Well, I figured since I haven’t shared much lately, I’d let you in on one of the reflections I recently wrote for CPE. I’m doing a summer unit at a state mental facility in Butner.
Pax,
LMK
Week number one: Clinical Pastoral Education
May 25, 2007. I figured it would happen, but I didn’t think it would be this soon. I have officially attempted to open the door to my house with the master ward key.
CPE is very quickly becoming a regular part of my daily life. The obvious response to that is, of course, it would have to because I’ve committed to spending an estimated 42% of the hours I’m awake with CPE (either at JUH or working on writing). This reflection comes a day after admitting to myself and the group that there are going to be parts of this that hit really close to home—that from what my ears have heard from the doctors and the staff having to do with history, occasional behaviors, and general mentality, I stand a higher eligibility for “patient” status over “chaplain” status.
I felt encouraged after the group stories. I thought that perhaps many of them would think I was over reacting or incapable of doing this work. Instead I felt very supported. Of course, I still do not feel “changed” or “different,” but I feel a little empowered for this ministry and a little more confident in myself (although I’m sure that even forty years into ministry I’ll still feel like I have not got a clue about how to “do this” well).
When we attended report on Wednesday, one of the nurses on Rehab reported that there was a gentleman who said he was Jesus. Earlier Marion mentioned that we get a few who sometimes say that they are Jesus. It occurred to me as those of us present laughed about it that a patient saying he is Jesus speaks a huge element of truth to me. I learned a while ago that if I can treat people like I want to be treated, or better yet, treat them like they are Christ here in front of me, then I could get along okay in Christian vocation. (Or at least I saw it in many email forwards about Jesus showing up as a beggar or a bum.)
On my way home from seeing a variety of patients on Friday, I again thought about that man who said he was Jesus. I have no idea who this person is, but I have a huge respect for anyone who makes that claim. “Other” sense of reality or not, I sometimes have a really hard time showing the “Christ” part of Christian, and I give kudos to those—mental illness or not—who mention him that boldly. I also thought about the faces of Christ that I saw all day—some wounded, some joyful, some broken, all beautiful, all Christ—they are children of God. Then I also realized that when I stepped out and offered my fear of not being any different from our patients, I also (in a way) made that claim of being Jesus. I deserve to treat myself like a child of God because I am one. In that car ride home, I began to feel presence again. Not mine, but God’s. And it felt good.
Back to the key. I got home, fumbled through my wad of keys, and tried twice before I discovered why the key I selected did not fit. I laughed out loud, surprised by how quickly the routine of unlocking doors at JUH were conflated with my own routines at home (I’ve also turned a key the wrong way to lock my door). But then I paused. On the way home, I had such comfort and assurance of God’s presence, and the feeling of self-love like I love God’s children. I gave myself permission to treat myself like I would want Jesus to be treated. And in that moment when I paused I lived in the gap of my own life—in the past and now in the present. There was a time when my own mother never trusted me with keys, and now her keys are not only clipped to the same carabiner that mine are, they are next to keys that house some of God’s most cherished fragile friends. What an honor and a privilege. In that moment when only a few minutes earlier I had become re-aware of God’s presence, I felt like my feet touched ground again.
I am not a patient. I am not a chaplain. I am part of the present active universe in which God is also present and active.
