Come with me on a journey to three places within the valley of the shadow of death yet, where rays of faith yield hope. But first, let me share my sense of the phrase “valley of the shadow of death.” The valley of the shadow of death is a place and season along life’s journey, overshadowed by a looming threat or the reality of significant loss, even death, and its aftermath. While the shadow’s reach presents darkness suspense and danger, through the lens of one’s faith, it is an opportunity to advance toward and embrace the hope of new promised land, of peace, still waters, and green pastures or at least a new normal.
Here I define hope as is a life-sustaining resource that is “characterized by a confident yet uncertain expectation of achieving a future good which, to the hoping person, is realistically possible and personally significant and meaningful.” Psalm 23 is an expression of confidence in God’s providential presence and care, as a shepherd cares and hosts sheep. This Psalm suggests that somehow and, in some way, no matter where we might find ourselves amid our faith pilgrimage, God will show up, comfort, guide, and provide for us in any circumstance. Now, let’s visit the Hospital’s Emergency Trauma Room, the Quiet Room, and the Southside of Chicago.
There is a place in the valley called the Emergency Trauma Room, and here I walk. The Chaplain’s handheld pager sound “beep, beep, beep.” with a text message that reads, “14-Year Old Male GSW (Gun Shot Wound) to the Chest.” My first thought: “Will another teenager fall victim to senseless violence due to gunfire?”
As I walk toward the trauma room, my adrenaline begins to flow. I see the trauma surgeons, resident doctors, nurses, technicians, registration, and security officers who I call “The Gladiators of Healthcare,” gathering and preparing for the arrival of the patient. They gear-up with their protective equipment, gowns, gloves, and eyewear. Upon the arrival of the ambulance, through two sliding glass doors, I see the paramedics open the rear door of the ambulance. A weeping and highly anxious African American woman, the boy’s mother, exists the ambulance. Two paramedics rush the patient into the trauma room. Simultaneously, they are performing Cardiopulmonary Resuscitation (CPR) and communicating the care that they have provided.
The patient is another African American male, shot— wounded due to gunfire. He’s only a kid, one of God’s children, created in the image of God. On that notion alone, he is a person who is worthy of our respect, skills, and expertise. To save this boy’s life, the doctors and nurses, continue CPR, then perform a procedure allowing them to enter the patient’s chest cavity to gain access to his heart. With heart in hand, the doctor massages it in the hope that it beats again. The doctor feels a faint heartbeat, and a glimpse of hope is present in the room. The doctors, nurses, and technicians rush the young patient to surgery.
Meanwhile, there is a place in the valley called the Quiet Room, and here I walk. As I slowly open the door and enter the Quiet Room, I hear sobbing mixed with anxious curiosity, anger, and frustration, and the prayers of the faithful. There are several brothers, sisters, friends, and other relatives contemplating revenge and retaliation. Many questions are hurled at me as I enter the room; “Is my baby okay?” Is he still alive? We have to see him now!” The family finds themselves overshadowed by their worst fear— the possible death of a son. There are no words to describe the look in a mother’s eye or the intensity of anger of a father trying to make sense out of senseless violence. A few minutes later, there is a knock on the door. A doctor walks in and informs the family that they were able to revive their son, but he is in critical condition and on the way to surgery.
There is another place in the valley called community, and here I walk. For more than ten years, I served as the pastor for Lincoln Memorial Congregational United Church of Christ. On Tuesday evenings, two or more parishioners, and I would walk in the neighborhood to inform our ministry by learning about the ministerial needs of real people within our immediate community. Before our walk, in prayer, we contemplated which direction to walk. We prayed an increased depth of empathy and compassion for the people, a capacity to affirm rather than judge, an openness to learn rather than teach, and the wisdom to know when to nurture or evoke faith, hope, and love.
On one occasion, not more than five minutes into our walk, at the corner of 65th and Evans, we saw a crowd gathering in the distance near a police car. Then we heard and saw Sam running toward us, shouting, “Hey, Reverend! Hey, Reverend, Loretta* needs a pastor! Her son Johnny* just got shot!” Running not far behind, was Joe*, Johnny’s Little League baseball coach, who was also the owner of a neighborhood makeshift candy store a nearby vacant corner lot. It was on that same street where we had met Loretta, Johnny, Sam*, Joe, and a host of other neighbors, one week earlier. It was hard for us to believe that Johnny, the boy with dark skin, big brown eyes, a short, clean haircut, a million-dollar smile, and full of so much life, now lay in the street on the ground suffering from a gunshot wound.
On that same corner, we turned forty-five degrees and saw across the street Loretta, Johnny’s mother, standing on the sidewalk in front of her apartment building. She seemed stunned, shocked, and not know what to do. People began to gather, unconsciously forming a large half-circle that reached across the street and back again. An awkward silence filled the outdoor air, only pierced by a mother’s screams and the sirens of an ambulance and several police cars. No one seemed to know what to say or do. All of us just stood there for a moment, looking from across the street. In spite of our hidden internal anxiety, we approached Loretta with a non-anxious presence.
Loretta sat on the steps, the same place where we spoke with her, her relatives, and her neighbors last Tuesday. The closer we got to Loretta, the more it felt like the whole neighborhood paused, wanting, needing, and depending on us for a pastoral presence to emerge. We reached her side, not speaking a word for a moment, just being there and feeling the depth of the moment. We embraced her one by one. She was petrified for her son like she was going to burst. There was a certain connectedness among the people amid dismal psychological darkness, not knowing just how bad things were for Johnny. I invited the people to gather a little closer by joining hands as we surrounded Loretta and prayed.
After our prayer, one of the young men at the scene ran up to us and told us that Johnny had been taken by ambulance to Northwestern Hospital. We continued to support Loretta by asking her what she wanted to do. We encouraged her by suggesting that Loretta might want to go to the hospital. She told us that she wanted to, but neither she nor her relatives had a car. So, I offered to go back to the church and get my car and take her to the hospital. Our two church members remained, comforting Loretta and others. When I returned, Loretta, Joe, and our associate minister got into my car, and we went to the hospital. As we drove to the hospital, we learned by phone from a friend that Johnny had been shot in the head, and that was not good news.
When we arrived at the hospital, we heard that the doctors were doing all that they could, but things were not looking favorable. We continued pastoral care and support through empathic listening and more prayer. When Johnny’s father arrived, he was livid and went emotionally ballistic! I spent time with him to help him. I took him for a walk to allow him to express his emotions and anger so that when we returned, he might be able to engage in this horrible reality in the best manner possible. Our associate minister spent most of her time with Loretta, Johnny’s mother. Finally, a doctor, a nurse, and a chaplain came and informed us that Johnny had died as a result of his gunshot wound. We had one last prayer, only this time; it was in the shadow of the reality of Johnny’s death.
* All names were changed.
As a pastor, I have provided pastoral care and support to several soldiers returning from the war on terror and their families, only to be shot here at home. They often said that they “...felt safer” in Iraq or Afghanistan.
I, too, have experienced my safety at risk. I reminisce about the violence I witnessed in my community. For example, one day, after an eight-hour day at the hospital as Chaplain, and then three more hours at church, where I served as a Pastor, I attended counseling needs of a married couple, facilitated Bible Study, and then I departed for home. As I drove a half-mile from church, I noticed a large group of youth on the side of the road fighting. Suddenly some of them ran in front of my car. They ran because they feared for their lives, running from a boy with a gun. I saw the silhouette of a boy partially illuminated by my headlights, in white, a t-shirt and tennis shoes, with one arm outstretched, gun in hand. I saw a flash and heard gunfire. Immediately, I put my car in reverse with much anxiety and a plan to take ‘the long way’ home. I wondered, “Will I too become a victim of gunfire?”
There is hope in the valley, and here Acclivus, Inc workers walk. More than fifteen years ago, two trauma doctors, driven by their experience in the hospital, and their reading of an article about violence in the News Paper, attended a meeting on the Southside of Chicago. There they learned about a community organization called “CeaseFire.” ACMC Trauma Physicians and the Department of Mission and Spiritual Care initiated a pilot program with CeaseFire in 2005, which blossomed into a partnership and continues to this day. The CeaseFire organization was renamed “Cure Violence” and reconstituted as “Acclivus, Inc.” in 2019. Although the name has changed, the mission of this collaboration has remained the same. Acclivus seeks to reduce all forms of traumatic violence. Acclivus consists of workers who are reformed ex-gang members. Many of them have suffered the loss of a family member or friend due to traumatic violence. They have trained and committed themselves to conflict resolution, violence prevention.
There is hope in the valley, and here the Trauma Recovery Center Professionals walk. There is another ray of hope and resilience in the valley, which is the Trauma Recovery Center. Recently, ACMC received confirmation of a $1.1 million grant award from the Illinois Criminal Justice Authority to Advocate Christ Medical Center to support comprehensive direct services for historically underserved or marginalized victims of violent crime and their families through the establishment of a Trauma Recovery Center (TRC). This new grant has enabled ACMC to deepen and expand our efforts to inspire the fruit of our hope— to help people who have experienced violent trauma to heal and live well in the valley of the shadow of violence. The TRC is a clinic located on the south side of Chicago consists of clinical professional workers.
Yes, there is hope in the valley because there are people, moved by their faith, and professional commitment, equipped with expertise, who care enough to do something about violence. On the other hand, I believe the health and wellbeing of our communities, particularly regarding the problem of gun violence, is a significant problem in society. Gun violence is happening on the westside and southside of Chicago, and in many major cities across the United States.
The wellbeing of our communities, set against the issue of violence, can be viewed as a math equation gone wrong. Once upon a time, we enjoyed a more nonviolent societal equation, which was the product of healthy societal factors. We had a community equation where the factors equaled more life and less death. Perhaps some of these factors were sound parenting, stronger families, education, youth activities, summer jobs, access to affordable housing and health care, just and human law enforcement, the sum of which equaled a more healthy, nonviolent society. Today, some or all of the elements of the equation are broken or damaged. The equation used to equal life and abundance. But, now it factors out the to the deaths at alarming rates not only in African-American and Hispanic communities but also during many mass shootings in predominately white schools.
We have a societal equation that factors out to more death and less life. I believe we can reduce and eliminate this unfortunate trend with sustained efforts over several generations. I think that we can repair the damage factors and dimensions of our society so that the equation factors toward more abundant life. I am convinced that, while it is a good thing for churches and community organizations to continue their individual efforts to resolve this problem, these efforts are not enough.
As a nation, we managed to land on the moon on July 20, 1969, less than ten years after President Kennedy’s speech to Congress on May 25, 1961. Are not the lives of so many young boys, girls, men, and women worth that kind of effort? What we need is a coordinated and sustained movement over the next several generations that is well supported by the commitments of the church, government, private and professional expertise, and financial resources. We need to together with benevolent intent toward the common good as if we wanted to land a person on Mars.
There is hope in the valley. I believe our hospitals and community churches have the opportunity to demonstrate that we are an extension of God’s care. Through the collective efforts of Advocate Christ Medical Center’s TRC and the Acclivus partnership, various Churches, and communities, together, we can get to greener pastures and still waters. Together we can co-create a more peaceful and safer community. We will be able to dissipate the shadow of violence, heal persons and communities, and accomplished our mission— to help people live well.
May the blessings of health, faith, hope, and love be yours.
Serving Humanity
Inspired by Divine Benevolent Intent
Rev. Richard James