The Gospel According to Frank

He said prayer didn’t change shit. He wasn’t entirely wrong.

During my second week on the job as a hospital chaplain—a job I should never have had in the first place—I met a Jewish patient in his mid-seventies named Frank. After a couple of pleasantries and learning about his unexpected stomach pains, I asked if he wanted to pray, as I’d been told to do. I felt hypocritical, given that I never prayed myself, but this was my job now.

“Pray? I’m not freaking dying here, Rabbi,” he said, though he used a different F-word. “And praying doesn’t change shit.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. I couldn’t exactly respond, “I’m with you, brother,” so I pivoted. “What’s with all the Bengals balloons around your room? You don’t think they have a chance this year, do you?”

We became friendly after that. I visited him every day, and he teased me relentlessly for quitting my “real job” to become “a religious nut.” I never mentioned prayer with him again.

The whole prayer thing struck me as odd, anyway. As a Jew, I’d prayed in synagogue, but never anywhere else. Jewish patients seemed to think it was weird whenever I brought it up, so I stopped asking after a while. Christian patients, on the other hand, loved it.

“Chaplain, let’s pray before Mom’s surgery,” I’d be told, as family members formed a circle, hands out. Before this internship, I’d only seen prayer circles in movies, and I felt like an imposter the first couple of times. But then something happened: prayer circles became some of the most spiritual moments of my life. I prayed for the patient, the surgeon, and the family. And family members would chime in with “that’s right” or “amen.” Once, a grandmother even prayed for me—to become less of an idiot, I suppose. I always felt lifted by the end. Who knew prayer could do that?

Jewish patients, on the other hand, were more interested in fixing me up with their daughters or granddaughters. Never mind that I was married—and they were the ones who needed fixing up—but something about facing the unknown made these older patients want to plan for the next generation. One woman with advanced cancer pointed to her adult daughter across the room: “Look at my beautiful Sarah here, Rabbi, you two should get to know each other.”

“Wonderful,” I said. “That would be wonderful.”

I could have worn my wedding band, but with so much handwashing it was easier to leave it at home. And truth be told, I didn’t mind the subject. For these patients, matchmaking was easier than discussing why they were in the hospital in the first place.

I visited Frank’s room every day that week. “Not you again, Rabbi.” We’d discuss the Bengals, the Green Bay Packers (my team, who he hated) and the “freaking pain in my freaking stomach.” On Thursday, his fourth day in the hospital, we got more serious, and he talked about his dad, who turned against religion because of the Holocaust. I met several other patients who held the same view. “Rabbi, you tell me, why would God let such a thing happen?” I often suspected that they were questioning their own situations just as much.

Frank reminded me of my dad—another curmudgeon who thought prayer was absurd. My dad went to synagogue mostly to argue with the rabbi and schmooze with friends. He found my choice to enter rabbinical school both crazy and inspiring: crazy because who the hell would want to be a rabbi, inspiring because I was chasing a passion, something he never did. My dad didn’t pray much, but he loved the Shabbat blessings over challah and wine. So, when I left Frank’s room on Thursday I asked: ‘Hey, Frank, I know you don’t pray but if I brought in some challah tomorrow would you do the motzi blessing with me?

“Hell no,” he replied. “But if I’m still stuck here on Friday bring me some wine and I’ll do the freaking kiddush.” Once again, “freaking” wasn’t his word of choice.

On Friday morning, I knocked on Frank’s half-open door. The room was empty, and I was thrilled. Frank went home. Then I noticed how bare the room was. Too bare. I asked at the nurses’ station, and they confirmed: Frank had died overnight.

Frank went from “I’m not freaking dying here” to gone in five days. I was no use whatsoever. I walked aimlessly around the hospital, then sank into a fake leather loveseat in the employee lounge. It squeaked like it was judging me. This internship sucked, and so did I. I cried for a moment, the first time since starting the job. Then, without thinking, I started to pray.

“Hey, Frank. I’m sorry I didn’t say goodbye or do anything for you. I’m trying to pray right now, which I know you’d think is bullshit, but I’m trying anyway. You were a funny guy. I liked you. Hey, God—it’s me. Please make me better at this. I want to be better.”

The summer dragged on, and several more people died on me. I never got used to it. It always hurt. But after Frank, I started saying a little prayer each time. I said something kind about the person and asked God to help me suck a little less.

If I met Frank today and he told me that “praying doesn’t change shit,” I’d tell him he was right. Prayers can’t undo what’s already been done. But they can soften the blows. Prayers can seep into the edges of pain and soothe.

Frank didn’t know it, and neither did I at the time, but we’re always freaking dying here. That’s the truth. From the moment we’re born, we’re always freaking dying.

That’s why we need to keep living too—taking new risks, embracing new people, and learning how to be better. Pray with strangers. Let a sick woman think she’s fixing up her daughter. And let an old man who doesn’t know he’s dying make fun of you for a while.

It might help. It doesn’t hurt.

Who’s been your Frank, the unlikely teacher who left you better than they found you?