Turning it Off

 More than fourteen years ago, I faced what felt like my first real emotional test as a pastor in training. The summer after my first year of divinity school, I embarked on a summer-long course of clinical pastoral education, or CPE. While most of my classmates were assigned parts of the hospital in which patients were discharged after just a few days, I happened to draw the leukemia-oncology ward. Patients came in for prolonged stays, or they came back again and again while undergoing chemotherapy.

What was more, although I was a green as they come, I nonetheless wore a badge identifying me as a chaplain, and that's how people treated me. I felt woefully unprepared; nonetheless, people still looked to me for spiritual advice and had no hesitation in asking the hard questions about dying and heaven.

Though I confessed it to no one, I had a secret fear of becoming too attached. I was concerned that if I poured out my whole heart in caring for these patients, I would become emotionally dependent on them and would have a hard time walking away at the end of the summer. How would I deal with this challenge, I wondered: Would I hold back, remaining aloof as a hedge of self-protection?

Part of the structure of CPE included weekly meetings in our small groups. The supervisor astutely observed that I tended to subconsciously create a wall around myself, as though I feared vulnerability. What would happen, she asked, if I allowed myself to be more open - in a safe space, among friends and colleagues? Through her gentle guidance, I began to let my guard down.

On the floor, though, I had no such barriers. Whether I wanted to or not, I simply could not be who I was and remain aloof and detached. I simply poured out my whole heart to all of the patients, finding myself weeping in an elevator when one who had been making great progress unexpectedly died. 

But the summer lasted only so long. On a Friday morning, we were told to turn in our keys and name tag. We were no longer functioning as chaplains in that hospital. After the graduation ceremony, I phoned to the leukemia-oncology floor, wanting to know the fate of one patient in particular. He was young and afflicted with multiple myeloma. There was no hope. I had ministered to this young man and his family for several months. I had to know. 

He had died, just a few minutes ago, I was told. I thanked the nurse and hung up the phone - and headed out the door. The family needed pastoral care, no doubt. But someone else would be providing it. 

Over the course of that summer, I learned a fundamental lesson in the life of pastors: Love them and leave them. Whether it's a matter of months or years, pastors will invariably part from their flocks. And once that happens, it's not only proper pastoral care but a matter of ethical standards that we then refrain from staying in touch with the people who were once under our care. Someone else will be meeting their spiritual needs.

In another couple of days, I will wind up my time in my current call. For seven years, I have walked with these residents and their families. As of December 31, I will be walking with them no more. Someone else will be meeting their spiritual needs, praying for them and providing their counsel. Oddly enough, the detachment is the least of my concerns. 

Or maybe it's not so odd. In the course of their careers, pastors will depart from their flocks several times. We get good at it out of necessity. In my next call, I know that I will pour out my whole heart in serving the people I am called to serve, for however long it will be.