I was visiting today with a patient and her daughter (really with the daughter, who's having a hard time facing the loss of her mom.) She was talking to me about her mother's faith; how long it's been since she "accepted the Lord." At that point she looked at me and said: "I assume you're a Christian." "No," I responded. A pause, and then I added, "But I understand the language."
It may seem like a funny response, but I do understand the language. And she's not the first person who has been concerned about my "relationship with Jesus" - I've had that discussion lately with several patients or family members. Today's woman took another look at me and said, "You're Jewish." "Yes." "I could tell from your headcovering." Last week's family member, after I initially missed her question about my salvation in our phone conversation, responded to my letting her know that I am a rabbi by letting me know that it was fine for me to visit her mother and to bless her because, "The Jews are God's chosen people."
Judaism is my spiritual "mother tongue." It is the lens through which I see the world. Most of my patients, however, are not Jewish. So I "translate" my religious language into theirs. I listen for the phrases in their conversations that tell me of their beliefs. I talk with them about this world and about the next (but instead I call it "the afterlife.") I affirm the lives of faith led by their loved ones. I reflect back to them the teachings that provide them comfort as they confront love and loss.
The religious differences may make me a better chaplain. I have to listen. I have to think about what they are saying and the meaning of the religious phrases they use. As I respond, I have to make sure that I have framed my response in the language they speak. I have to recognize my boundaries as well. I can't anoint a patient or absolve them of their sins. I have to reach out to their clergy, if they allow me to do so, or to clergy of their faith if they request it.
Often my kipah proclaims my faith so I don't get the questions I seem to have gotten lately. But whether patients and families know I'm Jewish or just know I'm the chaplain, my job is to let families know that I will listen to their spiritual needs, help them connect with a clergyperson if they wish, and accompany them on this journey.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Clergy burnout
Yesterday's New York Times had an interesting article on clergy burnout. The article spoke of the rising rate of "obesity, hypertension and depression" in clergy. There are a lot of reasons - lifestyle changes, the speed of modern life, the need to be present to our congregants 24/7 - but the one reason the article focuses on the most is the need to take more time off.
It can be tough to take time off sometimes, even when you take time off. When I was a congregational rabbi, I had to leave contact information when I went away whether my absence was business (convention) or personal (vacation.) That was a long time ago. I was a solo rabbi of a small congregation. I don't know what things are like now in small congregational life, but I can remember the tremendous feeling of freedom the first time I took a vacation after leaving my pulpit. No one knew where I was going (except family) and no one knew how to reach me (except family.) It was the feeling of freedom that let me know that my previous vacations had not, fully, been vacations. This was before the internet, before cell phones, before BlackBerrys and instant messaging and email, before the expectation of immediate responses to questions or needs. The contact information was for deaths or major crises. Still, the expectation was that in an emergency I'd come back.
I've had other jobs in the Jewish community that also came with expectations of long hours, contact during vacations to deal with crises, and the need for immediate responses to unexpected events. I was definitely burnt out when my last job ended. One of the nice things about the brief unemployment after that job was the chance to relax, reflect, catch up, and go away without worrying what I'd find on my desk when I returned.
Something I really appreciated when interviewing for hospice jobs was the concern about self-care. Our work can be difficult and some days, overwhelming. We're with people at some of the worst times in their lives. We help them try to make sense of what's happening, find meaning in loss, and craft the story of the life that's ending and their new world on the other side of loss. Each hospice interview I've had included questions like: "What will you do to take time for yourself?" "How do you think you'll be able to leave this work behind?" "What do you do for fun?" "When do you relax?"
In my job, when I'm on - I'm on. But when I'm away or off for a day or not on-call over the weekend - I'm off. There's no expectation to check in, no need to leave contact information, no worries about what will be on my desk when I return. We cover for each other. We make sure the work is done. We understand the need to take vacation time; to get away, to recharge ourselves, to rejuvenate. We may not do it as well as we could - we still need help and support to eat healthy food, to exercise our bodies, to challenge our brains, and to look for the everyday miracles that fill our world, but I know that I am much healthier as a rabbi in this job than I have been in others.
It can be tough to take time off sometimes, even when you take time off. When I was a congregational rabbi, I had to leave contact information when I went away whether my absence was business (convention) or personal (vacation.) That was a long time ago. I was a solo rabbi of a small congregation. I don't know what things are like now in small congregational life, but I can remember the tremendous feeling of freedom the first time I took a vacation after leaving my pulpit. No one knew where I was going (except family) and no one knew how to reach me (except family.) It was the feeling of freedom that let me know that my previous vacations had not, fully, been vacations. This was before the internet, before cell phones, before BlackBerrys and instant messaging and email, before the expectation of immediate responses to questions or needs. The contact information was for deaths or major crises. Still, the expectation was that in an emergency I'd come back.
I've had other jobs in the Jewish community that also came with expectations of long hours, contact during vacations to deal with crises, and the need for immediate responses to unexpected events. I was definitely burnt out when my last job ended. One of the nice things about the brief unemployment after that job was the chance to relax, reflect, catch up, and go away without worrying what I'd find on my desk when I returned.
Something I really appreciated when interviewing for hospice jobs was the concern about self-care. Our work can be difficult and some days, overwhelming. We're with people at some of the worst times in their lives. We help them try to make sense of what's happening, find meaning in loss, and craft the story of the life that's ending and their new world on the other side of loss. Each hospice interview I've had included questions like: "What will you do to take time for yourself?" "How do you think you'll be able to leave this work behind?" "What do you do for fun?" "When do you relax?"
In my job, when I'm on - I'm on. But when I'm away or off for a day or not on-call over the weekend - I'm off. There's no expectation to check in, no need to leave contact information, no worries about what will be on my desk when I return. We cover for each other. We make sure the work is done. We understand the need to take vacation time; to get away, to recharge ourselves, to rejuvenate. We may not do it as well as we could - we still need help and support to eat healthy food, to exercise our bodies, to challenge our brains, and to look for the everyday miracles that fill our world, but I know that I am much healthier as a rabbi in this job than I have been in others.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
