Ministerial Meandering

Why should I care?

It is not always easy to see that ‘life’ is a team event.  It would not be unreasonable to say that many of us have the attitude that so long as we are all right, then the rest of the world can go to hell in a hand-basket for all we care.  “Frankly, my dear…” - you can fill in the rest of the quote yourselves.  (Clue: ‘Gone with the Wind’).

John Donne said ‘No man is an island, Entire of itself, Every man is a piece of the continent, A part of the main…Any man's death diminishes me, Because I am involved in mankind…’ - again, I leave you to fill in the end of the poem, which is so well known.

Just recently I have found myself hurting for a couple of my friends who are experiencing what I might call existential pain; that is a form of emotional chaos over which they have no control.  In both cases illness is at the root of the pain, and in both cases there is no obvious answer or cure.  Again, in both cases, the illness strikes also at their spiritual resources, making each feel alone and isolated in their distress.

Of course, these individuals are not alone - one has a large family, and the other a spouse and community support - but it does not always suffice to point such benefits out because, although recognized intellectually, they are not experienced emotionally.  In just the same way a depressive can feel totally isolated in a crowded room.

A close friend of mine recently told me that she was so happy that a certain friend of hers ‘got’ her - by which she meant that the person instinctively understood her feelings and emotional reactions to things and events.  

When people feel isolated it is important to try - as best we can - to walk in their shoes a mile or so, because to do so will often enable us to reach a point of sympathy, if not empathy.  Empathy is the point we should be aiming for, but it is not so easy to achieve.  You might want to look up the distinction between the two; it’s subtle, but important.

In my life as a surgeon, one of the most fulfilling parts was doing my night rounds or post-op rounds.  These I would do alone, so I could take my time, and not have to move swiftly from bed to bed making rapid decisions about who was to go on the operating slate next.

It was a time when I could sit down on the bedside, curtains closed, and not only talk and inform my patients, but also listen to them.  The darkened wards enhanced the sense of privacy, and often released the hopes and fears that were bravely kept hidden during the busyness of the day.  It was a time that they could cry, it was a time that I could hold a hand in silence - it was even, on occasion, a time we might pray.  When patients learned of my bizarre ‘double qualification’, they were often grateful.  I certainly was.

But they taught me so much; it was my patients and my parishioners who educated me, and silently instructed me in caring.  Today, the knock on my vestry door, or a phone call, or the tap on the shoulder, and a quiet voice asking for a moment of my time, is an incredible privilege and honour.

I know something else; I know you feel it too - because I see how much you care for one another.  In some respects - whatever my misgivings about Paul’s attitudes in some of his epistles - I can understand his encouragement and joy when he hears of new disciples leading lives in line with Jesus’ teachings.  

I know you are not ‘new’ disciples - but each of us has something new to learn each day - and then to put into practice.  I think that caring is one of those things we can never learn enough about - and it’s a two-way process; what you give, will return to you - in ways you could never imagine.

Philip+

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