Called Judithio

I don’t think I know what the dictionary definition of pastoral care is. I am pretty sure it means something done with another person and means listening to that person very carefully. You both know that at least one person is somehow in need. And I think both people feel something at the end, moved, or comforted, or understood, or helped.

Pastoral care is probably not what my husband used to say to students: “I understand, but I don’t sympathize”, though they kept coming back and talking to him. It’s probably closer to what my friend John and I meant when we said of a coworker that he was the guy you wanted to grow up to be, and that you always felt better after talking to him.

A fine theory. But how do you get the other person to start talking? “How about them Hawks?” doesn’t work in Boston, and I don’t think I ever heard a conversation that started that way go anyplace. In my usual work, people expect me to ask questions, and they expect to answer. In the clinic, this works pretty well. They come to me. Out here, I am coming to them, and they can choose to acknowledge me or not, to respond or not. Giving them my name helps, and making sure I’ve got theirs.

I must digress: I’m learning some names, and I’m recognizing people. Batman and Chino probably had different names at baptism. It’s always first names: Mary, Angelo, Lillia, Michael, Peter, Steven, Eddie, Neal, Martha, Brenda, Billy, Vinnie.

“How are you doing?” seems to work as well as anything. Asking if people have a safe place to sleep, if they get meals anyplace, if they are on a list for housing—these are all OK and most people will answer. But when they talk is when they’ve seen you a couple times and recognize you. Or, for me, I come with Steven, and they know and trust him. So they next thing I’m learning to do, after “how are you doing today?” is to sit and wait. And very often, people start talking and telling you remarkable stories. I don’t always understand everything—poor teeth don’t make for clear speech. But they talk about hard times, and about good times in the past, and about the things that haven’t worked out for them. Then, along with agreeing with the pain and loss and anger, sometimes I can ask what they hope for. I can ask what their good luck, or their special gift is. I can ask what helped them step back from a bad choice or even suicide.

I can see that better relationship makes for better conversations. And that knowing both a name and a story makes the next encounters richer. This isn’t therapy, and it’s not very directive; the goal is not to improve people or better their lives–not, that is, in any short run or any way that will improve an outcome score and make your data analysis look good.

When I did literature, I thought something like this: if humans are made in the image of God, that must mean in the mind and soul, not the physical likeness (since God as Father isn’t physical). So we can learn something about that divine by studying the minds of other people. Literature is the preserved record of the workings of human minds. I can touch human minds from many times and places by reading what they’ve written. So I can study God, indirectly.

Doing pastoral care in any setting I think is like that. We honor each other as children of God, as created in His image, as carrying God. Listening, building a relationship so that there is more trust in what is said and listened to, brings both of us closer to God. It’s hard to do, but it’s easier to do it than to explain it.

I’m starting to find where I can connect so I can post. For now, to catch up, I’m going to do a few short pieces to cover the last few days.

It poured rain this morning as I walked to get coffee and a roll—couldn’t find the café where I had a large, good, inexpensive breakfast yesterday. It was still raining when I got to the monastery for 9:00 communion. The service was lovely, as always. Antiphons at every possible place; a choral piece while the congregation was asperged (I’m not sure we needed it, God had already done that), a set of Carl Daw words new to me to Sine Nomine. There was incense, votive candles, and the congregation and brothers were friendly in a slightly impersonal way.

Then on to Boston to St. Paul’s Cathedral, where I was to meet Steven (one of the priests with common cathedral).. I was there as they finished the 10:00 Choral Eucharist; lovely, big choir, congregation about 35—fewer, and smaller in their space than at SSJE. I was invited in for Eucharist, but declined and sat to listen. The person who invited me in is one of the regulars at common cathedral, catching strays at the back of the Cathedral service. It wouldn’t be fair to comment on the welcome; I didn’t give them a chance, just listened to the music.

Then I went to find Steven, the priest celebrating common cathedral today. He was there—young man with a collar—and started introducing me to people: MaryAnn, who always asks whether she should carry the cross; Chris, at a desk; Jim, the sexton; Lauren, the intern who’s almost finished; Bill, the musician; several others. All help set up; some are newcomers, like me. I repeated their names, shook hands, talked about weather and where I’d come from, but I don’t remember any more names. I recognized some as having been there when I visited in September. Steven showed me where common cathedral is given storage space to keep the rolling altar cart (it once held chairs) a second cart with urns used for juice and water, the musician’s chair and music stand.

Because of the rain, common cathedral will be held on the porch of St. Paul’s, at the top of a set of steps. We roll the supply cart up to street level on a long internal hallway ramp, then carry things up the steps. The altar cart has to go up an elevator to the main floor and out the front door of the cathedral to set up on the porch. Altar guild made simple: the frontal is folded and stored inside the altar. Then two clear plastic bottles of grape juice stand on the altar, as do two wooden plates with communion bread (it is bread). And the service book, sheets all in plastic sleeves against the weather. That’s it—no linens, no candles, no flowers. The priest’s stole is also stored in the altar.

During the common cathedral service (which starts with Kumbaya), the congregation participates: they hesitate, then someone steps forward to share a thanksgiving for a home, a request for prayer for someone’s mother, a story. Perhaps half of the circle steps forward to share each time. I don’t have the whole rhythm of it down, but there seem to be three such times in the service—the last of them, response to the sermon.

I am struck by the very different friendliness of this group. Anyone who comes forward and speaks is given praise, encouragement, empathy. Those who don’t are sought out and offered Eucharist, especially those who aren’t part of the circle but are standing beyond it, or moving in and out of it, or standing at a distance but present. The passing of the peace is a movement of the whole group. Some are tentative clasping a hand, but they mostly look at each other as they do so and most seem eager for the contact and the greeting.

Somehow the street church was the welcoming one. I was being introduced as here to spend the month with them, but other newcomers, other stories were more exclaimed over. What do they have that we don’t have, that this is something so difficult for us to do in a housed church?