“For my days pass away like smoke, and my bones burn like a furnace. My heart is stricken and withered like grass; I am too wasted to eat my bread. Because of my loud groaning my bones cling to my skin.” (Psalm 102:3-5, NRSV)
Almost 25 years ago, I took a seminary course called Clinical Pastoral Education (CPE). Most students who are interested in a future in ministry are required take CPE, which is, among other things, a crash course in intensive pastoral ministry and self-reflection. Often, CPE takes place in a hospital and mine was at Lutheran General Hospital in Park Ridge, a suburb of Chicago.
One of the responsibilities for chaplains (including CPE students) at Lutheran General was informing a family that their loved one has died. Not surprisingly, CPE students don’t have a lot of experience with this so it can be a nerve-racking experience. One of my forgettable CPE moments happened when I was on call in the hospital’s emergency room. An ambulance brought a man in who had had a heart attack and the waiting room was soon filled his worried family members. It was fairly clear to me that this was an Orthodox Jewish family. The man sadly passed away soon after he was brought in and I was tasked with telling the family. I haltingly entered the room where the family was sitting and shared the tragic news. The response was something I had never experienced before. Guttural wails were immediate and the sounds of grief ricocheted off the walls. I was taken aback and at first was paralyzed with indecision. In hindsight, I should have been more patient to see what the family desired of me, but I made the mistake of quickly wading right into the middle of the grief to sit down in between two family members, trying to be pastoral. It was soon made clear to me that I was most definitely not welcome in that space. I left the room, chagrined by my pastoral blunder.
I’ve thought a lot about that experience over the years and still look back on it with tinges of embarrassment, but I’ve also cut myself some slack. One thing I’m not embarrassed by is my willingness to wade into the rawness of the situation. That’s not always easy to do. When emotions are raw, it’s much easier to find a way out and avoid the discomfort.
“This psalmist is really feeling raw emotions.” I made that note in my journal this week as I was reading through Psalm 102. “…My bones burn like a furnace…I am too wasted to eat…my bones cling to my skin.” The psalmist is not holding anything back. This kind of naked vulnerability often will tempt us to look the other way, change the subject or see the glass as half full. But I don’t think the psalmist would have any of that. We are asked to either relate to the psalmist or sit with him.
If you are in a place where you are feeling like you want to cry out or groan or wail, I pray that there is someone who will sit with you. If you aren’t, I pray that you will have the courage to hang in there and be willing to be present with the rawness. It could be a Black person sharing their truth about the injustices they’ve experienced. It could be a friend who has experienced the death of a loved one. It could be a neighbor who, when asked how they’re doing, says, “I’m not OK.” We are called to be the presence of Christ in those moments. It’s often not easy. But we draw on the strength of the One who is with us in our raw moments and pray for the patience to be there as long as it takes.