I finally got the chance to open the book
Oblivion: Grace in Exile with a Monk Behind Bars two weeks after it
arrived from California. Brother Dennis Gibbs’ handwritten dedication “thanks for
being part of the journey” brought back the memory of the Sacred Journey
my husband and I attended on summer evenings. At this weekly book club held in
the serene library of his monastery, I was introduced to Brené Brown’s work
that led me to choosing my current CPE residency program.
Reading about Br. Dennis’ early life
was a connecting experience for me. Even though I may never grasp the extent of
the darkness he went through, I could relate to each shade of darkness he
described and better understand the darkness in my childhood. This is the power
of sharing our story in a safe space—a key element for us to heal from
brokenness.
Looking at the bright side of his
story, it’s amazing to see how he walked out of the thick layers of darkness
with a sporadic, faint light of hope. Trusting the right inner experiences
opened him up to God’s grace that manifested in unexpected ways. As he put it, “Looking
back on it, it was more intuition than anything … God meets us where we are in
life.”
When I first started CPE, I found it
hard to make sense of a single visit in the context of my patients’ long-term
wellbeing, which to me must build on a solid spiritual path. My supervisor said
that my role was to support the patient’s spiritual journey through our brief
encounter in whatever way possible. Now I’ve experienced how certain fleeting encounters
supported my own spiritual journey and I’ve also had better sense of how my
visits supported my patients’. Br. Dennis’ spiritual journey inspired me to embrace
both the unpredictable, mysterious aspects and the sacredness of such
experiences, which involves a fine balance between spontaneity and intention.
His struggle with addiction also
showed how fragile this light could be amidst storms of destructive forces.
What can keep the ember burning is the compassion either for others or for oneself.
As he wrote, “That day helped me rediscover the place within me that was – and
is – out of reach of all the bad stuff, untouchable by darkness. It’s the place
where God dwells within us.”
This led me to thinking that the work
of spiritual care is to ignite, recognize, or protect this ember, which is why
it’s called “care.” It’s about caring for the divine within. As he stated, “No
matter who we are or what we have done, no one is beyond God’s grace and love.
Our task is to be instruments of that love for one another. Final judgment is
God’s work; ours is something different.” This rings true not only in the
context of prison ministry but also in healthcare where people experience the
pain of alienation arising from physical degeneration, fast or slow.
Lastly, he affirmed the connection
between monasticism and modern spirituality, or more specifically for me, the role
of contemplative practices in benefiting the world. (“All these elements of the
monastic life in our community help us to engage with the world with clean
hearts and spirits that are open, loving and truthful.”)
The eloquence and elegance of his writing
gave me the words to describe my personal experience and spiritual care
practice. The honesty and simplicity in the book helped me think through my
pastoral theology. It has become clearer to me that what I want to offer in
every brief spiritual encounter is the opposite of oblivion. Seeing what is
here and now, and lifting it up.
