Toe to God

How not to be a chaplain

I hate hospitals. Yet somehow, I spent a summer as a hospital chaplain in Cincinnati, dodging blood, death, and prayers.

Just a year before, I was an upwardly mobile corporate executive, fluent in PowerPoints and acronyms. Then, in a moment of midlife clarity—or insanity—I quit and enrolled in rabbinical school. Friends and family thought I was chasing holiness, but really, I was chasing escape. I was searching for meaning. I wanted to matter more than my sales forecasts. Attending an Ayahuasca retreat would’ve made more sense.

I didn’t set out to be a hospital chaplain. Rabbinical school required a summer internship, and with two boys under six and a wife whose career was already demanding, I chose a gig with no nights or weekends. My only requirement was being home in time for mac and cheese and Hot Wheels. The work itself? A minor detail.

In Jewish tradition, visiting the sick is a mitzvah called Bikkur Cholim. The sages say it relieves one-sixtieth of a patient’s suffering. But it doubled mine. The job required me to knock on patients’ doors a dozen times a day and chirp, “Hi, I’m your chaplain, Rabbi Mark, how ya doin’?” At parties I can chat with anyone after a few Manhattans, but the hospital pooh-poohed this approach. Not only did I need to chat with strangers sober, but most of these folks were depressed and didn’t want to be there or talk to me. And their rooms smelled like shit, blood and disinfectant. No wonder nobody rents out hospitals for corporate retreats.

On my third day, the hospital intercom boomed: “Code blue, room 301, chaplain requested.” My stomach dropped. Even in my short tenure, I knew what “code blue” meant.

I sprinted down the hallway. Outside the room, a tiny elderly woman clutched my sleeve, sobbing. “My husband is dying—pray for him.”

Two days earlier, the real chaplain had walked me around the floor and explained my job: knock, smile, chat, maybe pray. “You’ll be a great comfort,” she said. She never mentioned dying husbands.

Room 301 was chaos. Doctors and nurses swarmed the bed, shouting, pounding on his chest. I couldn’t even see the man. Was I supposed to pray that he survived? That he went peacefully? I didn’t know his religion. I didn’t know anything.

So I did the only thing I could think of: I mumbled, “Chaplain here, chaplain here,” like a soft talker trying to place a takeout order in a New York deli. Nobody looked up.

I edged closer and found a gap at the foot of the bed. Out of options, I reached for the one body part still available: a gnarled, bony toe. His toenail scratched my finger as I squeezed. I muttered, “Dear God, let this man die in peace.”

Minutes later, with an incompetent and sweaty stranger clutching his foot, the man did just that.

I exhaled, let go, and stepped into the hall to face his new widow.

“He died peacefully,” I told her as we hugged, which wasn’t exactly true. She fumbled with her purse, pulling out a few crumpled bills for me—payment for services rendered, I suppose—which I tucked back into her wallet after I momentarily considered taking them. Then we sat on a bench, her in silent grief and me in pounding doubt. Did I help? Did I matter?

The whole point of rabbinical school was to build a career with authenticity and purpose. Did holding a stranger’s toe and lying to his wife qualify as a purpose-filled life? Was this what making a difference looked like?

For the next few days, dread walked beside me into the hospital. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, the air smelled like antiseptic and microwaved soup, and I wondered how many more toes I’d have to hold before the summer was over.

But then I met Frank. Frank was different. Frank had stories, questions, and a stubborn will to live. He also had something else—a way of teaching me more about being a chaplain, and a rabbi, and a human being, than any textbook ever could.

More on Frank next week.

In the meantime, have you ever sat with someone in their final moments? What did you carry away from it”