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Spring 2021
Spring 2021
A Bedside Prayer
Noah Avigan
Hunched over my childhood desk in Sharon, Massachusetts, I scribbled down a few lines that I thought might sound good in a prayer.
Heavenly Father, we call out to You in our time of need.
Give him/her strength during this difficult time.
Lord of sickness and healing--
I didn’t know what a bedside prayer was supposed to sound like, but I had a feeling that it was not supposed to sound like this.
***
During the summer of 2020, in the middle of the COVID-19 pandemic, I spent three months working as a chaplain at Bellevue Hospital. I began my internship remotely, calling patients and their families over the phone, before coming into the hospital in-person in July. As a chaplain, I visited patients across the hospital struggling with diverse physical and emotional challenges. Bellevue provides care primarily for an underserved patient population, many of whom suffer from homelessness, mental illness, or substance abuse. With Bellevue’s doors closed to visitors, the months of June and July were a particularly difficult time to be in the hospital. Patients were isolated and lonely, and many had lost loved ones or their livelihoods to the pandemic. In my role as a chaplain, I sought to listen to patients compassionately, shape our conversations around their feelings, and affirm their struggles. I also served as a religious resource, helping patients to unpack spiritual questions.
Of all the parts of this job that felt unfamiliar, the scariest, by far, was prayer. It was not as if I had never prayed before; I attended a Jewish day school where I was expected to pray three times a day, and I spent a year at a religious seminary. But praying with a patient was entirely different than anything I had ever experienced. As a chaplain, I was asked to pray in English, to pray out loud with another person, and to compose a targeted prayer on demand. All of these elements felt completely foreign to my tradition and my prior Jewish education. More importantly, I worried that I would be acting disingenuously. I did not believe that my prayers had the power to change someone else’s health outcome or circumstances. Truthfully, I was not exactly sure to what or to whom I was praying. If a patient believed that I had such powers or steadfast beliefs, was I being dishonest with them?
The first time I had to compose a prayer, I was on the phone with a middle-aged man whose mother had just had a heart attack. He told me how concerned he was about his mother’s health and how horrible he felt that he could not be there with her. After we had talked through some of these feelings, it was time to wrap up the visit like I was supposed to. “Would you like to pray together?”
“Yes, I would like that.”
I tried to buy myself some more time. “Would you like to start, or would you like me to?”
"You can start,” he said.
Taking a deep breath, I tried to cobble together some of the phrases I had written in front of me. Heavenly Father…Lord of sickness and of health…we ask for Your blessing…grant kindness to him and his mother…in Your name, Amen.
As I sat there reading my rehearsed script, I could not help but notice how stilted and detached it all sounded. Up to this point, I thought that the visit had gone relatively well. I was able to help him articulate his feelings and it seemed like I had brought him some comfort. As I stumbled over this prayer, though, I only hoped he would not expose me as a phony.
What followed was one of the most powerful experiences of my summer—the man began to pray. He spoke directly to God, voicing his sadness, worry, and gratitude in plain speech. Repeating many of the same feelings he had reported to me, he gently asked for health and forgiveness, and he told God that he would find acceptance if his mother passed away. He talked to God as a close friend, and, for some reason, I was allowed to listen. As he spoke, I realized that my prayer had been utterly empty. I had evaded his worries and guilt completely, relying on a number of stock phrases he could have found in a book. In his prayer, however, he engaged directly with the darkest places of his grief.
Following this experience, I came to see the tremendous power of interpersonal prayer. After a conversation with a patient, prayer was a way to show them that someone was listening to them and cared about them. I would tell God about the pain they had articulated to me, validating and affirming their struggles. To a patient of faith, I was even passing along their grief to Someone more important, Someone who could maybe even do something about it. Prayer also created a unique space between the patient and me. Although I sought to create an open space for sharing, intense pain and vulnerability is often difficult to verbalize. We struggle to share the darkest and most intimate parts of ourselves with close friends, and it can seem nearly impossible to do so with a stranger. In a prayer space, however, two people can establish an intimacy and openness that I have never found in any other medium. By invoking a third party—God—one can say things that are difficult to say directly to another person. Only during his prayer did this man mention the word “death” or express his worry that his mother was going to die. Of course, he knew I was listening, but it was easier to express this fear to Someone else, with both of our eyes closed. The next time we spoke, I could tell that he felt more comfortable with me, and we could more easily speak to the feelings that were most troubling him.
During my visits with patients throughout the summer, I tried to pray in the way that this man had shown me. To do so, I needed no special religious authority or oracular powers; I only needed to sit with patients in their grief, honoring their pain without trying to make it go away. Prayer gives us an opportunity to approach others in this unusual and crucial way. In the traditional Jewish world, however, we all too often neglect this important aspect of prayer. Instead, visitors in shivah (Jewish mourning) spaces or memorial rituals are taught to turn to formulaic mantras (“May God comfort you among the other mourners of Zion and Jerusalem”) or words of hizzuk (“strength” or well-wishes). While these words can, of course, be comforting, newly-composed and personalized prayers create a connection that truly engages with the mourner’s pain.
My experience as a chaplain redeemed my belief in prayer—not because I saw that it works, but because I saw its unique ability to create interpersonal intimacy, safe sharing, and compassionate affirmation. Of course, this power is not to be taken lightly. It can be dangerous, and it is not a coincidence that faith leaders wield tremendous power over their congregants and parishioners. When done in a respectful way, however, prayer becomes an unparalleled medium for the interpersonal empathy and support that those in vulnerable positions badly need.
//NOAH AVIGAN is a senior in Columbia College and senior editor at The Current. He can be reached at nea2126@columbia.edu.
Photo of Bellevue Hospital from nychealthandhospitals.org
Heavenly Father, we call out to You in our time of need.
Give him/her strength during this difficult time.
Lord of sickness and healing--
I didn’t know what a bedside prayer was supposed to sound like, but I had a feeling that it was not supposed to sound like this.
***
During the summer of 2020, in the middle of the COVID-19 pandemic, I spent three months working as a chaplain at Bellevue Hospital. I began my internship remotely, calling patients and their families over the phone, before coming into the hospital in-person in July. As a chaplain, I visited patients across the hospital struggling with diverse physical and emotional challenges. Bellevue provides care primarily for an underserved patient population, many of whom suffer from homelessness, mental illness, or substance abuse. With Bellevue’s doors closed to visitors, the months of June and July were a particularly difficult time to be in the hospital. Patients were isolated and lonely, and many had lost loved ones or their livelihoods to the pandemic. In my role as a chaplain, I sought to listen to patients compassionately, shape our conversations around their feelings, and affirm their struggles. I also served as a religious resource, helping patients to unpack spiritual questions.
Of all the parts of this job that felt unfamiliar, the scariest, by far, was prayer. It was not as if I had never prayed before; I attended a Jewish day school where I was expected to pray three times a day, and I spent a year at a religious seminary. But praying with a patient was entirely different than anything I had ever experienced. As a chaplain, I was asked to pray in English, to pray out loud with another person, and to compose a targeted prayer on demand. All of these elements felt completely foreign to my tradition and my prior Jewish education. More importantly, I worried that I would be acting disingenuously. I did not believe that my prayers had the power to change someone else’s health outcome or circumstances. Truthfully, I was not exactly sure to what or to whom I was praying. If a patient believed that I had such powers or steadfast beliefs, was I being dishonest with them?
The first time I had to compose a prayer, I was on the phone with a middle-aged man whose mother had just had a heart attack. He told me how concerned he was about his mother’s health and how horrible he felt that he could not be there with her. After we had talked through some of these feelings, it was time to wrap up the visit like I was supposed to. “Would you like to pray together?”
“Yes, I would like that.”
I tried to buy myself some more time. “Would you like to start, or would you like me to?”
"You can start,” he said.
Taking a deep breath, I tried to cobble together some of the phrases I had written in front of me. Heavenly Father…Lord of sickness and of health…we ask for Your blessing…grant kindness to him and his mother…in Your name, Amen.
As I sat there reading my rehearsed script, I could not help but notice how stilted and detached it all sounded. Up to this point, I thought that the visit had gone relatively well. I was able to help him articulate his feelings and it seemed like I had brought him some comfort. As I stumbled over this prayer, though, I only hoped he would not expose me as a phony.
What followed was one of the most powerful experiences of my summer—the man began to pray. He spoke directly to God, voicing his sadness, worry, and gratitude in plain speech. Repeating many of the same feelings he had reported to me, he gently asked for health and forgiveness, and he told God that he would find acceptance if his mother passed away. He talked to God as a close friend, and, for some reason, I was allowed to listen. As he spoke, I realized that my prayer had been utterly empty. I had evaded his worries and guilt completely, relying on a number of stock phrases he could have found in a book. In his prayer, however, he engaged directly with the darkest places of his grief.
Following this experience, I came to see the tremendous power of interpersonal prayer. After a conversation with a patient, prayer was a way to show them that someone was listening to them and cared about them. I would tell God about the pain they had articulated to me, validating and affirming their struggles. To a patient of faith, I was even passing along their grief to Someone more important, Someone who could maybe even do something about it. Prayer also created a unique space between the patient and me. Although I sought to create an open space for sharing, intense pain and vulnerability is often difficult to verbalize. We struggle to share the darkest and most intimate parts of ourselves with close friends, and it can seem nearly impossible to do so with a stranger. In a prayer space, however, two people can establish an intimacy and openness that I have never found in any other medium. By invoking a third party—God—one can say things that are difficult to say directly to another person. Only during his prayer did this man mention the word “death” or express his worry that his mother was going to die. Of course, he knew I was listening, but it was easier to express this fear to Someone else, with both of our eyes closed. The next time we spoke, I could tell that he felt more comfortable with me, and we could more easily speak to the feelings that were most troubling him.
During my visits with patients throughout the summer, I tried to pray in the way that this man had shown me. To do so, I needed no special religious authority or oracular powers; I only needed to sit with patients in their grief, honoring their pain without trying to make it go away. Prayer gives us an opportunity to approach others in this unusual and crucial way. In the traditional Jewish world, however, we all too often neglect this important aspect of prayer. Instead, visitors in shivah (Jewish mourning) spaces or memorial rituals are taught to turn to formulaic mantras (“May God comfort you among the other mourners of Zion and Jerusalem”) or words of hizzuk (“strength” or well-wishes). While these words can, of course, be comforting, newly-composed and personalized prayers create a connection that truly engages with the mourner’s pain.
My experience as a chaplain redeemed my belief in prayer—not because I saw that it works, but because I saw its unique ability to create interpersonal intimacy, safe sharing, and compassionate affirmation. Of course, this power is not to be taken lightly. It can be dangerous, and it is not a coincidence that faith leaders wield tremendous power over their congregants and parishioners. When done in a respectful way, however, prayer becomes an unparalleled medium for the interpersonal empathy and support that those in vulnerable positions badly need.
//NOAH AVIGAN is a senior in Columbia College and senior editor at The Current. He can be reached at nea2126@columbia.edu.
Photo of Bellevue Hospital from nychealthandhospitals.org