What Breaks Your Heart?

Hello friends,

Awhile back, while I was still at home in Cannon Falls, one of my pastors preached a sermon from the pulpit where he asked the parishioners, "What breaks your heart?" He gave various examples throughout the gospel text, at the trial and crucifixion of Christ, where the disciples hearts broke. Where Jesus' heart broke.

I'm taking my Clinical Pastoral Education experience this semester, where I'm a chaplain at Unity Hospital. For three weeks we've wrestled with getting into a room, been coached through the "art of simply being", and we've wondered and sought answers to what our pastoral authority and identity might look like. It's been trying, exhausting, consuming, exhilarating, and joyful all at the same time.

Part of our work at the hospital is making sure that spiritual care consults are attended to. This is where patients, family, and/or staff can put in specific requests on a patient's chart for a chaplain to visit. Generally, most days I don't have many since I'm on the surgery-orthopedics recovery floor, and most days patients just want to rest.

I had two today, though, and I had the realization. This work, these people, are what breaks my heart.

I walked into one room, unsure of what to expect. I tell the woman lying in the bed that I'm a chaplain, that spiritual care was requested. She looks at me, "No, I didn't ask for anyone. Maybe I did. I don't know." The woman was detoxing from severe alcohol abuse. We talked of fear, of uncertainty, of what to do next. My heart broke. No support system here; the only family lives in Texas. This woman hasn't gone to church in years because the people are hypocritical there and the singing is like praying but the faith she has in God is beautiful, amazing, and could easily be more authentic, vibrant, and vulnerable than any seasoned churchgoer. She requests a prayer and I pray, words of healing and hope and finding your way in the midst of uncertainty, in the midst of all the shit that life brings. Tears fall from her eyes, and I promise a return visit. Soon. I leave the room, and my own eyes well. My heart breaks.

Another visit, a man this time. Younger. Married, and has a job that makes almost six figures a year. He's in for chronic pancreatic pain, and just wishes they would take it out this time. The pain is unbearable, and the man is almost in tears. Finances, family, work, and emotions are in ruin, and he knows no way out. What do I do, he asks? I sit there. I don't know. I don't know what to say, I don't know what I could say that would be helpful in any way because I haven't had it as nearly as bad as this man has. So, I lean over, I say "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry." I let those words sink in for a moment. I offer a prayer, and he says yes.

I pray, again. For God's peace, God's overwhelming providence in the midst of life's crap, for hope when everything seems to be in despair. For God's light to be with him, for Christ to walk alongside him. I pray for everything this man so desperately wants. A sense of normalcy. He thanks me; I leave. My heart breaks.

I left the hospital tonight unsure of what I was thinking. I left the hospital this night praying for all the people I had visited. I hoped I had done enough. I pray that God blesses them and keeps them, that God makes God's face shine upon them. That God is gracious unto them, and gives them peace, now and for the rest of their days.

I ask you, my friends this night. What breaks your heart? Spend some time contemplating. Spend some time thinking on that. Give thanks for this wondrous life we all live.

Dean

after supper jesus took bread

blessed it,

broke it, 

and gave it to his disciples
saying,
take and eat - all of you
this is my body,
given for you
and for all people,
for the forgiveness of all sin.
do this
for the remembrance of me.

- words of institution

I often wonder what it would be like to be at the table with Christ and his followers in this moment. We've heard the words of institution in corporate worship a million times, and in every way they are still extraordinarily meaningful, but I wonder what it would be like to hear those words alongside the disciples, gathered in the upper rooms and living in the mystery of it all:

In community, Jesus takes a loaf of bread, and breaks it amongst his followers and friends. Passing it, Christ instructs that this bread represents his literal body as a new covenant that is given to us and all of humanity for the forgiveness of all sins & brokenness & wrongs & adversity that we can possibly commit. At that table, taking bread and wine, Christ breaks us from the bonds of human sin and welcomes us into freedom - a freedom to proclaim Christ's gospel and message of grace & peace & reconciliation for the whole world. Literally, everyone. We are instructed to live out this practice, this eucharist in community often, as we remember Christ's promises and death upon the cross - we remember this both for ourselves and for those who are invited anew each time to taste and see what God has revealed in the bread and wine, earth & grain & sustenance & hope.

I find myself baking bread and remembering these words often - as I knead I know that the loaves I am making mean more than mere food - they become means of expressing love and care towards my family and all who I give away loaves to, in remembrance of what Christ has done for all of us. A ciabatta in all of its crackly-singing-crust-glory or a lovely soft sandwich loaf can all say, "come and see that God is good." They are reminders, to me, of what Christ does and is for us. In Christ, and in bread, there is life.

In your baking, in your communion, in your brokenness & in your joy - may you find God.
May it be so.
Amen.

Dean