Eclectic Christian

by Joshua Hearne

It was 2:45 AM. I had been called to the Hospitality Room of the Intensive Care Unit. I was bleary eyed and I had mistakenly put on navy pants with my black jacket and white dress shirt. I had received the call at about 1:45 AM and had rushed to get dressed and get down to the hospital. My navy-black recognition skills aren’t good to begin with. Throw in the darkness of night and sleep-deprived eyes and it’s pretty much random. I had taken off my jacket and stashed it in the office. Dress pants and shirt would be good enough. So, after checking in with the family in the hospitality room, I ducked out to get a cup of coffee and check on the patient with the doctors and nurses down the hall. On my way back, I noticed that one of the cleaning-guys was waxing the floor.

I leaned against the wall next to a guy who was watching the floor-waxer.

“I wonder if they wax the floors in Orthopedics…” I remarked. He laughed at my lame joke. I’m still not sure if it was a pity laugh but I’m guessing it was. As a chaplain, I usually appreciated the pity laugh. After all, I was just trying to break the ice, usually. It doesn’t have to be funny, it just has to be conversation.

“You can wax the floor in such a way that it isn’t slippery” he said to me. Over the next 10 minutes, he proceeded to teach me about how to wax a floor correctly. I needed to give the family in the Hospitality Room time alone. Time alone is an important part of the grieving process and the process of preparation for death. It gives them time to grow together and talk openly.

“You seem to know something about floor waxing” I replied to the man.

“It’s what I do. I’m a janitor and floor waxer over at Barrasons. Look at the way he moves that waxer. He’s sliding it back and forth but he’s not getting the edges.” He remarked. He continued, “He’s not doing a very good job.”

“Not many people will notice around here.” I offered.

“But he should notice. I don’t see how he can do his job that way” he questioned. He looked me in the eyes and said, “I know that it’s only waxing floors but when something is your job, you should do it as best as you can. Right?”

I nodded numbly and felt as if either he had just said something important or he was getting ready to do so.

“It may not be important work but it is the work that you do. Why do anything if you’re just going to cut corners? Why live if you’re just looking for the easy way out?” He questioned.

I didn’t have an answer but I considered all the times I had felt unappreciated in my position as chaplain. I asked, “So who are you looking for around here?”

“I’m part of this group in this room” he stated. He indicated the Hospitality room. “I just can’t be in there right now. That’s my father that’s dying down there.”

Now, it felt like I needed to say something. “It’s okay to be scared of this. It’s okay to be upset about it. You have every right to feel the way you’re feeling. But for every blessing in our life, there is the fear of losing it. You cannot feel great without knowing that there may be a time when it’s no longer there. If your father dies tonight, it will be a sad thing. And you will, and should, grieve. But this grief is not something to avoid by standing in a hallway and refusing to feel it. Instead, I remind you that living life by cutting corners is hardly a way to live. Grief is a terrible and painful thing but it is part of our experience. It’s tough but you will not go through it alone. I have faith that God cares about our sufferings so much that even when it was God’s right and privilege to avoid pain, suffering, and death… God chose it. God didn’t cut the corners then and understands how you feel, tonight.”

He nodded. He cried a little. He gave me a hug. He went into the Hospitality Room.

His father died that night. The family grieved. They grieved well for a beloved father. They didn’t cut corners. They lived.

by Joshua Hearne

From Telling the Stories that Matter – November 3rd, 2008

Martin was the child of Spain’s domination and conquest of the Peruvian people. His father was a Spanish nobleman who denied any connection to young Martin. His mother was an black former slave who had been taken advantage of by Martin’s father. She raised Martin and his sister Juana in poverty and to the best of her meager abilities. Though there was often a lack of money and food in the family, there was never a lack of love among those who shared a roof with each other. Their poverty was influential and therefore Martin became a servant boy to the local group of Dominicans. He was of mixed race and they were hesitant to accept him (and it would be many years before they would accept him fully) but he steadily rose through their system and was eventually the almoner of the monastery. As almoner, it was his duty to disburse the alms and funds of the monastery to the local poor. When it became clear that Martin had a gift for hospitality, he was also put in charge of the infirmary. Martin didn’t try to do great things but instead focused on loving people. He brought a cup of water to the poor and to the sick with the intention of relieving a need but in the cup of water they often found healing. It wasn’t Martin’s intention to do great things but his loving spirit effected great changes. It was this same loving spirit that came out as the primary force in his life time and time again. His devotion to love is what made him saintly.

When he was young, he truly was a servant at the Dominican monastery. The priory that he was associated with underwent some considerable financial distress when he was still the servant of the monastery and not fully a member. The debts that they had accrued became an unmanageable burden for the brothers. As the brothers gathered to discuss the serious and precarious situation they were surrounded with, Martin intruded upon them and said, “I am only a poor mulatto, sell me. I am the property of the order, sell me please!” The brothers were shocked that he had come in and offered his freedom to purchase their own. In Martin they saw that the ethic of love and sacrifice was more primary than his desire to be free. They did not choose to accept Martin’s offering and found another way to avert their disaster but Martin’s words echoed in their heads for years to come as a testimony of the primacy of love over freedom.

Martin had a habit that wasn’t expressly forbidden but was not smiled upon by his fellow Dominicans. His love of the poor and the disenfranchised seemed to extend beyond that of his brothers. In fact, one evening he was stopped by a brother after he had been observed escorting a sick and dirty person into his own room and giving him rest and comfort in his own bed. As he entered again into the hallway to go and fetch some food and water, the brother said that he had gone too far. “That man will dirty whatever he touches–including your own bed.” He looked loving into the eyes of his brother and responded, “Compassion, my dear Brother, is preferable to cleanliness. Reflect that with a little soap I can easily clean my bed covers, but even with a torrent of tears I would never wash from my soul the stain that my harshness toward the unfortunate would create.” Without saying another word, the brother walked away with Martin’s words echoing in his ears, again. Martin had made it clear that, for him, love was more important than preference, cleanliness, or comfort. The brother walked away wishing he could say the same for himself.

In many of the places where Spain conquered, disease followed in their footsteps. Peru was no exception. Martin’s heart was broken for the sick and the needy in the streets. He understood that the monastery doors were locked for a rational reason: to protect those inside from the contagion that crept through the air to lay low the rich and the poor. Yet, the rationale was not enough for Martin who would unlock the doors so that he might take care of the sick. In doing so, he was being disobedient to his superiors even though he had vowed obedience. This was no little matter and eventually his superior approached him to say that this must stop. He was ordered to stop being disobedient. To this, he replied in a small and humble voice: “Forgive my error, and please instruct me, for I did not know that the precept of obedience took precedence over that of charity.” In doing so, he was not being passive-aggressive to his superior but, rather, articulating the implications of what his superior was teaching. He was willing to be obedient as long as it did not require him to subvert his calling to love. His superior withdrew the request to stop and insisted that love was, in fact, more important than obedience to superiors.

Martin died in Lima, Peru, in 1639. He was widely acclaimed as blessed and a healer of the sick and unfortunate. His life had proclaimed the power of love and in death he was united with the God that is Love.

by Joshua Hearne

It had been a very long day at the hospital. I had been on call the night before and it had been a busy night. At around 3:00 AM, my pager buzzed me awake from my comfortable bed. I called the operator at the hospital and was informed that a patient I had visited earlier that day had gone into cardiac arrest. They were coding him and wanted a chaplain to come in for the family and friends. Since I was the chaplain on call for the night, I got dressed and drove to the hospital. Wiping the sleep from my eyes, I made my way up to the ICU to check on the patient and, eventually, the ICU hospitality room to check on the family. The family was responding in a typical fashion so there was nothing abnormally difficult about the call. Though it was unexpected, the patient had been resuscitated and stabilized. So, after being there for about 2 hours, I headed back home to the comfort of my bed.

At about 5:15 AM, my pager buzzed again. In response, I groaned. I called in. I got dressed and headed back to the hospital. It was the same patient.

I checked in with the patient and the doctors had already called the time of death. The doctor in charge of the patient informed me that the family did not yet know. I went ahead and checked in with the family being careful not to reveal anything. This part of the job is, commonly, referred to as “the wait.” The chaplain isn’t allowed to reveal anything because it’s not the chaplain’s job and, in fact, a chaplain will lose their job by revealing such information. I was trained to respond to the question “How are they?” with “The doctors are still with them.”

“The wait” was the worst.

After the remainder of this call, it was about 7:55 AM. My shift started at 8:00 AM and was filled with two more “codes” and one more death. So, by the time 3:30 PM rolled around, the head of pastoral care was telling me to go home. I gladly obliged him. On my way to the car, I took off my tie and unbuttoned the top button of my shirt. I could see my car and the freedom it promised when I heard an elderly lady’s voice from behind me.

“Excuse me…” she said.

“Yes?” I said, thinking ‘Why me?’

“I’m looking for my car” she said. “Do you think you can help me find it?” she asked.

“What kind of car is it?” I asked, turning to look at her. “What color is it?” I continued, thinking ‘I was so close to my car.’ Sure, I could have pretended not to hear her and I’m sure plenty of people in the hospital would have. I could have, even, said that I wasn’t able to help her but when I saw her she reminded me of so many ladies I had met in the hospital.

Her short white hair, her wrinkles, her oversized sunglasses and purse. She was every wife of a heart-attack-patient. She was every grandmother of a child having their tonsils out. She was what I expected. I dare you to try and say no to her. You know she cares.

You care that she should know you care.

So, I helped her. We found her care. I don’t remember what it was but it was probably a mid-90s red sedan. Maybe a silver Crown Victoria?

I was excited to get to my car and hit the road. I was going to go home and take a nap. I was going to wipe the hospital out of my mind for a little while and, I’ll admit, I was quick to leave the woman with her car.

“Josh…” she called. I turned back and noticed that she was digging in her oversized purse. The purse probably had kittens on it or maybe a teddy bear. She pulled something out. Do you remember those stuffed Taco Bell Chihuahuas? Each Chihuahua was a stuffed animal that was maybe 7 inches tall and had an electronic piece in it that recited one of the Taco Bell dog phrases when it was squeezed. Looking back at it, I can’t believe that these were popular.

“Yes, Ma’am?” I replied. She handed me the dog. It was, most definitely, one of the oddest gifts I’ve ever received.

“His name is Paco” she insisted. “When you look at Paco, I want you to remember that somebody out here appreciates you and loves you” she told me. “You didn’t have to help an old lady” she said, before she got into her car. She rolled down her window and said, “I’m sure you have somewhere else you’d much rather be.”

It hit me. Paco stood as a judge over me. His cold plastic eyes started at me intently (perhaps it was his lack of eyelids) and accused me of trying not to care. If I was serious about this ministry thing, or even this caring thing, then I should understand that it’s not something that you clock in and out of. Paco sat on the dashboard of my car and reminded me that it wasn’t just about me. Paco reminded me that my time is not only my own.

I am not only my own.

Oh, he also reminded me to eat tacos. But only when I squeezed him just right.

by Joshua Hearne

(1) This is what was from the beginning concerning the word of life. It is what we have heard, what we have seen with our eyes, what we have beheld, and what we have verified with our hands. (2) And life itself took a body and we declare to you the life, the eternal one, which we have seen and witnessed. It was with the Father and has been manifested to us. (3) What we have seen and heard, we declare to you in order that you also might have community with us. And our community is with the Father and with the Father’s Son, Jesus the Christ. (4) And these things we write to you in order that our gladness might be full.
(5) And this is the message that we have heard from Him and we declare to you: God is light and in God there is absolutely no darkness. (6) If we were to say that we have community with God and we were walking in the darkness, we would by lying and not producing truth. (7) But, if we walk in the light, just as God is in the light, we have community with one another. And the blood of Jesus, God’s son, cleanses us from all of our sins.
~1Jo. 1:1-7 as translated by JHearne on 20-Jan-2006

In Jesus we have the condensation of the essence of existence. God taking a body. This is, at least, part of what is meant in saying that “…life itself took a body…”

The creator has become part of creation.

No longer do we speak of a duality of creator and creation. No longer is God wholly other and completely unapproachable. God, in all of God’s glory, has joined humanity in struggle. Jesus, being fully human and fully divine, was alive at the same time that he was the source and completion of all life. Though not entirely comprehensible, this is one of the beautiful paradoxes that we, as Christians, must hold.

Do not be confused, however. God is “other” and ineffable.

God is outside of our scope and understanding. God is life, and God is light. In God, there is nothing that is not light. God is whole where we are broken. God is pure where we are tainted.

So, we are in an awful position of desiring community with something that needs nothing and is whole. We want to commune with the ineffable.

This cannot hope to be accomplished like we do so many other things. We cannot wrap ourselves around God in an attempt to “be at one.” Instead, we must become like God. We must be “enlightened” by light, itself. We must be vivified by life, itself. Our darkness can only be purged by that which admits no darkness and makes darkness incomprehensible. Some try to remove darkness like plucking one thing from another. Our corruption goes further than that. God unwrites darkness from existence. God does not remove darkness like an excision but, rather, as a brilliant and beautiful redefinition of reality, itself.

In this, we become part of light. We become part of life. Me becomes us. I becomes we. Darkness and sin are not removed but, better yet, are no more. God is redeeming. God is redemption.

“Sweet and incomprehensible God,
Mend our broken minds
Not so we can understand
but so we can know we do not understand
and know that it is not an answer we seek
but, rather, an understanding of the question.

Make us truly alive, God,
because we walk in death and do not know it
we carry corruption and cannot see beyond it
for corruption is only recognized when wholeness is seen.
we offend against our God and our being, itself,
and choose self against the other
and take the being of our Lord in vain.

Lord, do not remove our stains, alone.
Rather, clean the inside so that we do not continue to stain.
We are not stained
We, ourselves, are the stains.
We do not possess corruption.
We are possessed by corruption.

Lord, it is only revision that will help
Revise us, Lord.
Clease us, Lord.
Bring us to communion with you and the other.

Amen.”

By Joshua Hearne

Is it me you’re looking for?

I can see it in your eyes… I can see it in your smile…

You’re all I’ve ever wanted and my arms are open wide

Because you know just what to say and you know just what to do and I want to tell you so much:

I’m Joshua and I’m one of the new writers here. (Sorry, Lionel, but I barely know these people).

I never really know how to do these introductory posts so I’m going to tell you some random things about me and let you figure the rest out as time goes on. So, besides clearly being a fan of Lionel Richie songs–”Dancing on the Ceiling” excluded, of course–here are some other possibly interesting factoids about me:

• I’m a baptist pastor in Virginia.
  
• I graduated from Duke University Divinity School last May with my M.Div.
• I graduated from Georgetown College in Georgetown, KY, in 2005.
  
• I was born and raised in Kentucky and am a “Kentucky Colonel.” A pacifist colonel, mind you.
• I’m married to someone who deserves much better.
• I have another blog where I write a story every day–“Telling the Stories that Matter”–and it has been an incredibly rewarding spiritual discipline.
• I am a huge fan of board games (sometimes I play them by myself…I know it’s sad).
• As part of my job, I focus on discipleship, spiritual formation, and making the Faith a way of life and practice instead of simply a set of propositions.
• I adore iconography.
• I am a big fan of logic and linguistic philosophy.
• I can do the Rubix cube.
  

So, that’s a little bit about me. I look forward to writing here and very much consider myself an “eclectic Christian.” I’m not real caught up in the whole “baptist” thing because I’m far more interested in the whole “Christian” thing.

Thanks for taking the time to read. Double thanks if you comment. Triple thanks if you comment and tell me your favorite Lionel Richie song.