1st Congregational
Carol Barriger
7th after Pentecost
Mark 6:30-34, 53-56
R=
20;Emotional
Labor”
“Holy Longing,” Ronald Rolheiser<= o:p>
… [P]eople at once
recognized him, and rushed about that whole region and began to bring the s=
ick
on mats to wherever they heard he was.
(Mk 6:54-55)
As a
chaplain at Lucile Packard Children’s Hospital, I remember one day I
spent in the NICU (the neonatal intensive care unit, for those tiny newborns
with a wide variety of problems ranging from just a little underweight, to
life-threatening). Every baby
there, and every family, is a high drama, and the dedication of the staff is
amazing. There are many inten=
se
medical moments. But in a side
room, barely shielded from the voices, the beeps, the tubes and the monitor=
s, I
sat with a couple in their 30s.
They were both highly educated, professionals – certainly not
everyone in this setting is.
Education, culture and language differences add to the misery and
anxiety of navigating this complex medical world. The difficulties and tragedies cro=
ss
every line of economic class, upbringing, and experience. So, in a way, this couple was
remarkable. He was a lawyer, =
she a
high-tech executive.
They were grim-faced. Their
first, carefully planned child, 3 days old, lay in the NICU slowly losing h=
is
battle with a heart defect. T=
he
choices were: a difficult sur=
gery
immediately, which the infant might not survive, or no surgery, which would
result in certain death within a few days or weeks. If the baby survived surgery, he w=
ould
be on a lifetime path of a series of further serious operations at ages 5 a=
nd
12 as he grew, which were just as dangerous and which he might not survive.=
Even in the best outcome, his woul=
d be a
lifetime of severely restricted activity.&=
nbsp;
Doctors were pressing for a decision. Waiting longer would also allow
irreversible brain damage from lack of oxygen. I sat with the man and woman all d=
ay
– often for long periods in silence.=
They had no special faith perspective on this struggle. In fact, they were somewhat proudly
non-observant of any tradition.
They appreciated my presence, not as clergy, but as a reflector, as =
they
grappled with what they saw as an ethical dilemma they had never expected a=
nd
over which they had no control.
That was an unfamiliar situation for this couple. They were laboring. Hard.
&=
nbsp; The
husband had researched everything on the internet – the heart problem,
the latest studies, the options, the best doctors. When in doubt, reduce to informati=
on. The wife sat quietly, not speaking=
much,
clearly overwhelmed with emotion but not at home expressing it. He had walled off his feelings and=
was
– intellectually, at least – ready to let go. She was not. We sat. There was little motion all day ex=
cept
for trips to the restroom, or my bringing food for them from the hospital
cafeteria. There was virtuall=
y no
outlay of physical energy, but all three of us were exhausted. At the end of the day, they did as=
k for
a short prayer … took their son home, and arranged for hospice care.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Two weeks later, he died. I saw them when they came back to =
the
hospital to thank the staff. =
They
were rested then though certainly not light-hearted. The mother shared with me how both
retreated from their prestigious jobs and how deeply they slept at home dur=
ing
the last days of their son’s life.&n=
bsp;
They were no longer struggling.&nbs=
p;
They had peace. They
recovered from the emotional labor even as the light of their child’s
life passed out of their home. The
work of caring deeply, of struggling and connecting at a speechless level, =
is
one example of emotional labor.
It is in contrast with the kind of work Jesus describes in m=
any
of his parables, stories familiar to his hearers about vineyard workers, and
slaves, and householders – more what we think of as labor in this
world. It is, however, not at=
odds
with the labor Jesus lived, the kind of work described in today̵=
7;s
gospel. Emotional labor. Jesus recognizes that the disciple=
s are
exhausted. They have had no t=
ime to
eat (Mk
Loving is emot=
ional
labor, and while loving is good and powerful and “of God,” while
loving surely changes us and changes others, there are times we have to step
back from living on the edge of constantly pouring it out, in order to seek=
the
wells that renew and refill us. It
is, however, an imperfect search.
It’s part of our wiring to stay connected to that which we care
most deeply about – and counterintuitive to let it go. Emotional labor is the work of min=
istry,
of serving, but that does not make it simply the work of Jesus, or your
ordained clergy. It affects u=
s all,
and I am sure you are considering your own times of being in that labor.
This caring is one kind of emotional labor. There is another kind with which I
imagine the disciples also grappled with.&=
nbsp;
It is the emotional labor of the managed heart. Episcopal priest Barbara Brown Tay=
lor
helps to describe it. Recalli=
ng her
days in the parish, she says, “My heart was sore from overuse. I had what is sometimes called
‘compassion fatigue.”[1] She read a book called The Mana=
ged
Heart by Arlie Hochschild (University of California Press: 1983), a stu=
dy
of people whose jobs involve more emotional than physical or even mental
work. Ministry is such a
calling. This emotional labor=
is
work that involves being open to the feelings of others, and even evoking
certain feelings in others. (=
Sounds
like Jesus to me) The book studied occupations, talking with people whose w=
ork
involved management of their feelings, at the same time being intensely aware of=
the
feelings of others. The parti=
cular
focus is what happens to people's hearts when they agree to do emotional la=
bor
for pay. (Such as being a par=
ish
minister)
&nb=
sp; The
example Brown relates to is the flight attendant – taught to smile, a=
nd
smile as if they mean it. The=
ir
trainers tell them that the flying public can sense insincere smiles, and t=
hat
this may diminish their enjoyment.
The flight attendant's job is to produce a positive frame of mind in=
the
passenger. However,
this emotional labor must not ever show.&n=
bsp;
Fatigue or irritability (in other words, humanity) is to be disguise=
d. If a passenger is hostile or rude,=
the
attendant is taught to see the person as fearful or as a little child ̵=
1;
anything to help overlook rude behavior and relate sympathetically to the
passenger. The point of these "feeling rules" is economic –=
to
win the customer's repeat business. The attendant gives the airline a human
face by personifying the care of the parent company, leading the passenger =
to
choose the same airline next time.
They give the company a human face – but at what cost to
themselves? This is another k=
ind of
emotional labor.
&nb=
sp; People
in these jobs learn ways to evoke desired fee=
lings
in themselves, and also repress bad feelings so they do not erupt on the
job. This is usually not cons=
cious
behavior. After a time, some =
say
they have a hard time recovering their true feelings when work is over. Eventually they become aware that =
the
hidden cost of managing their hearts is the impoverishment of their emotion=
al
lives. Perhaps this is what w=
as
happening at work for the couple I sat with that day. Hochschild estimates one-third of
American workers have jobs that demand some form of emotional labor like th=
is,
and are subject to being overwhelmed.
Perhaps this is you, or someone you know. I never want it to be me – t=
o be
overwhelmed – which is why I work regularly with a spiritual director=
and
take my time away. I am sure =
that
Jesus did not want it to happen for the disciples either.
Taylor found that clergy were li=
ke
flight attendants. She realiz=
ed she
represented a "parent company" (the larger church) depending on her to
personify its values. She was=
to
serve people on their journeys, though not from San Francisco to New York, =
but
from birth to death. Her comp=
any
(the Episcopal Church) is only one of many offering the service. To encourage people to "fly&q=
uot;
with her church instead of another, she was to provide a postive and enrich=
ing
experience. When she was tire=
d,
irritable, confused, or burdened she tried to disguise it. When passengers
turned hostile, (as they do every day) she worked hard to overlook rudeness=
by
focusing on their humanity. S=
he
realized she was playing into their expectations of her role. The hardest thing was the misperce=
ption
of the ministerial calling. Sometimes, when people complained the coffee was
not hot, the office door locked when they expected it to be open, or the
bathroom out of toilet paper, she wanted to remind them that fixing these
things was not the main reason she was there. The main reason she was there=
was
to “get them out alive” if their spiritual plane went down. She
could handle coffee, but it was the emergency exit she was good at. She could find everyone a comforta=
ble
seat, but it was serving people in the crises of life, being fully present =
and
preparing them for those times, that she did best. “I did not mind being mistak=
en for
a waitress,” she wrote.
“Isn't that at least partly what servant leadership is about?<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> But it was essential for me to remember that I was a lifeguard at heart.” It is important for all those in
ministry (ordained or otherwise) to guard our hearts from overuse. One way, Taylor believes, is to be=
clear
about the gift of our feelings.&nbs=
p;
As friend reminded her, “People can pay us to proofread the
bulletin, watch the budget, attend committee meetings and deal with the den=
omination,
but they cannot pay us to love them. That part of the job we do for
free.” And that is bles=
sed
emotional labor.
&=
nbsp; I
believe that you honor the emotional labor I do. I carry in my heart constantly the
concerns of this church and each and every one of you – whether we ha=
ve
had a good day together, a bad day, or no day at all; that I cannot
“check a person at the door” when I go home, the way one leaves=
a
file on the desk for attention tomorrow.&n=
bsp;
Emotional labor is no respecter of the clock, or of the time you wan=
t to
go to sleep, or go out and do something for fun. Now, let me be careful not to pain=
t a
picture of a 24/7 burden!! Je=
sus,
the disciples, you and I, the NICU staff – we find ministry a joy, an=
d we
learn to have boundaries. A m=
ore
correct description is that it is not something one controls. Even for those among us with the b=
est of
boundaries, such labor comes unbidden, and requires a set of spiritual tool=
s. I pray, too, that you please honor=
the
emotional labor of your church leaders.&nb=
sp;
I think there is a tendency to collapse everything into objective ki=
nds
of project descriptions, and “getting things done.” But the acquisition of wisdom, the
process of questioning and finding our way are infinitely more taxing and a=
re
the real emotional labor of leading the church.
&=
nbsp; I’d
like to share a thought from a Baptist minister (just so you know that this=
is
a broadly ecumenical concern – UCC, Episcopal, Baptist!):
“What does your heart say?” Many of us are clueless abo=
ut
how to answer that kind of question. We have become experts at dodging
deep-down matters of the heart, and we have arranged our lives so that we a=
re
never still and quiet enough for them to catch up with us. At work, we spend
most of our time with data, facts, reports,… We handle things we make=
, or
count, or arrange, or manage. To be sure, we deal with people and their
problems—even with some of their emotions—but, when we do, they=
are
playing a role and so are we: customer and seller, employee and supervisor,
student and teacher, constituent and officeholder, client and lawyer, patie=
nt
and doctor, passenger and flight attendant, diner and waiter or waitress. T=
he
roles let us get close enough, but not too close, to their hearts—and
ours.
A lot of us are afraid of what our hearts would say to us if we tru=
ly
listened to them, and we are even more fearful of admitting those things to
God. It’s as if we believe, even if we know better, that hiding these
things from ourselves is also a way of hiding them from God. There is fear =
in
our hearts: fear that we won’t be able to measure-up to the challenges
which come our way, … There is guilt in our hearts—over failure=
s,
broken promises, and … relationships. There [can be] shame, too: a se=
nse
of embarrassment over, and alienation from, how we are made and wired-up. T=
here
is, thankfully, [hope and] love in our hearts, too: memories and experience=
s of
people who were tender and nurturing toward us, who believed in us, and who
sacrificed for our sakes.[2]
…In other words, people who labored emotionally with us.
An important part of our spirituality – that is, the way each=
of
us chooses to express our spiritual nature in the world – is emotiona=
lly
laborious. It’s not something we can go to a class, or read books, and
learn. It is built through a =
lifetime
of experiences, some of them painful and ambiguous. But it is necessary and rewarding
work. It is part of our searc=
h for
peace in the Great Oneness, the Great Love that is God. And like labor, it is a birthing
process. Come. We labor toget=
her. Amen.
The first reading is from “Holy Longing,” a book on
Christian spirituality by Catholic priest and widely published author, Rona=
ld
Rolheiser.
It is no easy task to walk =
this
earth and find peace. Inside =
of us,
it would seem, something is at odds with the very rhythm of things, and we =
are
forever restless, dissatisfied, frustrated, and aching. We are so overcharged with desire =
that
it is hard to come to simple rest.
Desire is always stronger than satisfaction.
Put more simply, there is w=
ithin
us a fundamental dis-ease, an
unquenchable fire that renders us incapable, in this life of ever coming to
full peace. This desire lies =
at the
center of our lives, in the marrow of our bones, and in the deep recesses of
the soul. We are not easeful =
human
beings who occasionally get restless; serene persons who once in a while are
obsessed by desire. The rever=
se is
true. We are driven persons,
forever obsessed, congenitally dis<=
/i>-eased,
living lives, as Thoreau once suggested, of quiet desperation, only occasio=
nally
experiencing peace. Desire is=
the
straw that stirs the drink.
Spirituality is, ultimately,
about what we do with that desire.
What we do with our longings, both in terms of handling the pain and=
the
hope they bring us – that is our spirituality. … Augustine says, ‘You =
have
made us for yourself, God, and our hearts are restless until they rest in
you.’ Spirituality is a=
bout
what we do with our unrest.
Rona=
ld,
Rolheiser, The Holy Longing: A Sear=
ch for
Christian Spirituality (
The second reading is from the gospel of Mark. No matter where Jesus and the disc=
iples
went, they could not escape the crowds of people who ran after them. This gave more opportunities for
teaching, and doing good, but we imagine that it emotionally drained Jesus.=
Mark 6:30-34, 53-56
30 The apostles gathered ar=
ound
Jesus, and told him all that they had done and taught.
31 He said to them, "C=
ome
away to a deserted place all by yourselves and rest a while." For many
were coming and going, and they had no leisure even to eat.
32 And they went away in th=
e boat
to a deserted place by themselves.
33 Now many saw them going =
and
recognized them, and they hurried there on foot from all the towns and arri=
ved
ahead of them.
34 As he went ashore, he sa=
w a
great crowd; and he had compassion for them, because they were like sheep
without a shepherd; and he began to teach them many things.
53 When they had crossed ov=
er,
they came to land at Gennesaret and moored the boat.
54 When they got out of the=
boat,
people at once recognized him,
55 and rushed about that wh=
ole
region and began to bring the sick on mats to wherever they heard he was.
56 And wherever he went, in=
to
villages or cities or farms, they laid the sick in the marketplaces, and be=
gged
him that they might touch even the fringe of his cloak; and all who touched=
it
were healed.=
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