by Rebekah Cutler Ingram, Ministerial Intern
Let me begin with a snapshot of a typical day at the hospital. Every morning when I arrived at the Medical Center, I would print out the names and room numbers of all the patients on my 2 units: General Medicine and the Intensive Cardiac Care Unit. At 9:30 medical rounds began – I would present the spiritual history and status of my patients, which always struck me as a bit odd in contrast to the nurses, physicians, and social workers who would explain care plans, medications, upcoming medical tests, and so on. My insights went more like this: When this patient gets anxious, deep breathing helps her relax. Or this patient finds prayer to be strengthening and healing, or this person is a Jehovah’s Witness. Is it noted that he does not accept blood transfusions? After rounds, I visited patients who had explicitly requested a chaplain. By the end of the day, I usually had time to stroll around my assigned units, introduce myself to new patients and their families, and check-in with nurses and medical teams to see how they were doing.
On one particular day, a fellow chaplain informed me that I should visit a patient names James who had been readmitted to the hospital. James is a minister, he loves chaplains, and is a person whose faith is very important to him. He would, no doubt, appreciate a visit.
James was, indeed, a patient who had explicitly requested to see a chaplain that day. By the time I made it to James’ room, it was well into the afternoon. It had been a long, intense day for me, and I was ready for a relaxing visit. A minister. This will be a wonderful visit. We can talk theology, ministry, faith. I announce myself by knocking on the wall next to his open door. “Hello. How are you? May I come in? Immediately, he begins to answer my question. He carries on for a bit about his medical condition, how he is feeling physically. Finally, he stops.
“Who are you?” This is typical of most patients when they realize I’m not there to take vitals, flush the IV, or record yet another medical history. “You’re not acting like a nurse or doctor. Who are you?”
“I’m the chaplain,” I cheerily inform him.
“Ohhh. The chaplain. “So…what religion are you?”
Before continuing, I should explain the ironic fact that when I was a hospital chaplain, I was never asked about my religion. I suppose most patients don’t need to know or care to know, or maybe they assume the chaplain is the same religion as them, or a chaplain is a chaplain and that must mean a Christian chaplain. That was the most common assumption I heard from my patients. If a particular chaplain was desired, it was made known, “Are you a priest?” “Are you a Rabbi?”
It was only a few weeks ago, when I was replaying this story over in my mind that I realized I only ever answered no to questions about my faith. I was never asked to name my religion nor did anyone ever happen to ask for a Unitarian Universalist chaplain. I defined myself by what I am not. No, I am not a Rabbi. No, I am obviously not a priest. So James’ question - “What religion are you?” - actually caught me off guard. And I paused for a moment because I had not yet answered this question. I thought to myself: This man is a minister. Of course, he would ask me about my faith - wants to talk about religion.
“I’m a Unitarian Universalist.”
Have you ever been in conversation with a person you don’t know well and it’s going well, the conversation is interesting, and you feel yourselves opening up to each other and then something is said, or inferred, and you begin to suspect that this person has very different views from you? And there is this discomfort that rises within you the moment you sense the difference - a delicate uneasiness wavering in your stomach, on the back of your tongue because you just don’t even want to know what the differences between you may be. You don’t have the energy to explain yourself, let alone defend yourself, and you know that there will be questions, confusion, the comfort level between you may turn to discomfort. If you’re lucky and the difference is about religion, there may be a conversion attempt thrown in there…that’s if you’re really lucky. James was quiet for a moment. I remember him buttering his toast. Everything moved in slow motion as I awaited James response to the name of my religion. And I remember vividly the ensuing conversation.
“A Unitarian Universalist, huh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I know about Unitarians.”
“Do you?” I’m hoping the uneasiness in my stomach is for nothing. Maybe he is a liberal peer after all. “Yep,” he continued. “You’ve got no standards.” For about twenty minutes, James explained the doctrines of Christianity to me, the necessity of accepting Jesus into my heart, the reason for Jesus’ death on the cross, and how I would be going to hell, and do you want to go to hell? Do you? “Come back when you’ve found some standards.” Those were his parting words to me.
According to James, standards could be found in the Bible and the Bible alone. Where do you begin when one says this is so, the other says this is not so? I was enraged that this stranger judged me before even knowing me. I felt as if I had walked into a wall. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t speak. I left the room.
In the book Being Liberal in an Illiberal Age, Mendelsohn recounts a story told by Rev. Forrest Church about sitting at the dinner table and being asked to explain Unitarian Universalism to the other guests. If you have not found yourself in such a scenario yet, you will. Rev. Bill Sinkford, President of the UUA, calls such responses “Elevator Speeches” for the obvious fact that we really only have seconds, maybe a few minutes to explain Unitarian Universalism to those who are not familiar with this liberal faith.
Mendelsohn writes: “We cannot give [a creedal answer] because we are a creedless church. There are two very compelling (to us) reasons for this. First, we are persuaded that it is spiritually depriving to state the intellectual content of religious belief in fixed and final form; we are convinced that humans are created to be capable of growth in their understandings of truth. Second, we are bound together by ties that we find deeper and more satisfying than those of creedal affirmation; we are bound together by a spirit of enriching our individual lives within a framework of caring community.” (38).
Unitarian Universalists are not at all orthodox. For us, there is no statement of faith to paraphrase, no creed to recite, no scripture demanding memorization. We are heretics: we are dissenters. And by dissenting we remove ourselves from various religious communities and orthodoxies. Many of us have rejected the religions of our past and found ourselves here – in a Unitarian Universalist church saying: yes, yes, this is right, this feels so right. Or we are thinking: this feels better, this makes more sense, but I don’t know if this is really it – is this my religion? Why do I keep coming back? What am I in search of? What is it I seek? And this is where we cease to dissent for we have not gone so far into non-conformity and individualism that we have rejected one other. In fact, that is not at all what we are about. This is where the heresy both stops and begins. We do not reject everything. We have not rejected human community. We are not alone.
The Greek root of the word heretic is hairetikos. It means “able to choose.” Heretics embrace choice. Being a Unitarian Universalist is not a term for what we are not, which many of us have gotten away with for a while including myself. Many of our elevator speeches incorporate a litany of what we do not believe. We have no creed, no doctrine, no dogma, no scripture, actually…any scripture, really, and so on. Unitarian Universalism is a community that each one of us has chosen – or is considering choosing. The heretic in you and me chose to be here this morning. That is heresy.
When I met with my Supervisor at the hospital and told her about my visit with James, she explained that I could refer him to a Christian Chaplain. I would never have to set foot in his hospital room again. I thought that sounded like a good idea since there is obviously no common ground upon which James and I could even think about beginning a conversation in respect, tolerance, or love. Having any conversation at all seemed impossible. The next day, I referred James to an evangelical Christian chaplain, and I couldn’t help myself from asking my fellow chaplain about this deep, deep, and genuine need for some Christians to convert non-believers. I understand the theology behind it. Salvation comes from faith in Jesus Christ alone, not good works. James and I could not be more theologically opposed. And maybe this is the life-long UU within me speaking, but I cannot imagine going from day to day, encounter to encounter with the underlying need to convert all the non-believers I meet. I cannot imagine the amount of energy evangelism demands, the focus it requires, the distractedness that can result. I do know – and I imagine some of you do too – how it feels to be alienated, offended, enraged, and I’m sure many people have felt saved.
My friend, the evangelical chaplain, couldn’t quite understand why James’ attempt to convert me would be so offensive. “It’s out of love, Rebekah. James’ hurtful words derive from tremendous love and fear.” Upon hearing this, all the anger and resentment inside me vanished, and what crept in astonished me. “The inherent worth and dignity of every person.” The inherent worth and dignity of every person. Over and over in my head, this UU mantra miraculously filled me with patience, understanding, and dare I say love for James. And then my friend asked me half-jokingly about how one would go about converting me. And here the construction of my elevator speech began. Convert me by the life you live.
I am a heretic indeed. I left James’ room. I referred him to another chaplain because I had no desire to be disrespected and disregarded again. James’ hospital room was a one-way street that I did not want to travel. But two days later I chose to return to him. I couldn’t stay away because this mantra, “I affirm the inherent worth and dignity of every person” wouldn’t leave me alone. I didn’t want to see James again, but I had to. Because saying the inherent worth and dignity principle wasn’t sufficient. I had to make those words actually mean something.
Entangled in the steps I took from the Spiritual Care Department to James’ room is the creation of my elevator speech – a speech carved from the authority of personal experience and human reason, supported by love, and tested by a man named James. It goes something like this: As members of a free faith, we accept the responsibility of embodying Unitarian Universalism in every action we take and do not take, every word we speak and do not speak. As members of a free faith we commit ourselves to the creation of a Beloved community that honors, accepts, rejoices, and trembles in the search for and presence of Truth and Justice. The lives we live matter. This is one unavoidable truth we confront together.
James did not try to convert me during that second visit. It is important that we explain who we are. The heretic in you and me can choose to avoid such conversations. As short as our elevator speeches may be, they are difficult and very personal. They require energy, concentration, deep thinking and feeling. And sharing our elevator speeches includes some fear, and a lot of trust and love, which is why I shared mine with you today. I hope and pray that our community is one that chooses to engage in these conversations, and to reflect upon the saving message that is our lives. What is your elevator speech? Take a stab at it. Try it on. May we be heretics and choose to stay in community, in conversation, and May we be converted by the lives we live. Amen.
