When the Pastor Becomes the Patient

From the looks of this blog, you would think that I have been away from preaching for quite a long time. Actually not. My discipline has simply lagged. But I have been away from the pulpit of Seneca Presbyterian Church for six weeks. Why? I needed to face the challenge of the orthopedic surgeon’s knife!

                On May 28 I underwent shoulder replacement surgery. The leaders of Seneca Presbyterian were graciously generous with me, allowing me six weeks for recuperation. Before the fact, I wondered if I would need them. After the fact, I know I did. I returned to work this week and will be back in the pulpit this Sunday – if my brain remembers how to preach. That’s what I’m trying to work on in these final days. And trying to put down in words the memories of my experience.

                I started experiencing pain in my left shoulder almost two years ago. When I finally consulted with doctors, I discovered that I had osteo-arthritis in that shoulder. An injection and physical therapy came after the diagnosis. An unsuccessful trial with medication came about ten months later, followed by another injection and the word from two surgeons that my shoulder was “surgically ready.”

                I had often heard that the rule of thumb for joint replacement is to put it off until you simply cannot stand it. Yet the advice I was getting seemed the opposite. “Your shoulder is not going to get any better on its own. The sooner you do the surgery, the greater the chance for a good outcome. And the sooner you do it, the sooner it’s done.” So I agreed.

                Now that six weeks have passed, I can honestly say the experience was tougher than I imagined. I guess I did not want to believe what my surgeon said as he exited my pre-op room: “Shoulders are rough.” In those first days, my body seemed to be overwhelmed with the trauma inflicted upon it. It was not so much the pain from the shoulder – though I did get a feel for that pain during a “break through” moment as the medication was being adjusted during the first days post-op. The challenge was more systemic. Every part of my body seemed to be in focused protest. My tongue was raw – like it had been burnt or frozen or both. Nothing tasted right. A simple trip from the bed to the bath was an ordeal. I became much too acquainted with the hospital’s green barf bags that looked like mini-dunce caps. And a full night’s sleep became an elusive dream. Watching the clock pass from 2 to 3 to 4 to 5 a.m. isn’t easy. Sometimes my prayer was simple: God, please let me sleep. Even newborn babes can do that.

                Throughout the ordeal and into the recovery, I kept a list of cryptic notes to remind me of thoughts and experiences that I might want to reflect on later. Cryptic they were – because some make little to no sense now. But here are some that do.

• It’s amazing what people will tell you when you tell them you are about to undergo major surgery. It seems everyone has a story to share – of what happened to them or to their sister or to their distant cousin. We seem to have a strong instinct for grounding the experience of others in our own. Ironically, when you are facing the unknown, you actually do crave other people’s stories. Anything to fill the void of what to expect. But this I have learned about sharing personal stories: there is no need to state the obvious. “It’s really going to hurt.” Or “I hear physical therapy is really rough.” No matter what your experience, it’s better to be encouragingly realistic. And when hearing personal stories, it’s better to just listen. Everyone’s story is different. Everyone’s experience will be different too.
• I entered this journey expecting it to be an exercise in empathy. And it was. So many of the saints at Seneca Presbyterian Church have been through joint replacement. Through this experience, I am now better able to understand theirs. Yet so many of my people endure far greater challenges than just a few weeks of misery post-op. For their sake, I hope my exercise in empathy lasts. I hope I can remember what it’s like to truly have no appetite; how eating can be an ordeal rather than a delight because nothing tastes right; how it feels to wake up wondering just what the day will bring because it is so totally outside your control.
•  Ironically, my recuperative instincts held little desire for visitors. I felt lousy. I looked lousy. I really had no energy to engage others. It is ironic because I’m often the one doing the visiting in the hours and days post-op. As I existed in a weakened state, I actually wondered if I had imposed myself on others inconsiderately. The wonder came with a bit of guilt, too. Yet when I was coaxed and encouraged to receive the genuine well-wishers who came my way, I had to admit in hind-sight that their visits were a blessing. They provided an escape from reality for a brief moment. And they forced me to summon up energy I did not know I had. When visiting others now, I shall do my best to remember that the patient can be putting on a better face than their reality dictates. While that can be a blessing, I need to listen for the clues when it is not.
• There is no better medicine than humor that comes from a glad heart, so I am grateful for all who brought laughter into my overshadowed existence, especially during those early days. This is not just any humor – and certainly not the kind that makes light of current infirmities. The distinction is subtle but important. This is humor that comes from a heart filled with the kind of joy that draws the sufferer into a different realm. It is a much needed reminder of a world that is “normal”; a world that is free from pain and discomfort.  It is a glimpse of hope. It is assurance that recovery will come. And it is a precious gift for those who possess the ability to express it.

Throughout these weeks, I always knew I would get better. I know too many who live without that assurance. So my experience only deepens my prayer for all who struggle with pain, limitations, fear, and despair. May they find a simple thing that brings joy every day, if only for a moment. For that is God.

                I can’t end this blog without a big thank you to all my friends near and far, but especially the saints of Seneca Presbyterian Church. Over 100 cards filled my mail box. The picture included at the top of this post is only a glimpse. Each one was a blessing and a sign of the remarkable grace of God expressed in our family of faith.

The Faith of "Mother Emmanuel"

My “home” state of South Carolina has been in the news lately. I use quotation marks around home for a good reason. Although I am South Carolina born, on a July morning in the hot and humid city of Columbia, only eight weeks later my mother, brother, and I made our way north to our new home in New Jersey. My South Carolina born and raised father had already begun work in his new job with a corporation based in Manhattan. He never brought his family back. Aside from our daughter’s college stay, our relocation to South Carolina barely five years ago in order for me to become pastor of Seneca Presbyterian Church represents the only sojourn of my immediate family in the Palmetto state since that departure. Yet the fascination of late with my home state of South Carolina fascinates me.

                Growing up far away from the deep south, yet with southern roots, South Carolina was the ancestral home for my father’s family, our Myrtle Beach vacation destination every August, the source of some of the world’s best music, and producer of the world’s finest peaches, which by the way are just now coming into season. God is good!

                Yet up until about two weeks ago, the world saw South Carolina as the birthplace of the confederacy and home to those who celebrate white supremacy. That impression was painfully and sorrowfully captured in the person of Dylann Roof as he took the lives of the nine children of God who welcomed him into their church sanctuary as they were gathered around the Word. He thought his act of evil would ignite a racial war, divide a nation, and empower racial bigotry. Instead, it brought the races together and likely will bring down what has become the symbol of hate that seemed to motivate his actions. Dylann thought the world worked one way; God’s people showed him another way.

                How did everything change so rapidly? It’s a fascinating question with no simple answer.

                First, we must acknowledge that what seems rapid is actually a culmination, the sudden burst of light that is the fruit of long faithful work and diligent faithful witness. I do not think that the legislature of the state of South Carolina would have been moved to secure the 2/3 majority needed to remove the flag were it not for the person of Clementa Pinckney. They knew him. He had been their colleague in the house and senate for 18 years. They knew his calm but persistent voice along with his compassionate and embracing heart. And they know how profoundly he will be missed. So they know it’s time for the flag to come down – in honor of their friend and in opposition to the hate and violence that took his life.

                Second, I think change has come so rapidly because Dylann Roof crossed the line. Of course, he crossed the line of violence in the taking of innocent lives. Yet others have died before. Dylann crossed the church line; he violated a sacred southern space. He abused God-breathed hospitality. It was a hospitality that even almost stayed the killer’s hand. “They were so nice to me.”

                The witness of those lives and the testimony of their families continue to change hearts. Many have been astounded at the words of forgiveness spoken when grief was only a few days young. Many question how that could happen and know they could never overcome the anger that understandably dwells within a human heart at such a tremendous loss. They wonder if such rapid grace is a vestige of the racial divide that always placed our Black brothers and sisters in a position of deference.

                For me, it is a vestige of our racial divide, but one less insidious. It is a reminder to me of the power of faith known and lived by our Black brothers and sisters. When you live in a world that treats you as second-class and unworthy then come into God’s house where the message of grace is preached with power, you absorb that grace in amazing ways. Not to enable deference to power but in order to be a witness to power – a witness to the heart of Christian faith.

                Forgiveness doesn’t negate justice; it enables it. It breaks the cycle of violence. It sees the guilty one with God’s eyes. They are the same eyes that see us as just as guilty and just as much in need of grace. Yes - we still pay the human price for our sins. Yes - we are still accountable for our actions. Atonement is still the pathway toward reconciliation, but forgiveness becomes the first step; not the last.  

                I discovered recently that one of my ministerial friends knew Rev. Pinckney. They shared a CPE (Clinical Pastoral Education) experience together. She says he was in life everything everyone is saying about him in death. A man who walked the talk. I know that must be true. His people are living proof. They are the ultimate testimony to the effectiveness of pastoral leadership; a witness every pastor would covet.

                 It remains to be seen what lasting legacy will come from this terrible loss of life. Will the flag actually come down? But more important still, will we begin the hard journey of acknowledging our past and claiming our future across the divisions that still own us?

                Our president said it eloquently: “God helped us to see where we were blind.” Let us not be blind to the heritage of history. Slavery was evil. That truth is self-evident today. Yet my ancestors who owned slaves were not evil people. They were good people who were blind to the evil that existed all around them.  In like manner, let us not be blind to the truth of our reality. Racism is evil and it exists all around us, even if we who are not its targets can just as easily be blind to its power.

                Let’s move beyond taking down a flag. Let’s work together to bring life out of death – abundant life for all God’s children.