In these challenging days of corona protocol, as many patients are tragically alone in their final moments, hospital chaplains are facing the most unimaginable challenges of their careers

A day in the life of a hospital chaplain is filled with moments of profound potential. For they are the ones mandated with soothing excruciating emotional pain, transforming mistaken impressions of Torah Judaism, and preparing a dying Jew, no matter how estranged, for the Olam HaEmes. And in these challenging days of corona protocol, as many patients are tragically alone in their final moments, they’re facing the most unimaginable challenges of their careers

At 26, Jason Weiner was in his yeshivah’s semichah program, hurtling toward his decade-long dream of becoming a pulpit rabbi. The program included a mandatory one-month chaplaincy internship, at the end of which the students had to write a summary of what they had learned. Jason’s read: “At least now I know that chaplaincy isn’t for me.” Hard as he tried to be helpful, he felt perpetually uncomfortable and inadequate.

Two years later, the eager young assistant rabbi on the cusp of a promising career in Los Angeles was told by the rabbi he worked for that the hospital chaplain at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center had taken ill, and he asked Jason to fill in. His heart sank. Oh no, not that.

Still, he found mentors, asked a lot of questions, got trained, and watched his own metamorphosis in surprise, as discomfort made way for competence, burgeoning into a passion even greater than his original dream. Twelve years later, he’s still at Cedars-Sinai, as the hospital’s senior rabbi and director of the Spiritual Care Department.

While life for all of us is comprised of moments in which we can make an impression on the world in many different ways, the moments in the day of a hospital chaplain are particularly filled with deep potential: to soothe excruciating emotional pain, to transform an entire family’s perception of Torah Judaism, to help prepare a dying Jew for the Olam HaEmes, to allow a person to die at peace with himself.

Moments of Connection

It’s a weighty responsibility to get those moments right, and the very first words from a chaplain likely determine if the encounter will be a boom or a bust.

“I used to enter a room and make the mistake of saying, ‘How are you doing?’ The typical response was a sarcastic, ‘How do you think I’m doing?’ and we’d be off to a bad start,” says Rabbi Weiner. “I’ve since learned to open with something like, ‘I’ve come to wish you well,’ which, after a sometimes awkward pause, can start a genuine conversation. But today, with so many patients in isolation with Covid-19, we chaplains have been challenged to find novel ways to connect. Before Pesach I was concerned that sedated frum patients in the ICU would wake up and not realize it was Yom Tov, so I hung signs on the outside of the glass part of their doors, visible from the inside, that said in huge letters, “Happy Passover! Chag Sameach!” As I was hanging one up, I noticed that the patient’s eyes were finally open—he had been uncommunicative for two weeks. I knocked on the glass to catch his attention, and he read the sign, smiled, and gave me a thumbs-up. I told the nurse to let him know that everything going into his IV was kosher l’Pesach. This man has since made a full recovery, and he told me afterward that these gestures gave him a sense of orientation and comfort knowing he was being taken care of.”

In more normal times, the main role of a chaplain is to offer support, primarily through listening. The opportunity for patients to release spiritual and emotional distress can be a powerful agent of healing.

“It’s not our job to impose our religious values on anyone. It’s about guiding patients to find their inner strength, through asking questions,” Rabbi Weiner says. “For example, I saw a patient with terrible complications of diabetes who had a long, hard road ahead of him. ‘Rabbi, I’ve struggled with many difficulties in my life and overcame them,’ he told me, ‘but this one I just can’t beat.’ I asked him to tell me about a difficult challenge he overcame, and he described how he struggled with alcoholism for many years until he conquered it through AA. I asked him if he learned anything in his recovery that could help him now. A light bulb went off as he realized he could utilize the tools he gained in AA to help him deal with this challenge as well.”

The formula for a successful connection is to meet the patient or family at their level, Rabbi Weiner says. “A Jewish patient was about to die, and the family asked for a rabbi to perform ‘last rites’ — in other words, Vidui. I entered the room and saw the family engrossed in a television show. ‘Is this a good time?’ I asked, forcing down my disbelief. ‘This is our father’s favorite show, and he’d want us to see who wins,’ they told me. I pulled up a chair and sat with them companionably until the show was over. We then said Vidui, and he passed away shortly thereafter. Had I come across as judgmental, the patient probably would have died without Vidui being said.”

These days though, with so many corona-related deaths, Vidui is often an even more tragic affair — we’ve all heard the stories of nurses, or even the person in the next bed, saying Vidui with a patient dying alone as family members are forced to stay outside.

“I’ve been called on by families to say Vidui with their loved-ones, having been told that the end is approaching,” says Rabbi Weiner. “If the patient is conscious, I stand at their door so they can see me through the glass, while a nurse holds a phone to their ear. Of the twelve patients I’ve done this with, mostly elderly, one died and baruch Hashem the rest have recovered. It’s encouraging to witness.”