For most of my 18 years in ministry, Sundays found me on the platform with a microphone in hand. Much of my week was devoted to planning those services. My goal was always the same: to share the Gospel—to tell people about Jesus or sing of His mercy, grace, and love. There’s nothing wrong with that. But over the last few years, my understanding of the Gospel has broadened and deepened. Wise pastors and gifted professors have challenged me not to stop proclaiming the “Good News,” but to also embody it. It is one thing to believe sound doctrine; it is another to be united with Christ by loving all kinds of people through tangible acts of mercy.
It is easy to be merciful toward people I know and love, but a much greater challenge to extend mercy to those who are entirely different from me. As a white Christian woman, I had lived in a bubble for far too long. I wanted to change, but didn’t know how. That changed in May, when I began my first unit of Clinical Pastoral Education (CPE). What I have learned about myself and others has strengthened my theology and pushed me to incarnate the Gospel in ways I never imagined. To say this journey has been transformative is almost an understatement.
During my first week of CPE, I stumbled across an article attributed to the late Pope Francis. I cannot verify whether the words are truly his, but they have stayed with me. The reflection was on hospitals:
“The walls of hospitals have heard more honest prayers than churches… They have witnessed far more sincere kisses than those in airports… In hospitals, you see a homophobe being saved by a gay doctor. A privileged doctor saving the life of a beggar… In intensive care, you see a Jew taking care of a racist… A police officer and a prisoner in the same room receiving the same care… A wealthy patient waiting for a liver transplant, ready to receive the organ of a poor donor… In these moments, when hospitals touch the wounds of people, different worlds intersect according to a divine design. And in this communion of destinies, we realize that alone, we are nothing. The deepest truth of humanity often reveals itself only in pain or under the threat of irreversible loss. A hospital is where human beings remove their masks and show themselves as they truly are, in their purest essence.”
Over these past months, I’ve seen this lived out. I’ve sat with four young mothers, each told her baby had died—one Black, one White, one non-English-speaking Hispanic, and one English-speaking Hispanic. Their skin tones and cultures were different, but all four wore the same hollow, grief-stricken eyes as their hearts bore the unbearable weight of loss.
I’ve prayed over young people who attempted to end their lives, too broken to believe their lives mattered. I’ve prayed with those younger than me who entered hospice. I’ve walked through the cancer center, praying over patients tethered to chemo—men and women, young and old, Black, Hispanic, White, Gay, and Straight. Cancer does not discriminate. I’ve stood with grieving families who prayed to Allah over their dying loved one, and I’ve whispered prayers for fragile babies in the NICU, fighting to live.
I’ve listened as a young Middle Eastern female doctor confidently commanded the room, saving the life of an elderly white man—while I prayed with his wife in the hallway. I’ve held the hands of patients dying from diseases I had only read about, and watched machines breathe for those who no longer could. I’ve offered blessings to those leaving the hospital to return home and prayers of hope for those with no home to return to. I’ve prayed for favor over patients stuck in the red tape of insurance, desperate for a place to heal or a place to die.
Just last week, I visited a 65-year-old Black man who had just been extubated. The day before, I had prayed at his bedside. Now sitting up in a chair, he told me with tears flowing how grateful he was for the goodness and faithfulness of God. He tried to wipe his tears, but his hand would not cooperate. After several attempts, I gently dabbed his cheeks for him. Instantly, I thought of Revelation: “He shall wipe away all tears.” In that moment, I felt a deep solidarity with Christ. I also noticed something else—his tears were clear. The old saying says, “We all bleed the same color.” But that day I realized all tears are clear, no matter if they roll down black, white, or brown faces or some shade in between. We are all the same—beautiful human beings, marred by sin and desperately in need of mercy.
I entered CPE with a strong belief in imago Dei—that every human being reflects the image of God and is worthy of dignity and love. Equality has long been close to my heart. But volunteering in the hospital has given me an up-close, undeniable picture of humanity and the equalizing effect of sin. When I see arrogance or supremacy rear its head, I want to say, “Go spend a week in the hospital somewhere. You’ll see—it doesn’t matter your race, class, religion, or wealth- eventually, everyone needs mercy.” I believe the words of Jesus, “Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy”(Matthew 5:7). And I believe the words of the angels who said to the disciples, ” This same Jesus, who has been taken from you into heaven, will return in just the same way as you have watched him go” (Acts 1:11). He’s coming back to end suffering once and for all.
I’ve seen too much to ever be the same. Some experiences are too holy to share. But I am grateful—grateful for the sacred work of extending mercy to God’s beloved ones, grateful for the unseen ways He has shaped me in the hidden places of ministry. I’m thankful to carry this rich experience into my pastoral care, hopefully more compassionate and merciful. My prayer is that we can truly see each other as equal human beings, created to reflect God’s glory, worthy of dignity, respect and love. Every.Single.One.Of.Us.
If you want to feel close to Jesus, go where there is suffering. You will surely find Him there.
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