For 15 months in 2022-2023, I was a hospice chaplain-in-training. To work as a professional chaplain, most settings require four units (1600 hours) of training. Part of the time is spent working onsite as a chaplain and part of the time is spent with a small peer reflection group of 8 people.
Most people do their chaplaincy training in a hospital. I did one unit at Southdale hospital. But most of my time was spent working in hospice while participating in a peer reflection group each Thursday at the high security men’s prison in Stillwater. Half of the people in my peer group were incarcerated and half were not. This is the only CPE program in the country that operates this way–training all of us (incarcerated people and nonincarcerated people) to become spiritual care providers, and we all receive credit with the Association of Clinical Pastoral Education. Those of us living outside the prison worked in various community settings. Those living inside the prison offered spiritual care in their cell blocks, in restorative justice groups, as mental health mentors, and de-escalating situations in the isolation unit (that they call segregation).
In CPE, peer group is where people support and challenge one another to be more effective in our work and where we discuss our own lived experiences and how they affect the way we care for other people—for better or for worse. We present verbatims (write-ups of encounters we have in our work doing spiritual care) and offer one another feedback about the care we offer.
The peer reflection group really makes or breaks your CPE experience. I can honestly say that I loved every member of my CPE peer groups. Rarely have I been part of groups of people anywhere who have trusted one another enough to share our weaknesses and let ourselves be challenged as we face into them. This feels like a miracle given the unlikelihood that this particular group of humans would find ourselves in a room together each week.
Each and every person—including and especially my Buddhist, agnostic, questioning and Muslim brothers and sisters have taught me how to be a better human being and a better chaplain. They taught me how to care for and love people better, especially people who are difficult to love. I watched my peer group members put themselves at risk to care for people.
During my time at the prison in Stillwater, I witnessed guys support each other and hold each other accountable while making sense of the ways they had harmed people. Somehow –in a system designed to punish and dehumanize–amidst the relentless noise and physical discomforts of prison, while navigating between gangs, racial tensions and drug use, they care for each other when they are hurting. They care for people after a loved one dies, deescalate potentially violent situations and reach out to people who are struggling or ostracized.
In that environment, correctional officers, case workers, and fellow incarcerated persons can be allies and supports. Or they can offer anger or violence as a response to any given situation. For incarcerated people, quality of life depends in large part on discerning who has their best interest in mind and who does not. In this milieu, I witnessed my peers befriend gay and transgender people and people who struggle with mental illness—often putting themselves at risk to do so.
When I offer spiritual care, I don’t have to worry about being ostracized or beat up—and I don’t have to live with the people I am providing spiritual care with. I am in awe of the work they do every day.
When people learn I come to the prison each week, they often assume it will be scary or depressing.
When people find out that I work in hospice, they usually assume it is really sad.
I don’t deny that dying can be sad or that prison can be scary.
But if you want to learn something, it’s best to go to the place where it’s hardest to practice.
If you want to learn about life, spend time with people who are dying.
If you want to learn about freedom and forgiveness, spend some time with people in prison.
People in hospice are my mentors about what it means to live fully when facing our mortality head on.
People in prison are my mentors about repentance and repair—and about what it means to be free.