Introduction
Phoenix
Bell-Shelton Biggs (they/them) is a Queer, BIPOC, non-binary seminarian and
aspiring Public Theologian. They claim a
progressive Christian faith grounded in the Unitarian Universalist faith. Phoenix serves as an intern minister for the
Unitarian Universalist Fellowship of Fredericksburg, VA. In May, they graduated from Meadville Lombard
Theological School.
Phoenix
is called to lead Radical Love, Care, and Sanctuary Movements, simultaneously
disrupting patriarchy and all systems of oppression plaguing our world. They are healing, growing, and learning to
love themselves, trying to find their place on this topsy-turvy journey that we
call life. Before answering the call to
ministry, Phoenix earned Media Production and Religious Studies degrees from
Pellissippi State Community College and Middle Tennessee State University. When Phoenix is not working or studying, they
love being out in nature, traveling, eating good vegan food, all things
theater, and coffee.
Message for
All Ages (Presented by Holly Bednar)
HOLLY:
This is the message for all ages.
I'll be reading the children's book, My Heart, by Corinna Luyken.
"My heart is a window. My heart is a slide. My heart can be closed or opened up
wide. Some days, it's a puddle. Some days, it's a stain. Some days, it is cloudy and heavy with
rain. Some days it is tiny. But tiny can grow, and grow, and grow. There are days it's a fence between me and
the world, days it's a whisper that can barely be heard. There are days it's broken. But broken can mend. And a heart that is closed can still open
again. My heart is a shadow, a light and
a guide. Closed or open, I get to
decide."
MESSAGE
MX.
BIGGS: I was amazed this morning -- the
drive from Fredericksburg, Virginia actually took the hour and ten minutes it
was supposed to take. As we know, that's
not always the case, heading anywhere towards 95. So there's a joy for that.
Join me in the spirit of prayer. Great and loving Spirit, grant us healing. Great and loving Spirit of the universe,
source of all that is sacred, and keeper of our earthly pain, and giver of our
strength and inspiration, be present in this room, and in our lives, this hour,
and all of the hours to come. Great
Spirit, our lives have been known and filled with moments of unrest, joy and
sorrow. These moments have left some
feeling a deep sadness in their hearts, and have been the raging fire known to
consume one's memory in the dark and looming night.
Great and loving Spirit, forget not
your children who seek solace in the forest, amidst the breeze nestled among
the mighty oak trees. Great and loving
Spirit, bring us the gift of peace we long for.
Remind us of our way and remove the pain we know all too well. May it be ever so, and blessings be
upon. And thank you, great Spirit.
So I crafted this prayer in the
moment, not written out, in a hospital room, in the emergency department, for
somebody I had met only 45 minutes prior.
As the words poured out of my mouth, into that room, and meshed with his
spirit, transformation and healing happened.
If nothing else, chaplaincy is a
heart-wrenchingly holy and painful spiritual journey that leads one to explore
and make meaning of human suffering, while believing in, praying to, and
questioning everything that you believe and pray to, questioning everything
about the very essence of what is named and perceived as holy, while being
asked to provide pastoral care for those who are questioning the very same
things.
"Would you mind praying for me?"
he said. "But I'm not sure how I feel
about God," he said. "Can we
pray without God? Never mind. That sounds so dumb. I'm sorry for asking."
In that moment, my heart broke for
Tony. Of course, Tony's not his real
name, to protect him. But my heart broke
for Tony. In that moment, I assured him
that of course we could pray without God, that of course his question was not
dumb, and that he had nothing to apologize for.
And that prayer that started it all poured out in the moment.
At that moment, in a hospital room,
what I was doing was pastoral and spiritual care, as his chaplain that afternoon. I had only met him moments ago, and would
quite possibly never see him again. And yet
that did not mean that for those moments his soul and mine were not entwined,
and that pastoral care could not take place.
So what is pastoral care? According to Carrie Doehring, in her book, The Practice of Pastoral Care: A Postmodern Approach, she writes, "Pastoral
care can take on many forms, depending upon the historical and global context in
which it is offered. Within healthcare,
military and occupational and educational settings, as well as correctional environments,
the term spiritual care is often used to describe the level of respect that
actively engages each person, while continuing to center respectful
relationships as you work through differences and challenges, values and beliefs,
practices of religion, and sociopolitical identity."
So it goes without naming, though I'll
name it anyway, that there are some boundaries and some limitations of
chaplaincy, when it comes to providing care for those who find themselves at
the margin of care, and when it comes for the chaplain who also finds themself
at the margin. Nonetheless, spiritual
care can be provided, and when it is, when those two souls meet, the
accompanying journey is one of transformation, no matter how brief or prolonged
that journey may be. It becomes a
journey of life, and a journey of healing.
It becomes true, what Connie Burk writes in her book, Trauma Stewardship, that "people who bear witness to a range of human experiences
may become increasingly inoculated in someone else's pain."
And it is also true, what is written
in a book titled, Injustice and the Care of Souls: Taking Oppression Seriously in Pastoral Care, because it matters. They
write, "When we attend to the soul in the praxis of care, we listen to the
stories that indicate the point of connection, the life of the individual, the
social web and the wider web of life, in which we are entangled, listening to
the soul, as archaic as it sounds," they write, "is a language that
may reveal meaning-making, capacity and joy, when we make sense of ourselves
and each other within a larger narrative source that we and they hold sacred."
So bearing witness to a wide range of experiences
that people face, and tending to the soul and the praxis of care, as a chaplain
listens to the stories, as a person listens to the stories of another, without
becoming inoculated in the story itself, is the art of chaplaincy, and is the
point of spiritual, pastoral care and humanity.
During my summer chaplaincy unit,
which was known as clinical pastoral education or CPE, which is a requirement
for any UU minister who is wishing to go before the credentialing office of the
UUA to be ordained, they require that we take at least one unit of CPE. These are often done in very intense environments. I did mine at a Level 1 trauma center in the
hills of east Tennessee. The sacred work
that I was tasked with, without being provided a lot of resources or support in
doing so immediately, as a part of chaplaincy, is also picking up the tools and
resources along the way, so they kind of push you into the room, and say,
"And how did that go?" Of
course, you have 300 hours to figure it all out.
But in those moments, the task was to
hold space, to explore the sacred, to explore the narrative of one's life, as a
sacred text, and to work to make meaning when all of life seemed
meaningless. There were countless
moments during this time, during those 300 hours roaming hospital halls,
visiting every room in the building, where the narrative of one's life as
sacred text came into being, from caring for a grieving mother who had just lost
her child; to playing a game of hide-and-seek in the children's wing with a
little girl to distract her from her brother's operation; to the moment that I found
myself praying and providing care for a dear friend and colleague's mother, the
Reverend Tiffany Sapp, who serves our congregation in Johnson City, Tennessee,
as I provided care for her mother, after the loss of her father, who did not
come out of surgery.
Yet none of those moments were the
profound moment that left me speechless, that left me to wonder why this individual
had so much pain, why they had had to face so much pain, that they would ask, "Can
we pray without God?" and then take it back, to feel that they were not
even worthy of praying. None of the
moments could have prepared me for the moment that changed everything. None of the moments were like this one, where
I was called to surrender and bear witness to a broken hallelujah, to a soul in
need of care and love on a hot summer afternoon in the hills of east Tennessee. (Indistinct) 22nd, 2022, that broken hallelujah
became real.
I had just finished lunch when I received
a call to the chaplain's office. A nurse
was saying that a patient in the emergency department, in the psych holding
rooms, was requesting a chaplain. They let
me know that this could be a very difficult visit. And they were wondering if a chaplain may be
available. So I let the nurse know that I
would be down, to give me five minutes. So
I finished my lunch, packed everything up, and took the five-minute walk from the
top floor of the hospital to the basement, to the emergency department. And everything changed.
As a part of chaplaincy, we're asked
to create an account, word for word, as best our memory serves us, of the
dialogue both that they share, the patient, and that we share, as
chaplains. So what I share with you is a
brief part of that. And if you need to
get up, if you need to walk around, if you need to leave this room for the next
two minutes and 55 seconds, please do. I'm
not going to share a lot of deep details, but they're still heavy. And I need you to take care of yourself.
"So
how are you feeling today?" I asked Tony.
"Not
good, I'm afraid. I'm uncomfortable. I'm unsure.
And I don't know if I want to do this anymore. I swallowed a pin, and I'm feeling alone and
suicidal. I think I want to die. Is it a sin to take one's own life? I've been told all my life that it is. But I don't know."
In
that moment, I took a deep breath and asked myself, how do you respond to such
a question?
"Tony,
I hear you saying that you're feeling alone and suicidal, that you'd like to
die, and that you're unsure if taking your own life is a sin or not." Tony nods.
And just to be sure, I ask, "Is that correct?" He nods again. "Well, Tony, do you believe it is a sin? You say you don't know. Would you mind telling me more about why you're
unsure if taking one's own life is a sin or not? What might sin look like for you?"
"Well,
as I mentioned before," Tony begins, "I've been told all my life that
it was. But I'm unsure. I'm unsure because I don't even know if I believe
in sin, at least not like that. If I believe
in sin -- and I'm not sure I do -- then the sin would be the suffering that has
been inflicted onto me. The hurt, the
abuse, the pain, you know. Not the point
that I'm hurting to the point of not wanting to live anymore, that I might kill
myself to escape the suffering. Does that
make sense? I don't think that makes
sense." Tony stopped talking. His eyes filled with tears. And I can tell he's holding them back.
"Yes. Yes, Tony, that makes sense. And I am so sorry that you have known such
suffering. Would you mind just sharing
what suffering has looked like for you? Please
know that I do not wish to cause you more harm, that you do not have to share,
but that I'm here, if you would like to."
And
with that, Tony wipes his eyes, stops rocking, and says, "Where do I start?" And for the next 30 minutes, Tony shared
everything.
Truly, I believe we are all worthy of
love, worth and dignity. And I say this
as a nonbinary person entering ministry, knowing that I have not always felt
worthy, that I have not always felt that I had worth and dignity, just like
Tony, a trans 21-year-old who found himself in the emergency department, asking
the chaplain if it was a sin to take his life.
This calling to provide care at the
margins is essential. It is in those
margins that we learn how to love ourselves and one another. It is how we continue to grow. It is what allowed me to be a better
caregiver, and shows me just how important the role of caring is. Whether you're a chaplain, a nurse, a
teacher, a lawyer, or a Unitarian Universalist, caring matters.
When we can provide a non-anxious,
compassionate presence for someone, and when we are willing to inquire about
their values, is the moment that growth and transformation take place. As a chaplain, a spiritual leader, a
minister, a human, on this earth, each day can present itself with moments where
we are called to support and steward people in their trauma.
Trauma stewardship is a process, a
process in which one who actively engages trauma and suffering and crisis in
another is able to move that trauma, to hold the joy, the pain, the complex
realities of living, moving everything towards transformation, making meaning out
of the universe, while not minimizing the trauma itself.
In providing care for Tony that afternoon,
the process of trauma stewardship played its course. I sat with Tony, who was in crisis, who was
suffering, who was asking complex questions.
I was fully present, holding his experiences; trying to find moments of
joy, which I found was music, nature, and writing; and bearing witness to the
pain that his young body knew. Such profound
moments of holding space for a young person.
In those moments, our selves became that nexus point of connection. The stories, the laughs, the tears, the
words, the silences.
And so if nothing else, chaplaincy, ministry,
life, can be heart-wrenching. It can be
painful. And it is always holy and
spiritual work. It leads us to explore
and make meaning of suffering, while believing in, praying to, and questioning
everything that we know about the very essence of what is named and perceived as
holy.
Yet it is so much more than that. It's about holding questions. It's about conversations. It's about love. It's about reminding each other, and sometimes
reminding ourselves, about inherent worth and dignity. You don't have to be a chaplain. You don't have to be a minister. You don't have to spend $100,000 on a seminary
education. You have to be human. And in being human, we begin to heal the
world, to mend the broken hallelujah.
As for my short time with Tony in that
hospital room in the hills of east Tennessee, I'll never know what happened to
him. For those 45 minutes, our souls
were connected. His pain was my pain. His stories, my stories. And suppose my presence made an impact, that
he got the help he needed. Or maybe he
went home and didn't wake up. I'll never
know. And yet part of trauma stewardship
is maintaining one's own healthy boundaries, one's own ethics, in providing
care for someone, being able to recognize and name what is yours in the moment
and what will always be theirs but not yours.
So for those 40 minutes, Tony's story
was mine. His pain, his journey, his
joy. And I provided care as best as I could. Maybe it wasn't much. Maybe I didn't do my best. But I did what I could in those moments. And I acknowledge that for a while, for perhaps
too long, Tony's stories, Tony's experiences, kept me up at night, because his
pain had become inoculated with pains that I held. And the work of trauma stewardship invited me
to let go, to let go of his pain, but to keep his stories, to continue to find
compassion and transformation in the stories, and to not hold the pain.
Life is complicated. But love is. There is pain. There is joy.
There is hope. And there is
love. And it all happens in the blink of
an eye. So, Beloved, may you be human. May you provide care for someone. Maybe it's a stranger that you'll meet on the
street corner today. Maybe it'll be in a
hospital room, providing care for your loved one. And maybe it'll be the phone call that comes
at night, that you answer when you'd rather be in bed, and somebody says, "Hey,
can we chat? Everything's not all right." And you say, "Of course. How are you? What's going on? I'm here." May it be so.
And may you make it so. Ashe, and
blessed be.
