Elevator Ride

I got to work about half an hour early today and decided to try and grab a power nap before making my visits. As my elevator door was closing, it suddenly reversed direction and opened for a woman who had quickly snagged the "Up" button outside. She came in and pushed the button for one of the floors I recognized as an ICU, and the two of us began to ascend.

The woman began silently examining the hospital badge I wear, trying to figure out my role. Without saying anything, I held it up for her to see. "Chaplain," she read, and then paused just a moment before blurting out, "She's going to die at home, like she wants. It will be okay."

I haven't left any details out of this story for anonymity's sake; you, the reader, know exactly the same amount of information that I knew about this woman when she opened up to me. Somewhat stunned, I asked, "And how are you handling it?" She responded that she was fine, that the patient would "finally be back with [name] in heaven." The elevator arrived on my floor, and, feeling somewhat disoriented by the unexpected conversation, I told the woman where the chaplaincy office was and encouraged her to come for a visit if she needed to talk through anything . With that, I exited the elevator and immediately wished I had followed her up to her floor.

It's a strange feeling when a stranger opens up to me. I've had patients describe feelings that they say they would not discuss with family members; I've seen the pain in their eyes as they silently beg me to ask the questions that our culture would consider inappropriate; I've heard explanations of illnesses that are much more bluntly descriptive than anything you would find on a church prayer list.

And as much as I wish I could chalk this up to my personality and skill as a chaplain, I know that the trust people place in me is based much more on my title than on anything I've said or done—and I know this because of experiences like the elevator, when I had absolutely no time to even try and build rapport. There are some times when I introduce myself as a chaplain and immediately hear guilt-based explanations of the patient's recent church participation (or lack thereof), as if I were the attendance police on patrol. But much more often, patients hear my title and immediately see me as a confidant, a confessor, a teammate.

It's then that I simultaneously love and hate being a Minister by trade. I love it because I want to live in the Kingdom of God, a place where we can trust each other because we're not out to get each other. I like the experience of being trusted, of being let in, of being seen as a safe person who represents a safe God. But I also hate it because I'm not really a chaplain; I'm a person, Brent Bailey, who is doing the work of chaplaincy. There's no such thing as a chaplain, if "chaplain" means "someone entirely trustworthy doing the work of pastoral care." And it's utterly terrifying to receive such confidence without having to prove myself, because I worry that I will somehow violate the trust the person places in me.

That badge is a blessing and a curse.