Rev. Faith Callison
First Baptist Church of Granville
June 15, 2008
Before launching into my message this morning, I would like, in the tradition of Paul Harvey, to tell you the rest of the story from Chapter 24 of Luke’s Gospel, verses 28-31:
“As they came near the village to which they were going, he walked ahead as if he were going on. But they urged him strongly, saying, “Stay with us, because it is almost evening and the day is now nearly over.” So he went in to stay with them. When he was at the table with them, he took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them. Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him; and he vanished from their sight.
At this point, I feel the need to inform you that if you have come here this morning expecting a theological treatise, undergirded by exhilarating exegesis, expounded with an airtight apologetic, then I’m afraid I have nothing to offer you. If, however, you have come here this morning, hoping to hear the way in which this morning’s scripture passages (Exodus 2.1-8 and Luke 24.13-31) form the basis for my ministry as a hospice Chaplain, as well as how I view my Chaplaincy as an extension of the ministerial life of this congregation, then I do indeed have something to offer.
At first glance, it must have seemed rather puzzling as to why these two scripture passages had been selected and utilized for the same message when there seems to be no logical correlation between them. Hopefully, though, as I expound upon this over the next three hours. . .just kidding. In all seriousness, my heart’s desire and prayer are to provide you a glimpse into who I am as a preacher, as a pastor, as a Chaplain, and above all, as a member of this congregation who ministers among those who are terminally ill and dying on a daily basis.
So let’s begin with a personal revelation for those of you who have not yet discerned from my Southern twang that I am a West Virginian. My communication style is based in narrative—especially my preaching. In other words, I am a teller of stories. Just as importantly, as someone who ministers with those who are at the end of their earthly life, I consider myself a keeper of stories. So, I will share with you some of the stories that I steward—changing the names, of course, to protect their privacy and health information—as I portray three metaphors from this morning’s scriptures upon which my ministry is based.
I wish you could have known Jane. Jane, like me, was from West Virginia originally. She relocated to Columbus about 15 years ago to live with her son, after the death of her husband. She was in her late 60’s, Roman Catholic, a life-long smoker, and she was dying with lung cancer. Looking back at it now, it’s almost comical the way she used to take her oxygen off to go outside and smoke a cigarette, then come huffing and puffing back to her hospital bed and put her oxygen back on. All the while complaining that she was so short of breath!
I felt an instant connection to Jane. In many ways, she felt like my older sister. We had long conversations about lots of things. She had a strong faith in God and believed she would go to Heaven. It was the process of dying that frightened her. Jane did not want to go through the deterioration of her body until she could no longer toilet herself or bathe herself. She didn’t want to linger for days on end, unconscious, unable to converse with family and friends. The thought of that frightened her.
One day when she and I were alone in the house, she took my hand and said to me, “I’m afraid to go through this. I know God is with me, but I want to ask you if you will be with me too. For, if you go through this with me, I know that I’ll make it through.” And, of course, I promised her that I would go through her journey with her, and if it were humanly possible, I would be present with her when she died.
Like Miriam, who followed along behind her mother as she placed Moses and the basket into the river, I consider myself “a watcher.” That’s the first metaphor upon which my ministry is based. In your mind’s eye, picture with me, a young girl—Miriam—following her mother to the river; maybe there is a puzzled look on her face, or perhaps a worried look; she is silently watching as the basket which held her baby brother is placed in the water; and then, picture her remaining there to see if any intervention is needed. When Pharaoh’s daughter spots the infant, Miriam immediately springs into action, fetching their mother to nurse the baby and help raise him. Miriam was a “watcher.”
In the years that I did trauma Chaplaincy, every day people suffering from horrendous injuries, in impossible situations flowed through the Emergency Room—and so did their families. Early on, I often wondered how folks were able to walk through the corridors of the hospital. How did their legs carry them when their son, their spouse, their parent hovered on the edge of eternity in the ICU? Eventually, I think I came to realize that the response to that question was two-fold. But, for our purposes here, what I learned is that folks can endure the most horrific circumstances if they have someone “watching” with them; and, like a young girl who is learning how to dance places her feet on her father’s until she can learn the steps, so we allow folks to walk on our faith, on our hope, until they can find their own again.
There’s actually another Biblical basis for this in the Gospels when Jesus went into the Garden of Gethsemane to pray (Matt. 26.36-40 NIV). He knew that his death was at hand, and he took those closest to him—his disciples—into the Garden with him. And what did he ask them to do? Anyone? He asked them “to watch” with him while he prayed.
As a hospice Chaplain, I am “a watcher.” I watch “with” my patients. Like Miriam, I silently watch. I witness their process, their journey, and their death. And, also like Miriam, I watch “over” them and their process. Do I need to intervene at any point? Do I need to step from the role of “being with” someone to “doing for” someone, and consequently determine an appropriate intervention? The first metaphor, then which both forms and informs my ministry is that of a “watcher.”
The second metaphor which forms and informs my ministry is that of Jesus on the Road to Emmaus. Now, I am in no way, shape, or form, saying that I am Jesus. What I am saying is that like Jesus, I join alongside of folks on THEIR journey, and we walk the rest of the way together.
Dan was one of those people. I just joined him on his journey. Dan was 52, no professed faith tradition—AT ALL. Dan turned 53 while he was on our hospice program. He died from lung cancer. Dan was one of those people you couldn’t help but like. He was about 5’6”, always had on his ball cap, and quite thin by the time I met him. Dan had this dry sense of humor and it was difficult at times to discern whether he was joking or not—and usually I was the object of the joke! He loved to fish, play pool, tell stories. But his real passion was combining all of the above on a particular lake in Michigan.
At first, Dan “didn’t want to see no blankety-blank-blank preacher.” But with a lot of persuasion on the part of the nurse, he reluctantly agreed to give me one chance. No pressure there! When I knocked on the door, I knew that I had to find something immediately in his apartment that I could use to connect with. When Dan opened the door, he greeted me by saying, “You must be the preacher.” As I was confirming my identity, just over his shoulder I noticed a picture of NASCAR driver Rusty Wallace. In my 20’s when I was a NASCAR nut, I also used to cheer for Rusty. So, I took a chance and said, “Oh! My Driver!” Dan grinned broadly and said, “Come on in. Maybe we can talk.”
Over the months that Dan was on hospice, as he grew weaker and weaker, our conversations grew deeper and deeper. We talked about everything. Dan had always said that he didn’t want a funeral, but about two months before he died, he asked me if I would do his funeral—much to his family’s surprise. Dan and I always avoided the subject of God and religion. He told me a story about his grandmother and the church she had attended. He made it clear to me that if there was a God, God didn’t care about him, and church was full of hypocrites. Well, what would you have done? Me, I just kept walking with him on his journey.
The night that Dan died, I got a call from hospice. . .late. By that time he was living with his daughter, but I willingly undertook the 30 minute drive to get there. When I arrived, Dan’s daughter told me that he had gone unresponsive. He hadn’t talked all day and now couldn’t even squeeze their hands. Now, she was worried about his soul. His grandson needed to know that Dan was going to go to heaven. I let her know that I had made Dan a promise that I wouldn’t try to change his mind about God—and I intended to keep that promise. I also told her that I would, however, attempt to open a conversation.
I walked in the room and realized that this was going to be impossible. There was no way that Dan could communicate with me. But, I sat down by his bed, leaned down and spoke into his ear to let him know I was there. I couldn’t believe my eyes as I saw him working so hard to raise his hand off of the bed for me to hold. I held his hand in mine and again spoke into his ear, asking him just one question: “Dan, have you figured out where it is you are going. . .and are you at peace with it?” Again, I couldn’t believe my eyes and ears as I watched the muscles around his mouth and in his neck begin to twitch. It seemed like he struggled forever, but finally he managed to utter one syllable, “Yes.” As soon as Dan uttered that one word, his hand went limp in mine. I stayed with him for a long while. He died just a few hours later.
I’m a good American Baptist. I firmly believe in “Soul Freedom”, “Soul Competency,” which is the right and independence of every person to answer God’s call to relationship in their own time and in their own way. Even though Dan adamantly insisted there is no God, his deep love of Creation, his love and care of his family and his friends all spoke of someone who was deeply spiritual—and probably deeply wounded by the church because of an incident between his Grandmother and her church when he was a young boy.
Like Jesus on the Road to Emmaus, I enter into another’s journey. I companion them. I listen to them—a lot. And, sometimes, if it is appropriate, I even teach them. The important piece of this is that it matters that I am an American Baptist Chaplain, for I am a member of a denomination whose founding principle is Freedom. Folks are capable and free to make up their own minds. They don’t need me, you, or anybody else attempting to force them onto a path which is not theirs to walk. What I have discovered is that the Holy Spirit’s guidance is best. If I just do my part, and allow God to do God’s part, most folks eventually connect with the One Who called them into life, and who receives them when they come home again. And if not, they exercised their freedom to choose.
Finally—everyone can exhale now—I’m winding down. The third metaphor which forms and informs my ministry is found at the end of Luke’s Gospel when the disciples’ spiritual eyes were opened and they realized that it was Jesus who was sitting at table fellowship with them. It was not in the teaching that Jesus did as they walked along the Road to Emmaus when he expounded the scriptures to them. Rather, it was in that four-fold action they had seen Jesus do so many times during table fellowship when he took the bread, and blessed it, and broke it, and gave it to them. That’s when they realized that Jesus was in their midst.
In the Baptist tradition, we do not observe the Sacraments. Rather, we participate in the Ordinances of Baptism and The Lord’s Supper—so named because they were Ordained by our Lord during his life on earth. Having said that, I do not understand my ministry and work to be “Sacrament,” but rather, I understand my ministry with the dying to be sacramental, that is infused with God’s grace. Like when I visited with Frank and his family.
Frank was in his 80’s, Southern Baptist, dying of heart disease. He had three daughters—all of them in their thirties and forties, and all of them unmarried. He had been a very abusive person to their now deceased mother, and to them. They remained quite afraid of him, although it was never openly discussed, only inferred. Frank was very close to death the last day I visited. He was no longer responsive, and I had never seen his daughters acting so carefree. One of them offered me a cup of tea and a chocolate chip cookie. I of course declined, but she practically begged me to join them.
I relented and in short order, Sandy brought me a steaming cup of tea in a beautiful china cup and saucer and a freshly-made chocolate chip cookie. As we sat there together, talking over tea and cookies, it was as though the grace of Jesus flooded into that room. Through that table fellowship, those three daughters shared things they had never discussed before, except with each other. We wept over their past, we talked about the funeral arrangements they were beginning to plan in the present, and they began to look toward their future—and freedom. Again, I am not Jesus and the work that I do is not a Sacrament. But, there is something sacramental, something sacred about the ministry I do.
I’ll close by sharing this. Hospice patients teach me how to live every day. What I have come to realize is that every moment of life is lived on sacred ground. Life and death are spiritual experiences with a physical component.
Dying is a spiritual journey to the next world. The moment of death is sacred. To be present when a soul departs this world is an honor and privilege. It is an honor and a privilege which is the heart of the ministry that I perform on a daily basis as an extension of the life and ministry of this congregation.
As I journey and minister with those who are dying, I do so on behalf of this congregation as an extension minister, if you will, fully cognizant and aware of the fact that I am blessed to be living, loving, and ministering on Sacred Ground. Thank you for allowing me this blessed opportunity and joy to minister as a member of this community of faith. Amen.
