You had a pastor.  That one person was responsible for your spiritual needs and your spiritual inspiration.  Not only did that person marry and bury you, they also provided guidance and nurture, connection and community.

But it has gotten more complicated.  I have some friends who are members of a church in another state but have been greatly let down by their current pastor. They feel betrayed and disappointed.  I have friends who don't have a church in the area their jobs have taken them to, and they feel anchorless.  I have friends who felt no need of a church community until tragedy struck and now they long for someone to speak the words of hope and promise they learned as children.  And then there are others of us who have a church we love, but sometimes going there brings up all manners of pain, and we create a distance to protect ourselves.

Recently an atheist friend of my parents called them and said "I need to come over and talk to you as my pastor."  "What did he mean by that?"  I asked.  "I think he wanted a safe place to process his journey and be listened to."  Dad responded.

Who doesn't need that?  Maybe the pastors in our lives can't always be identified by the collar they wear or the location of their office.  I think about my friend Vicki.  Just out of chaplain training we felt the need for added spiritual direction.  Vicki invited me and a couple other women and arranged for us to meet in a little side room of her beautiful and historical All Souls Episcopal Cathedral in Biltmore.  With stained glass and wooden pews, it was a reverent place to pray, read and share our hearts.  (sadly for me, Vicki moved across the country to pastor a whole, lucky congregation.)

I think of my friend Audra who drove 45 minutes each way, at night, to visit me when my dad had a stroke.   I think of my running buddies who pound the pavement, one slow, sweaty mile at a time with me.  They celebrate and mourn the every day stuff with me.  It is as far from a "church setting" as one can get.  But it is healing and affirming.  Sometimes it just takes Matthew West singing Strong Enough or Chris August singing Starry Night on my car radio to move my soul to a better place.

Maybe the best ministry happened to me this summer during a long conversation with my mom and dad about how important it is for people to have a pastor.  As a person who "puts out" spiritually for a living, I continue to realize that I need to be more aware and more intentional about getting pastored. Who is inspiring me?  Who keeps me accountable?  Who is part of my true community?  And how can I better reflect those qualities to my patients and my friends?  In the priesthood of all believers, who are my pastors?

Last Friday night was an awful night for our family.  In the space of two hours, our beloved french bull dog went from seemingly fine to rush-to-the-vet sick.  And then she died.  We spent the night shocked and heart broken.  Saturday afternoon there was a knock on our door.  Our pastor Bryan and his wife Sharon had heard of Maeve's passing.  They are dog lovers and knew our pain.  They sat in our living room and talked about Maeve and school and summer.  We shed a few tears and enjoyed some needed laughter.  After 30 minutes or so, they hugged us and took off.  In the quiet after they left, Josh said "You can really tell pastor Bryan is a pastor."  "Why do you say that?" I asked.  "He knew we were sad and he came over." Josh replied with a shrug.

Maybe it is as simple as that.