Strangers Come and Strangers Go . . .
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
The Neophile
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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The Performer
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 . . .
I smell old …
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 . . .
The Funeral
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 . . .
A little less golden
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 . . .
A Theology of Care
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.
I am a loser…
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…
Personal Lamentation: Who is transforming?
I am tired of you
I grow weary of our conversations
that cycle endlessly
in their toxic accusations and in the endless necessity
of weeding out your insanity
I become fatigued at the thought
of still having to deal with you;
your need for demonstration, proclamation, and examination
You have hurt me
and yet…
and yet…
and yet…
You clutch at me, still questioning,
still doubting,
still manipulating
and yet…
and yet…
and yet…
I still see you;
I see glimpses, mere specks of light
I see you reading to me as a child
I see you endlessly rubbing my foot after knee surgery when my leg throbbed in pain
I see you inquiring about my life as it has journeyed away from yours…
I see you now, in your last days, transforming, forging your own path instead of clinging to mine…