In order to become a priest, I had to take a course where I worked as a chaplain in a hospital for a summer. I did my chaplaincy at Washington Hospital Center in D.C. And as part of that course, each of us was given a certain number of on-call shifts. An on-call shift was overnight. During that time I would be the chaplain on-call for the whole hospital. This means that if anyone in the hospital asked to see a chaplain during that shift, I would get paged.
Now, Washington Hospital Center was one of two Level One trauma centers in the District. That means that any time there was a gunshot wound, a major car accident, something particularly violent or awful – categorized as a Level One trauma – the patient would be brought to one of the two hospitals with that designation. This would be broadcast in the hospital as a Code Yellow. When a Code Yellow was issued, certain people were automatically paged to be present upon the arrival of the patient. That would include specific medical personnel, a social worker, a police officer, and the on-call chaplain.
I remember the first time I was on-call and got paged for a Code Yellow. I made sure my shirt was tucked in right, checked myself in the mirror, and hightailed it to the Trauma Center located in the Emergency Department. I checked in with the Charge Nurse, and then I waited to be useful.
The helicopter landed, and the shortly thereafter, the patient was brought into the room. They were alone and unconscious. The medical personnel, the police officer, the social worker all snapped into action. I waited to be useful.
Then I waited some more.
It dawned on me, I had no idea what to do.
I don’t mean that nobody had given me any instruction. I mean that I had no idea how me being there as a chaplain was any value added at all to the situation. The medical staff were all busy at work tending to the person in need. The officer and social worker got the information they needed and left. Nobody was looking for me. This may surprise you, but nobody was seeking my theological input on what was happening. Shocking as this may sound to you, no doctor was asking for my prayers. I just stood and watched.
I watched them work. I watched the tending to and caring for this person. I watched the doctors, nurses, aids, and technicians do their work. At some point I found myself praying – not aloud of course. Silently, I prayed for the patient, I prayed for the people at work, I prayed for the whole scene, the whole space. Eventually I made my way back to the Charge Nurse. I timidly asked her if there was anything specific I should be doing and she asked if I prayed. I said yes. She said the patient was not conscious and had no family with them and I had done my part and I could go if I wanted. I stuck around a little longer anyway – hoping to be useful.
Being useful is one of those things I always hope to be. Sometimes that is helpful, and sometimes it is not.
I took as many on-call shifts as I could during my chaplaincy summer course – usually once per week for two months. After the course ended, I signed up to be contracted as an on-call chaplain every few weeks for the next year. At first, I did it as often as possible because I thought if I played the odds, one of these days I would be useful. There were moments now and again that I was called to service. A couple that was there together asked me to pray with them. A person who was barely conscious and for a few moments did not have nurses and doctors swarming around them wanted me to keep them company.
One night I will never forget, a young man was brought in with a gunshot wound to his chest. He died. The family was notified, the body was brought to a quiet room and prepared for viewing. It was one of the doctors who asked if I would be willing to bring the family to the body and be with them when they arrived. I walked to the front lobby and waited for the family. I met them at the door. The young man’s mother fell to the ground wailing. Her family helped her up, and we walked back to the room where his body lay. I stood with them.
I hope it’s ok for me to admit to you that I don’t remember whether or not we prayed. I should remember. I must have, right? I don’t remember. I remember their faces. I remember the room. I remember the young man – lovingly cleaned up, perfectly devastatingly still. I remember the grief being palpable. I remember standing there and I remember usefulness not actually mattering at all.
Most of the time I was on-call were not like that. Most of the times were like my first time. I got paged, I went to the ED, I checked in, I stood, I watched, I prayed silently. I waited a little longer than necessary just in case. I left.
About a month in, one of the times I was standing and watching and praying, I realized something. I realized I was the only one besides the patient who was completely still. Everyone else was moving so fast – as well they should have been. But I was watching. I was observing. Not for the purpose of learning anything, nor to assess the job the professionals were doing. No. I was bearing witness to what was happening. And I decided that was a real thing.
I don’t mean to make it sound like I found a way to be important, to be useful, to be necessary. I cannot pretend I was any of those things. And that was its own lesson for a person obsessed with usefulness who was preparing to enter one of those jobs some people call “a helping profession.” I cannot pretend I was useful most of the time. But I also cannot pretend that my watching and praying was nothing.
It changed me for one thing. It changed the way I entered spaces, learning to be comfortable with the possibility that I would not be obviously useful, but that my presence was something anyway. After all, the Charge Nurse never told me not to show up. That first night she did even ask me if I’d said a prayer. What did it mean to be present, to be ready, to watch, to bear witness?
I believe God bears witness. I believe God is in a very real way lovingly observing – not for critique or assessment, nor even always to be important or useful – but simply to bear witness to our lives. I believe there is love in it. I know because I experienced love for those I watched on those sessions.
As I prepare to join members of our church on this pilgrimage to the border later this month, I find myself again wondering of what use I will be. And of course I will be of little use. I am remembering more and more that that is ok. I am looking forward to watching and praying and being present with love. I am looking forward to bearing witness.
