Axe Body Spray and Other Ways We Avoid Pain

Bzzzzzzz, Bzzzz - I look down at my waist at my appropriately labeled skinny khakis from H&M. It was 2012; it was acceptable to wear something so contouring in a semi-formal environment like a hospital. My pager was alerting me to visit a patient on the palliative care floor, typically a specialized hospital unit designed to bring comfort to terminal patients. Usually, I would arrive in this type of room to find either a patient who was cognitively disassociated or a family quietly spending the final days with a beloved member. It was ordinary practice for me to check the notes on a patient before entering the room - things looked good, the last note stating “patient remains intubated, yada, yada, yada…” I didn’t care too much for the medical jargon. I was there to offer something far more powerful, pastoral care. I was an eager student finishing up my Masters of Divinity from North Park Theological in Chicago, Illinois. I sat at chef’s tables at upscale restaurants and benefited from countless free games to watch the Chicago Cubs play. I got backstage passes to Beyoncé and Lollapalooza. I rubbed elbows with well-known, published mega-church pastors… I think this guy in H&M **SKINNY** Khakis and a skinny tie can handle chaplaincy.

Or so I thought…

Walking down the hall with confidence, I check in at the nurse's desk just to point some finger guns and share a few empty platitudes: "Praying for ya," I excitedly blurt as I walk past. Forgetting to stop and see what warranted an urgent page.

“Meh. Who’s to say?”

There is always a distinct odor to hospital rooms. It’s the smell of trying to cover up other smells. Isn’t it funny that you can’t really cover up when smells stink?

I think that’s the point of stink - it’s to be accepted, or at least noticed. Those who lack self-awareness are the ones that can’t detect the cover-up.

I slide open the doors, and I waltz in, depending again on the extroversion that has continuously guided me through challenging circumstances and has given me the assistance in avoiding pain.

I look at the family, flash that sweet Virginia boy smile, tap the patient's leg through the sheet, and ask:

"SO, HOW’S THE PATIENT?!"

A long, horrifying silence.

"Well... he’s dead."

They responded…

Upon further examination, I realized he was, in fact, no longer alive, and this family was already deep in the sacred, quiet shock of Jewish mourning, aninut.

I am so sorry; I guess you want me to get the rabbi, right?

I sheepishly fall into my oversized sports coat, feeling like a kid way out of my league in this moment of grief. I felt like Tom Hanks in the movie Big. I’m really a child who got to do something adult.

The thing about smells is that most of the time people are too polite to mention anything about them. What’s that about? Wouldn’t we be better off if we just said, "What's that smell?”

It’s funny how experiences shake us, and if we are wise enough to learn, they might even shape us. I became painfully aware of my darkest propensity to mask my pain with an AXE-like body spray of charm and bravado. It’s a remarkable gift, but it has led to some of my biggest failures in pastoral ministry.

In John’s Gospel, Jesus doesn’t avoid stench.

Earlier, before this verse, before Jesus orders the stone to be removed, the text tells us that Jesus weeps. I find comfort in Jesus’ own tears over a foul experience like death and that he embraces such unsavory situations. It’s comforting to know that I’m not alone. I really grieve all the times I've tried to mask my stink. I’ve become a better person and a more present pastor by learning to embrace the things that make me most uneasy - like death and trauma. By sitting with the unpleasant things. I’ve also learned to hold space for other people’s messy, painful situations without giving in to the temptation to make a joke or to depend on humor to lighten the mood.

Grief stinks, failure stinks - but what’s better than a cheap AXE spray? Someone who knows how to shut their mouth and grieve with others.