Converging Horizons. Allan Hugh Cole
in pastoral care in particular, reflected in the majority of my published work and on most days my primary scholarly focus, largely (though not exclusively) issues from my more conventional self (e.g., Cole, 2008a, 2008b, 2008c, 2009a). Also springing from my more conventional self, I suspect, is my belief that caring ministers, by virtue of their distinctive vocation, have something to offer to persons in the way of care and nurture that professional caregivers (e.g., psychologists, social workers, psychiatrists, and psychotherapists) do not have to offer, at least not by virtue of their professional orientations and commitments. On this point I have been helped in my thinking especially by Donald Capps (1979, 1990, 1993b, 1998, 2001) and Paul W. Pruyser (1976). The balance of this essay considers this view concerning the distinctiveness of pastoral care.
For me, these two selves and the work that issues from them need one another in order to do pastoral theological work in the most meaningful and relevant way. I would suggest that pastoral theology as an academic discipline also needs to maintain, and even celebrate, its multiple selves. That is, multiple sets of perspectives—the iconoclastic, unconventional, and rebellious, along with the conventional, traditional, and temperate—necessarily inform one another, learn from one another, and, in a sense, hold one another accountable. Some days, and with some projects, one of my selves may take the lead role, but the other tags along and reminds its companion of their shared presence and need for one another. Perhaps this is true for other pastoral theologians, too.
The balance of this essay attends to the question “What Makes Care Pastoral?” These reflections were first presented in an address delivered on the occasion of Austin Presbyterian Theological Seminary’s opening convocation service in the fall of 2009. In offering these reflections here, I want to make a case for pastoral theology including a place for its distinctiveness, whether when taking up new directions or when reclaiming former ones.
An Encounter at the Pool
A few weeks ago, on a Saturday morning, my family and I were at a local pool. We were trying to “beat the heat” of a central Texas summer. Meeting a nice couple with a little girl about the same age as our youngest daughter, my wife, Tracey, and I began chatting with them while our kids played together. We talked about the sweltering heat, our children (of course), and some other matters. But as these types of conversations often unfold, it wasn’t long before talk turned to our respective occupations. “What sort of work do you do?” the woman asked me. “I am a seminary professor,” I said, “I teach at Austin Presbyterian Theological Seminary.”
The man, who is an architect, lost interest rather quickly. I know that he lost interest because he began looking at his daughter’s pool noodle; and he slowly but deliberately moved out of the conversation. Perhaps you’ve experienced a similar kind of parting. It’s like when someone looks at her watch when you are in the middle of saying something.
But the woman wanted to know more. It turned out that she had a long-standing interest in ethics; and she had even toyed with the idea of going to seminary herself before deciding on law school instead. She inquired further, “What do you teach?” “Well,” I replied, “I teach pastoral care.”
On this note, her husband began moving to the other side of the pool. Clearly, I’d lost him back at “I am a seminary professor,” and the part about teaching pastoral care merely sealed the deal on his lack of curiosity. But she remained close by, so we continued talking. We spoke about various things—including her work as a corporate attorney. We also conversed about Tracey’s experiences in geriatric social work and I joked about her being my “long-term investment.” And we talked more about our children and some of the joys and challenges of parenting. But then the woman returned to the earlier subject and asked me another question, “What exactly is pastoral care?”
Now I must confess that at this point a part of me wanted to move to the other side of the pool, too. I was there to cool off and to have family time, not to talk shop. And I especially had reservations about doing so with someone I figured was not conversant in “seminary speak” nor possessing of a “pastoral lexicon”—you know, someone who would require more of an explanation about pastoral care than I was prepared to give. It was sort of like when someone asks you a question that requires about ten minutes to answer and you have thirty seconds to work with.
Or, maybe more honestly, it felt a little awkward to take the conversation further. One of my conversation partners was clearly uninterested in what I had to say—he was still across the pool. My other conversation partner had just quipped about strategies for protecting personal assets and leveraging business deals in her work as an attorney. All I had to talk about were strategies for active listening, interpersonal communication, critical self-reflection, speaking the truth in love, naming and honoring feelings (for God’s sake), and strategies for following Jesus. I felt like one wearing a Speedo on a deep sea fishing expedition. I felt unprepared and a little out of place.
But this was an opportunity to bear witness, at least in part, to what I love and claim as my vocation; to bear witness to what I do—to what we do—at Austin Seminary and as ministers of the church. And wanting to be faithful to all of that, I offered a response to the woman’s question: “My courses focus on equipping students, many of whom will be ministers, to provide supportive care and brief counseling to people in need.” I think it sounded more eloquent at the pool, but you get the idea, I hope, of what I was up against.
Two Distinct Qualities of Pastoral Care
This experience got me thinking afresh about what we do—or presume to do—as ministers of care, as servants who seek to support and nurture others on behalf of God in Jesus Christ. It got me thinking anew about what we do as pastoral caregivers. It also brought to mind a question—one that I often ask students the first week of class; a question that frames many of the courses I teach. The question is this: “What makes the care and nurture of persons pastoral?” Or, to ask it in a slightly different manner, “How is pastoral care distinct, even unique, as compared with other types of care?” I invite you to think with me on those questions as a way of getting at answers to the similar question posed by the woman at the pool—namely, “What exactly is pastoral care?”
Now, let me note from the outset that I think one could correctly point out numerous qualities that make pastoral care distinctive, which is to say that I do not presume to cover all of those qualities in this address. One could also rightly note that some of what pastoral caregivers do (whether as pastors, deacons, chaplains, lay leaders, or professional pastoral counselors) is not all that distinctive. It overlaps with what other caregivers do—people like social workers, marriage and family therapists, psychologists, and nurses. Truth be told, typical pastors (to cite one type of caregiver) may on any given day feel as though what they do is as much “social work” or “counseling” as any other vocation or profession—including, perhaps, that of pastor. Nevertheless, I want to suggest two distinctions that we do well to confer on both the conceptualization and practice of pastoral care—two responses that are appropriate for answering the question, “What makes care pastoral?”
First, pastoral care necessarily embraces what has traditionally been called “the care of souls.” Pastoral care is “soul-care.” Second, pastoral care takes place in the foreground of what we may call “the Christian story.” This means that biblical narratives and theological principals necessarily shape the way that we conceptualize pastoral care and the way we practice it. Let us consider each of these distinctions.
Soul-Care
First, pastoral care involves soul-care. In order to say what this means, I must begin with a few words on the history of pastoral care. The view that pastoral care involves soul-care dates to the first understandings of pastoral work, when the early church used the term poimenics to refer to a principal responsibility for clergy—namely, the care and cure of souls.1 This care and cure of souls included four ancient pastoral functions. These were healing, sustaining, guiding, and reconciling (Clebsch and Jaekle, 1964/1967, 32–66). To offer pastoral care—to care for souls—meant to foster healing, sustenance, guidance, and reconciliation, not merely for individuals but for communities of people.2