under construction

Reader, I’ve dispensed with the self-flagellation of not writing enough. If you want to whip me with a wet noodle, go for it. I’m letting myself off the hook today. xo

I’m currently working as a chaplain resident—someday I will rail about the racket that is chaplaincy training here and now, but not today—in a hospital in the American South. It takes great pride in the complexity of care it’s able to provide, and its legacy of patient diversity. When most people hear chaplain, they think a shifty, shady preacher who is coming to tell them how to believe, who will pray with them, and then split. I’d wager that most of the patients and staff that I spend time with don’t really get what my colleagues and I do. I spend my days walking the halls of the hospital, visiting with staff, with patients, with family, listening & talking with people who are not having the greatest time of their life, by and large, and being with them wherever they are. Some days we pray together. Some days I facilitate a ritual with them that makes them feel closer to the Divine, a closeness they can never be apart from, an outward symbol of an inward state of being. Some days I let them yell at me (mercifully few, because I feel ambivalent about this as quality care). Some days I let them tell me what they believe and how they’re making sense of what’s happening to them. Many days I sit with the dead and the dying, and their loved ones, listening, grieving, accompanying. Most days, I try to get folx to tell me that they are not fine, and what’s really on their heart, what are they going through.

You know what I don’t do? I don’t teach asana. I haven’t set foot in a studio as a teacher since I left Chicago in 2019. I rarely facilitate pranayama. The nature of my teaching has changed, or rather, the context has changed. I might teach nadi shodana to a pregnant person who has been in the hospital for weeks trying to stay pregnant, who is feeling overwhelmed by anxiety. I might breathe consciously while I am hugging someone (masked, of course) to allow their own breath to slow down and feel more present to them. I feel confused by this new context, and how I bring some of my pillars of practice and teaching into it.

This work is very different from my work as a yoga teacher, though the skills come in handy. It’s also really different from the work I recently did in div school, though there are also many lines that connect straight from one to the other. My current position has an expiration date, and I find myself asking a ton of questions, chief among them, how do I craft a career that explores these intersections that are so vital and meaningful to me?

One recent night, I was in the trauma room when a young man was brought in for care. My role in a situation like this is to stay out of the way of docs & techs & nurses, to provide a stable and grounding presence for everyone there, and when the time is right, to connect with a client/patient and offer to contact a community member who can show up for them. That is sometimes not possible, and was not possible on this night. He was not the worst-off client I’d ever seen, but his condition had a visceral effect on me. This morning, I was rereading some Simone Weil and I found,

“Those who are unhappy have no need for anything in this world but people capable of giving them their attention. The capacity to give one’s attention to a sufferer is a very rare and difficult thing; it is almost a miracle; it is a miracle. Nearly all those who think they have this capacity do not possess it. ”

— "Waiting for God", Simone Weil

I instantly realized I had not had this capacity for this young man. I felt this when he was in the room, too. I reminded myself that grounding and stability cannot come from fear, that he was afraid, that the care providers, for all of their skill and knowledge, were amped up as well, and that he needed someone, someone, who could offer an energy that was stable and present. From across the room where I was standing, I planted my feet, softened my belly, lengthened my spine, and I took three deep breaths. I did not look away. I let him know that I was here, and that he wasn’t alone. He never looked at me. I did not get a chance to speak to him. So the outcome questions that you have, I have too. But I was there. When it was time for me to go, I made sure that my teammate had all the necessary info, and could show up as fully as I’d been able to.

Our world is full of folks who do not want to feel what we are going through, who don’t understand what feelings are and how to be with them, and so we turn to behaviors and choices that allow us not to feel them, whether those are visited on our own body, or on the bodies of others. These outcomes are often harmful, which is putting it mildly. My hope, and my desire, is that if we learn how to ask ourselves, what am I going through? and not to run from the tender, honest answer to that question, that practice will teach us the skills to be present with others and to ask them the same question. May those practices that allow us presence and stability show up for us in all the places and all the ways. May we find the place where the teachings and the paths converge, and allow it to lead us where we must go.

it was a good day.

The best moment of my life so far is the day I vowed to live life with my Favorite, the anniversary of which is incidentally, this coming Monday.

The second best was the day that we went, with my brother- and sister-in-law, to see The Best Damn Band in the Land, and I got to see the drum major and sousaphone player dot the I in OHIO in person at the Rose Bowl. (keep your eye on the front point of the script Ohio and you’ll see it. It still gives me goosebumps and makes me scream in delight.)

But I think yesterday that moment was beat out by this one, the day I got to stand up in front of my colleagues and friends and fellow graduates, some of the brightest, most insightful, intuitive, brilliant kind, generous, challenging, and inspiring people I have ever known, and tell them how grateful I am for them and how much they matter.

Thank you, friends. Your mark in my life is indelible. This moment will continue to shine in my heart for a long, long time.

jessica young chang, MDiv ‘22

This love makes me better every day.

credo: a rewriting of the Apostles' Creed on Good Friday 2022

If you know me, you know my spiritual practice is not a quiet one. Literally: in church, on my mat, on the cushion, in community with others, I make noise. Whether a grunt or moan of affirmation, an “Amen!” of encouragement, the sound of OM, or a hymn taught to me by my teacher with shruti box accompaniment, my spiritual practice is vibrational. I make sounds. So when I was gifted a box containing mala and rosary, specifically, I was curious about the practice of this Catholic prayer. Can I chant it? What happens if I do? Does it feel similar or different to my regular mantra practice?

Now. I am not a Catholic. I say that not to differentiate myself in any forceful, dismissive way, and to attempt to respect deeply the liturgical and contemplative practices of Catholicism. (The ecumenical part of me, which is sizeable, is disappointed, even wounded at times, by the way that the institution conducts itself in relationship to others who profess and practice Christianity, but it has been such an institution of such power for so long that I couldn’t pick a meaningful fight with the Catholic church even if I wanted to.) So I wonder about the practice of picking up this prayer tool, and reciting—mentally or orally—these prayers, some of which are a part of my daily life, some of which are entirely new to me.

I can definitely pray the rosary and not be Catholic, someone told me. Of course you can, my friend told me, feel free to say whatever prayers you’re comfortable with. So I found some print-out instructions and sat down.

But right away, the Apostles’ Creed stunned me between the eyes. This may be in part because I am a a part of a Protestant denomination that self-identifies as non-credal (though we do have a statement of faith, many of us don’t chant it regularly, or at all, as an act of worship). Historically, the people of the UCC doesn’t like folks “in charge” telling us what to believe: it’s a flat denomination with discernment and self-determination that comes from and is rooted in the local church, not a bishopric or papacy. (I like that about us, but it doesn’t make anything simpler.) So maybe my UCC Spidey-sense went off. It wasn’t a matter of theology; it was a matter of language. Despite the fact that it has been relevant in the Christian history and practice for the last fifteen hundred years, I needed to make it more flexible. I mean no disrespect, but I needed to be able to see myself in it, to believe what I was saying when I said ‘I believe.’

So I rewrote it.

I’m not the first, I won’t be the last, and it’s not even that good. But here is the thing I can say when I sit down and cross myself, and pull out that rosary that my boss gave me to contemplate the relationship between a mother, her child, the Creator of the universe, and me.

I believe in God, the One beyond all separation, Creator of heaven and earth, and in Jesus Christ, God’s Beloved Child, my Savior, Teacher, and Sibling who was conceived by the Holy Spirit, born to the Virgin Mary, lived, suffered, and ministered under Roman occupation, was executed by crucifixion, died, and was buried; Jesus descended into the hell that is total alienation and distance from God; on the third day He rose from the dead; He has been reunited in Oneness, and is complete with the One; from this Oneness he will come to reconcile all in love. I believe in the presence, mystery, and workings of the Holy Spirit, the flawed-but-in process Church universal, the communion of saints known and unknown, the forgiveness of sins, and oneness in Love by Love in the fullness of time. Amen

Yes, it’s longer. This is unsurprising if you know me. It would be hella impressive if I could write it in Latin, eh? Maybe someday. Today, I’m gonna keep reading Toni Morrison and handle this rosary and think about my Friend who was killed.

the d-word

Another sleepless night—just me? anyone else?—has me thinking about death. I laugh out loud writing that sentence, but it’s true. I’m writing a thesis right now about Julian of Norwich, my favorite medieval mystic who prayed for illness that would convince herself and everyone around her that she was dying, so that she might understand the suffering of Jesus Christ. Through this suffering she was given a series of visions that transformed her understanding of God.

It seems sacrilegious to write about a woman who wanted to fall ill in the midst of a pandemic like the one we’re living and dying through. But tonight I’m thinking about how hard it is for us to understand what death is, how much we struggle to talk about death.

I was with a fair amount of people who were dying and who died while serving as a chaplain intern this summer. Most of them I never got to know until they were close to death, through their friends, family, or spouses, because they couldn’t communicate with me in words. They were young and old, local and from out of town, Covid patients and people who were dying because their bodies couldn’t work anymore.

I remember one guy I met named Marshall (obviously not his real name) who was dying. He had my birthdate. Literally, we two came into the world on the same date. Different parts of the country, different parents, different lives, Marshall wound up in the situation that despite having an only slightly worn 41-year-old body, his brain was not functional. He had no chance—no chance—of regaining consciousness. His mother, sister, and girlfriend, after wrestling with this information for days and talking repeatedly with his doctors, decided to change his course of treatment from attempting to (unsuccessfully) extend his life, to care that would allow him to die peacefully and painlessly.

We’ve all seen the movie, right? A nurse or two makes a couple of efficient moves and then leaves the room silently; a loved one tearfully holds the hand of the dying, bedside; the rhythmic pulse of the heart monitor suddenly becomes more prominent in the sound design—beep… Beep… Beep…BEEP…BEEP…—then that monotonous tone erupts—BEEEEEEEEEE!!!!—and the softly weeping protagonist breaks down into sobs. Cue the orchestra swell.

That’s not how it happens. That’s not how this happened.

Days went by. Marshall didn’t die. Despite his history, I learned from some of his care providers, he was a person with a strong body. His organs weren’t just going to snap off like flipping a light switch. Death happens on its own schedule. Meantime, Marshall’s body was going to continue to have certain kinds of responses: movements, eye twitches, even sounds occasionally. His family was racked with guilt and uncertainty. Had they made the right choice? Maybe Marsh was trying to tell them something. Did you see that? See that, he moved! Maybe he’s still in there!

The care team paged Spiritual Care, and I was the one holding the hot potato (I was likely one of only two people from Spiritual Care in the thousand-bed hospital at the time), so I went down and spent some time with his family. I think I sat and talked with them for close to an hour, maybe more. I remember I said the words die, dying, died, death, dead more in that hour of care than I think I had so far that summer. It didn’t feel like the word was violent or jarring or out of place. It felt like the necessary word to describe what Marshall and his family were experiencing. Marshall was dying; his family was waiting for him to die.

We talked about who Marshall was to them. We talked about how confused and frightened they were. We talked about how hard the care team had worked to care for him, and how they, Marshall’s loved ones, could rest assured that they’d gotten the best medical advice possible about Marshall’s situation. And we told God how pissed off we were.

I pray like this a lot to God on my own. I don’t use thee or thou, I don’t get poetic or prolific in my language, and I don’t use Latin; I blend genders, I ask sometimes what are you doing, and I say, I’m scared. I’m angry. I’m hurting. I’m lonely. I don’t understand. I appreciate praying this way. It feels like the most honest and vulnerable way that I can talk to God. No bullshit, no ceremony, the sacred in the profane. Here I am, on my face, or standing in the rain shaking my fist at the lightning.

We’d rather use metaphors or euphemisms for death than just say that we die, you’re dying, they’re dead. Gone…, is one I hear, with a pregnant ellipsis that’s supposed to indicate that it’s not gone fishing or gone to the store. “No longer with us”, like a break up of which we just can’t name the scope and permanence. Then there are the Hallmark-y quasi-Heavenly ones—she’s gone Home, or is in a better place. I feel like I choke on that one. It’s all so sanitized.

We’re dying. People are dying. I said it in the pulpit two days ago. Saying it in a pulpit doesn’t make it more true or less true. It was always true. Covid has forced us all to reckon with our own mortality, with our fear, with the reality of our own death and the death of everything we love, everything we hate, everything we know. I don’t think we’re very good at it, and here’s a hard truth: I’m not sure how much our religion helps. So many fellow followers of Christ cling to the practice of our faith because of the promise it can make of us never having to confront death. It’s not the radical love of Christ that we want to emulate or the devotion to the poor and justice that Jesus modeled that we practice; we worship because we are afraid that if we don’t death will be final, and that we’ll suffer forever.

I’m not super interested in arguing this point, frankly. Maybe I should be, but what happens to me when I die is just… I am more interested in living like Christ than striking a deal with him to avoid death. When this argument starts to circle in my head (usually in a voice that is part-charismatic male preacher and part-my mother), James Baldwin quotes start to kick in: “If the concept of God has any validity or any use, it can only be to make us larger, freer, and more loving. If God cannot do this, then it is time we got rid of Him.”

“Life is tragic simply because the earth turns and the sun inexorably rises and sets, and one day, for each of us, the sun will go down for the last, last time. Perhaps that is the whole root of our trouble, the human trouble, is that we will sacrifice all the beauty of our lives, will imprison ourselves in totems, taboos, crosses, blood sacrifices, steeples, mosques, races, armies, flags, nations, in order to deny the fact of death, which is the only fact we have.”

— James Baldwin

Marshall’s family seemed to appreciate praying this way, just telling God the truth about how hard confronting this death was for them. One of his relatives even said so. I’ve never prayed like that before… it felt good, I feel better. Think of that: naming death, and the struggle that these folks had coming to grips with Marshall’s death was helpful, rather than trying to cling to some pain to that would be made right after death, or in the end of time. Do we have to demand that our faith make us these promises in order for it to have value in our lives?

I remember learning last summer that the chaplain is sometimes the only person who says the word die to family of a patient who’s died, and that sometimes it can be a kind of relief for them. A valve opens, they can sink into the reality against which they’ve been braced. Finally, someone’s just being tenderly honest with them. I don’t know if that’s a universal truth of spiritual care or not. I suppose only time and experience will tell.

I’m dying. You’re dying. Because we are both dying sooner or faster than we think, let us think deeply about how we want to live, how we want to treat ourselves, treat one another. Let us “earn [our] death by confronting with passion the conundrum of life.” (That’s Baldwin, too.) Let’s breathe deeply together while we can, and treat each other like the sacred beings we are. Let’s spend our energy and attention on things we value. Let us love one another, deeply, thoroughly, humbly and tenderly, with our words, our actions, our resources.

Darkness: An Advent Reflection

I’ve been working the last few months at Old South Church in Boston. It’s been a fascinating experience to serve a community this way, and I’m working hard and learning a lot. Every now and then I’m given the opportunity to offer reflection, and I thought I’d share my most recent reflection in this space. In this time of winter, of mounting waves of illness, of trauma and fear and grief, darkness feels in high supply. This reflection offers a vision for how we might work cooperatively with darkness. The whole service is lovely, and my words start at around 22:00 in.