Judging Distance

One of the hazards of being a clergy-type is the acquisition of the stance known in "the helping professions" as "clinical distance". For the most part, this skill of keeping one's emotional distance is about maintaining healthy boundaries for the clergyperson and the people with whom he/she interacts. Clinical distance allows clergy to be present for people in distress without becoming emotionally overwhelmed ourselves. After all, we regularly wind up in ICU units, surgical wards, mental health facilities, courtrooms, jails and other such locations because our "job" is to personally bring the faith of the Church to bear on those moments that are unbearable.

But the shimmering, mirage-like line that marks the border between appropriate clinical distance and emotional aloofness is sometimes difficult to discern. On the one hand, I suspect the last thing a person in distress would want to do is "take care" of a supposed caregiver who is unable to cope with a particular situation. On the other hand, the robotic dispensing of pastoral care does little to convey the compassion of the God we claim is present with us, even "in the valley of the shadow of death".

All of this has been brought home to me in the past two and a half weeks as I've prayed for a friend who is dying as a result of complications from a medical procedure gone awry. I've done my fair share of crying for her family who will be left without her gifts of love, laughter and light. I have wept for those who are her closest friends. Each of them will live with the scar of absence death (particularly an untimely one) brings to the lives of those who remain. And yes, I've done my own sobbing about the loss I feel of having a dear friend leave this life in such an unexpected way. Thankfully, this family and these friends have a wonderful priest to attend to them and a close parish community to support them in the days to come. They are not left comfortless -- and that is a comfort.

I don't know how well I've done through the years of judging appropriate clinical distance. Over the last few days, I've come to suspect that I have often erred toward the "aloof" side of the scale. But I have been powerfully reminded of late that my emotions (as raw as they may be right now) are still part and parcel of who I am as a human being and as a priest. Lorraine's parting gift to me was to remind me that the primal religion of the heart -- with all of the emotions attendant to it -- opens us up to living in the questions even when the religion of the head fails to provide any logical answers. For this gift (and the gift of her friendship), I am exceedingly thankful.