Finding Holiness in Vulnerability: Lessons from Hospital Chaplaincy

In this second day Rosh Hashanah sermon, Rabbi Adrian M. Schell reflects on the profound experiences he has had as a hospital chaplain. Drawing from the teachings of Martin Buber and Jewish scripture, Rabbi Schell shares moving encounters with patients that reveal the sacred nature of human connection. Through stories of hope, loneliness, and the power of presence, Rabbi Schell invites us all to consider how we can bring the spirit of chaplaincy into our daily lives. As we navigate the challenges of life, he reminds us of the divine spark in every person and the importance of being fully present for one another.

While you have a short moment to regain some strength before we conclude our service, I want to share with you the profound experience that has enriched my life as a rabbi in ways I could never have imagined: my experience as a hospital chaplain. This role has opened my eyes to the raw beauty of human connection and the divine spark that resides in each of us, even in our most vulnerable moments.

As we are sitting here, in the comfort of our synagogue, I just want us to reflect for a moment on those who find themselves in hospital beds, grappling with illness, fear, and uncertainty.

 It is in those wards and quiet rooms that I have discovered some of the most sacred encounters of my rabbinical journey.

The great Jewish philosopher Martin Buber spoke of the profound significance of genuine human interaction in his concept of “I-Thou” relationships. He wrote, “All real living is meeting.” In the context of hospital chaplaincy, these words resonate with extraordinary power. Each time I enter a patient’s room, each time I approach a bed in one of the hospital wards, I step into a moment of pure presence – there is no past, no future, only the present tense of our encounter.

Imagine, if you will, the courage it takes for a patient to open their heart to a complete stranger. In that moment, we are two souls meeting in the most authentic way possible. There are no pretences, no social niceties to hide behind. It is raw, it is real, and it is profoundly sacred.

These encounters often serve as a balm for the deep loneliness that can accompany illness. “I lie awake; I have become like a bird alone on a roof.” Writes the Psalmist in Psalm 102:7 How many patients have expressed similar sentiments, feeling isolated even when surrounded by medical staff?

Yet, in the simple act of sitting with them, of truly seeing them, we can break through that isolation, if only for a moment.

There’s a beautiful midrash about Sarah’s laughter when she heard she would bear a child in her old age. The rabbis teach that her laughter was not just about the seeming impossibility of the prophecy, but also a release of years of pain and longing. In my chaplaincy work, I’ve witnessed similar moments of unexpected joy and even laughter in the midst of suffering.

I’m reminded of a patient I once visited, an elderly woman battling a terminal illness. As we spoke, she shared memories of her youth, of dancing at weddings and family simchas.

Suddenly, her eyes lit up, and she asked if I knew how to dance the hora. Before I knew it, we were holding hands, her in her hospital bed and me standing beside it, humming Hava Nagila and swaying together. For those few precious minutes, her pain was forgotten, replaced by the joy of a cherished memory brought to life.

 “Weeping may tarry for the night,” we read in Psalm 30:5, “but joy comes with the morning.” Even in the darkest hours of illness and pain, there can be moments of light, of joy, of human warmth that break through the gloom.

Hannah’s fate in our Haftarah offers another powerful parallel to the experiences I’ve had as a chaplain. Hannah, childless and deeply distressed, went to the temple to pray, she did so with such intensity that the priest Eli thought she was drunk. But Hannah was simply pouring out her soul before God, in all its raw pain and longing.

How many times have I sat with patients who, like Hannah, are pouring out their souls? They may not use the formal language of prayer, but their words – their fears, their hopes, their questions – are every bit as sacred.

And like Eli, who initially misunderstood Hannah but then offered her a blessing, my role is often simply to listen, to truly hear, and to offer whatever comfort I can.

There’s a profound humility in this work. I approach each patient knowing that I cannot fix or cure, I am not a doctor, but I can be present. I can take on, even if only for a short time, a small portion of the patient’s pain or fear. It’s a sacred trust, and one that I never take lightly.

Martin Buber wrote, “When two people relate to each other authentically and humanly, God is the electricity that surges between them.”

I’ve felt that surge countless times in hospital rooms, in moments of shared tears, shared laughter, shared silence. It’s a reminder that God is not confined to our synagogues or our formal prayers but is present in every genuine human connection.

This work has taught me the true meaning of the phrase “hineni” – “here I am.” It’s a phrase we find throughout our tradition, from Abraham’s response to God’s call to Moses at the burning bush. In hospital chaplaincy, “hineni” becomes not just a word but a state of being. It means being fully present, fully open to whatever the moment may bring.

There’s a beautiful teaching in Pirkei Avot that says, “In a place where there are no humans, strive to be human.” The hospital can often feel like such a place – clinical, impersonal, focused on the body rather than the soul. As a chaplain, my role is to bring humanity into that space, to remind both patients and staff of the sacred spark within each person.

This work has enriched my life as a rabbi in countless ways. It has deepened my empathy, broadened my understanding of human suffering and resilience, and strengthened my faith in the power of human connection.

It has taught me to find holiness in the most unexpected places and to see the divine image in every face, no matter how careworn or afraid.

I am not sharing this with you to brag about my work as a chaplain, but to invite you to consider how you might bring the spirit of chaplaincy into your own lives. How can you be present in your interactions with others? How can you create moments of genuine connection, of “I-Thou” relationships, in your daily life? I know that many of you visit elderly members, family members who are ill, neighbours that need your help. How are your experiences? What do you feel?

You don’t need to be in a hospital to offer the gift of your presence, to look after a neighbour to offer your listening ear, your open heart. Each of us has the power to break through someone’s loneliness, to bring a moment of joy to someone in pain, to be the person who says “hineni” when others turn away.

In closing, I want to share one more psalm that captures the essence of what I’ve learned through hospital chaplaincy. Psalm 23:4 says, “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me.”

As a chaplain, I strive to be that presence that walks alongside others in their darkest valleys. And in doing so, I’ve discovered that I’m never walking alone either.

May we all find the courage to be truly present for one another, to create sacred encounters in our daily lives, and to recognise the divine spark in every soul we meet. In doing so, we not only enrich the lives of others but also our own lives and our own faith.

Shanah Tovah