 6/15/2005
Vol. 2, No. 10
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Professional
Practice |
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Rabbi
Dr.
David
J.
Zucker
on
our
need
to
be
touched
When
I'm
Sixty-Four
In
1967,
the
Beatles
released
the Sergeant
Pepper album
with
Paul
McCartney’s
song “When
I’m
Sixty-Four.”I
was
in
my
mid-20s.
Sixty-four
seemed
a
very
long
way
away.
People
who
were
sixty-four
were
old.
Nearly
four
decades
later,
things
look
very
different.
Sixty-four
is
not
that
far
away
for
me.
As
Chaplain
at
Shalom
Park,
our
community’s
senior
continuum
of
care
facility,
I
serve
many
congregants
who
passed
age
sixty-four
many,
many
years
ago.
When
McCartney
asked
the
question “will
you
still
need
me,
will
you
still
feed
me
when
I’m
sixty-four,”he
was
reflecting
a
verse
in
the
Psalm
71:9,
which
reads, “God,
do
not
forsake
me
when
I
am
old,
when
my
strength
fails,
do
not
cast
me
off.”
From
the
psalmist’s
lament
it
is
clear
that
people
turning
away
from
the
aged,
people
ignoring
the
elderly,
is
an
ancient
phenomenon.
Though
on
the
surface
the
psalmist
appeals
to
God
for
help,
the
verse
really
is
directed
at
all
of
us.
The
psalmist
is
asking,
when
I
am
old,
when
I
am
in
need,
will
you,
my
family,
friends
and
acquaintances
cast
me
off,
or
will
you
keep
in
touch?
The
more
plaintive
question
is
will
you “still
need
me,”will
you
keep
in
touch
with
me,
when
I
am
old.
In
English
the
idiom “keep
in
touch”can
mean “visit”or “remember”or
perhaps “stay
in
contact.”In
a
much
more
fundamental,
literal,
way,
the
phrase “keep
in
touch,”means
what
it
says: “stay
connected,”“stay
in
physical
touch.”
Touch –literal
physical
touch,
reaching
out,
hugging,
squeezing
an
arm,
showing
direct
affection,
is
tremendously
important
for
all
of
us.
Scientific
studies
show
that
infants
who
fail
to
be
held
and
caressed,
suffer
enormously.
They
need
to
be
held;
they
require
human
touch
in
order
to
thrive.
Throughout
our
lives,
we
need
to
be
touched.
Touch
is
essential
to
living
and
to
healing.
When
my
strength
fails
.
.
.
will
you
still
need
me
.
.
.
will
you
still
care
enough
to
be
there,
to
offer
me
your
loving
touch?
As
a
chaplain
who
works
with
those
well
past
sixty-four,
I
see
how
residents
thrive
when
family
members,
outside
friends,
or
fellow
residents
come
to
visit.
I
see
how
they
flourish
when
someone
takes
the
time
by
literally
touching
a
hand
or
arm,
or
by
giving
a
hug
or
a
kiss.
This
all
sounds
so
straightforward.
By
taking
the
time,
by
making
the
time
to “reach
out
and
touch”another
person,
we
do
a
great
good
for
them,
and
for
ourselves.
In
touching,
we
ourselves
will
be
touched,
both
literally
and
spiritually.
We
will
be
walking
with
God,
emulating
God’s
holiness
here
on
earth.
We
will
bring
and
receive
enormous
blessings.
We
will
also
be
an
example
to
others.
Our
acts
today
will
bring
enormous
benefits
tomorrow.
When
we
are “sixty-four”–or
more –we
hope
others
will
follow
our
example
and
be
there
for
us.
Through
today’s
acts,
we
will
ensure
that
others
will
stay
in
touch
with
us
tomorrow.
Rabbi
Dr.
David
J.
Zucker,
BCC,
a
member
of
the
Advisory
Board
of PlainViews,
is
Director
of
Spiritual
Care
at
Shalom
Park,
a
senior
continuum
of
care
center
in
Aurora,
CO.
He
serves
on
the
NAJC’s
Board
of
Directors
and
Executive
Committee
and
has
Chaired
(or
Co-Chaired
with
Rabbi
Bonita
E
Taylor)
the
last
seven
NAJC
annual
conferences,
including
the
2003
EPIC
Cognate
Chaplains’conference
in
Toronto
where
he
served
as
Chair
of
the
Executive
Planning
Committee. David's
new
book,The
Torah,
An
Introduction
for
Christians
and
Jews,
will
be
published
in
2006
by
Paulist
Press.
Do
you
have
thoughts
about
professional
practice
you’d
like
to
share
with
your
colleagues?
Send
an
e-mail info@PlainViews.org.
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Advocacy |
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The Rev.
Stephen R. Harding on moving away
from ‘spirituality’
Making the Case for Theology
Over the course of
the thirteen-plus years that I have
been involved with Chaplaincy in
the healthcare setting, I have noticed
a trajectory in language that has
moved from a focus on the patient’s ‘religion’to
a focus on the patient ‘being
spiritual’and on ‘spirituality’.
I am wondering whether we, as Chaplains,
are at a point where the term ‘spirituality’has
been over-used to the extent that ‘spirituality’has
become debased and lost its meaning.
In a recent Pain Medicine InterDisciplinary
Team (IDT) meeting, the attention
was focused on the physical and psychological
aspects of a patient’s symptoms,
which had endured for more than half
this patient’s life. I asked
whether she felt she was suffering,
and the consensus was that not only
is this patient suffering a great
deal, but that she does not appear
to see an end to her suffering. I
asked whether there was a religious
or spiritual basis for her continuing
suffering, wondering whether her
understanding of the Divine allowed
for forgiveness (a loving G-d), or
whether her understanding of the
Divine required her to suffer perpetually
(a punishing G-d).
There followed a discussion about
the psychological aspects of this
patient; we briefly considered referring
her to a center where, in the words
of one team member, “there
were counselors, physicians, social
workers, everyone who could help
our patient resolve her issues.”I
spoke up and said that they didn’t
have a person who our patient could
talk with about the spiritual issues
I raised. “Social Workers and
nurses can provide spiritual care.
There’s lots of overlap,”was
the response.
This was a very sobering and disturbing
comment. [1] It has caused me to
wonder whether we have given away
a great deal of our authority and
power in a system where anyone can
be spiritual or have a conversation
about spirituality.
In thinking about how to get my
(our) authority back –and to
be perceived as needed expert professionals
in the healthcare field, I am wondering
whether we shouldn’t stop using
the words ‘spiritual’and ‘spirituality’and
begin to use the word theological instead.
My question about our patient’s
understanding of her suffering and
her belief system is really a theological question:
What is her understanding of the
Divinity and how does that understanding
affect her life, health, and wellbeing
as she lives her own life? What does
it mean to her if she gets better?
What does it mean to her if she doesn’t?
As Chaplains and ordained representatives
of our traditions, I believe we need
to claim our areas of expertise.
I believe we need our own language
to describe what we do –and
that once we establish it, we need
to use it to inform other disciplines
about the benefits of Pastoral Care
for patients, families, and staff.
I believe that using the word ‘theological’in
the context of caring for others
will help us define our roles more
clearly. I believe that using theologically
based language can help us reframe
the discussions in IDT rounds and
can give us an authority that is
our own. Theological language can
clarify the distinguishing boundaries
that help us, as Chaplains, live
out our vocations to serve others
in times of need.
My final thought is an invitation.
I would like to start a discussion
on the use of theological language
to replace ‘spirituality’in
our profession. As a beginning, please
send your thoughts and comments about
evolving to a theological language
to the PlainViews Editor (info@PlainViews.org.)
for compilation and future articles.
[1] After IDT was over, I had a
conversation with my colleague, who
acknowledged that while yes, there
is some overlap between social work
and chaplains, chaplains have training,
experience, and a perspective that
no one else on the team shares –and
that ‘spirituality,’explored
by a chaplain, is an important part
of patient care.
The Reverend Stephen R. Harding,
S.T.M., BCC, is an Episcopal Priest
currently serving as the Chaplain for
the Department of Pain Medicine and
Palliative Care at Beth Israel Medical
Center in New York City, a HealthCare
Chaplaincy partner.
Do you have thoughts about advocacy
you’d like to share with your colleagues?
Send an e-mail to info@PlainViews.org.
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Education & Research |
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Rabbi Sandra Katz on
spiritual dimensions
of dementia
Spirituality
and Dementia
“Rabbi,
I feel so frustrated
when she tells me she
wants to go home. What
am I supposed to tell
her? I can’t take
care of her at home or
I would still be doing
it.”Of course.
That’s why she’s
here. It is our privilege
to take care of her.
I think, yes, and being
away from the family
enables her to explore
her identity in new ways
now. She can let go of
being who others always
thought she was. She
can have the disarray
she needs to feel the
nearness of the Holy
One.
When I work with people
who have begun to let
loose of former roles
and strictures, I find
that they sometimes have
a new freedom to explore
emotional issues that
were previously off limits.
I believe that is a gift
that dementia can offer:
it enables the individual
to do emotional and spiritual
work in a new way.
I love the sacred dimension
of working with a resident
who tells me, “I
want to go home.”As
an interpreter of sacred
text, I hear the statement
on its face value, and
in deeper ways. [1] I
can validate the person’s
concern, and walk with
him or her in the longing
to go home. Sometimes
it is very satisfying
to talk about what is
meaningful and memorable
about home. It’s
natural to think of those
things.
On a deeper level, the
individual may be speaking
in metaphor. Is there
a place I belong? When
will I die? What will
death be like? Is it
okay to want to die?
Then I see our human
condition reflected in
these words. My partner
in this encounter is
speaking for me, too,
and for humanity. What
does home mean? How welcome
it sounds to have a place
of just being, a place
of acceptance, and a
place where we belong.
Especially for those
who have suffered since
childhood, the longing
for a real home, maybe
one with our eternal
loving Parent, sounds
deeply authentic.
Could this resident
talk about death before
the dementia began? In
many cases, no. Letting
go of parts of the identity,
especially the parts
that blocked free expression
of feelings, can give
individuals new access
to feelings and to the
language of exploring
them. There is a holiness
in the present that people
focused on the past,
the future, or what others
think might miss. [2]
My friends with dementia
apprehend it –and
they have the gumption
to share it.
If we are not going
to live this way forever –no
matter what medicine
promises –we may
as well accomplish our
life goals. Some people
we meet have very thick
shells. Dementia allows
a not-so-gentle opening
of the veneer coating
these individuals. It
hurts to see them change.
We grieve for their losses –and
they do, too, when we
give them room to do
so.
“Where are my
schoolbooks?”“I
know I put my wallet
in this purse.”“Can
you give me a dime for
the streetcar?”I
hear these on their face
value, but also as invitations
to walk together a little
in a new place. [3]
As a corollary, I would
also add that perhaps
those of us who have
had the liberty and/or
the courage to do the
emotional/spiritual work
of our lives may not
have to worry about NEEDING
dementia to free us.
Well, we can hope…
[1] I am indebted to
Rabbi Dayle Friedman
for this notion.
[2] Thanks to Rabbi Sam Seicol for this idea.
[3] Naomi Feil’s work, Validation, also informs this article. Her original
book seems to be out of print, but she has a recent publication called Validation
Breakthrough: Simple Techniques for Communicating with People with Alzheimer’s-Type
Dementia.
Rabbi Sandra Katz has
served as chaplain of the
Golden Slipper Uptown Home,
a Jewish long-term care
and rehab facility in Philadelphia,
since March of 1999. She
was ordained from Hebrew
Union College - Jewish
Institute of Religion in
1993 and earned her board
certification from NAJC
in 2001.
Do you have thoughts about education & research you’d like to share with
your colleagues? Send an e-mail to info@PlainViews.org.
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Spiritual
Development |
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The Rev.
A. Meigs Ross on the
challenges of being a
24/7 chaplain
A
Hometown Chaplain
I heard
the siren in the distance
and knew it would be
minutes before my own
personal siren, my pager,
sounded. I was right,
just as the ambulance
came barreling down the
street in front of my
house, my pager went
off and I called in. “Chaplain,
we have a trauma coming
in, a teenager, her heart
has stopped.”I
went into automatic pilot
and was out the door,
leaving behind my own
two teenagers. The distant
fear in their eyes barely
registered with me. I
was in chaplain mode.
Hours later, after caring
for the devastated family
of a beautiful teenage
girl who died suddenly
and mysteriously, I finally
took a few stolen moments
to reflect.
I didn’t know
the family or the girl,
but they lived just down
the street, next door
to my sons’best
friend. I knew now every
time I went down that
street, I would remember
the family, the girl’s
face, the scene of shock
and horror. It wasn’t
just this street, it
was now every street
in town that contained
for me a story of shock
or death or trauma or
long, drawn out illness.
Being a chaplain in my
own small town was becoming
a heavy burden. How could
I contain the sadness
when I was reminded everywhere,
everyday?
I grew up in a very
small town and over the
course of my childhood
there were two different
doctors in town. One
doctor loved the people
but found, after a few
years, that he could
no longer bear the burdens
of caring for his friends,
knowing that each time
he was giving bad news
he was delivering that
news to a friend. The
other doctor was just
as devoted to his community
and friends, but he carried
those burdens differently.
He was able to keep a
healthy distance between
his medical practice
and his life and friendships.
This allowed him to spend
years practicing medicine
in a small town where
he knew every single
patient. He enjoyed the
connection between his
work and his community.
I knew that I wanted
to be like the latter
physician; I wanted to
be able to offer spiritual
care and give of myself
fully to people at the
hospital in my town,
and yet not carry the
burdens with me. I also
knew that I needed to
work at doing just that.
I began to do what I
called a driving meditation.
Each time I drove to
work or drove to the
store or to pick up my
kids and I passed the
home of a former patient,
or the site of a trauma,
I offered a prayer. I
allowed any images of
the trauma to come and
then let them go. My
prayers were wordless
ones. I held each person,
each trauma, “in
the light”as the
Quakers say. I imagined
a golden light bathing
the person, the trauma
and me. Soon, rather
than seeing the images
of the emergency room
or the ICU each time
I passed the home of
a former patient, I began
to feel peace instead.
The peace calmed my spirit
and flowed from God to
me and to those who had
gone through the traumas.
I brought this same
practice to the hospital
as well. Each time I
walked by the “quiet
room”in the emergency
area, I silently imagined
the angels waiting on
those who had been there.
I let God’s love
flow through me and bathe
the area with light.
Now it is that peace
and light that I remember
as I move th | | |
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