Illustration by Charity Ellis
As I write this essay, I look up now and again to watch the squirrels play in the forest out my window, and my eyes fall on the bronze medallion sitting on the windowsill—a medallion awarded to Christian chaplains of the Army and Navy at the end of WWI.1 On one side is a large cross superimposed over a battleship. On the obverse, a chaplain kneels beside a prone, wounded soldier. There is no Bible in sight, and the chaplain is not—as far as we can tell—praying. There is only a gas mask lying on the ground, which the chaplain, at risk to his own life, has temporarily removed so he can administer water to the wounded soldier on the battlefield. This medallion serves as a representation and personal reminder of the heart of chaplaincy: Chaplains are called to meet the needs of the person in the moment. While sometimes that might indeed involve prayer, it may just as easily take the form of a cup of water or sitting quietly with a father whose heart is breaking over the unimaginable loss of a child.
This way of being with others is often referred to in chaplaincy as “ministry of presence,” an intentional way of being a caring, listening, and facilitating presence of God’s love. It is certainly not restricted to chaplaincy, but chaplains practice it regularly as part of our vocation. It is not that the Bible and prayer are not essential to what we do as chaplains; I wholeheartedly believe we could not do our work in their absence. However, because chaplains often work in pluralistic settings and engage with non-Christians, these practices, instead of being explicit in our interactions with others, serve, rather, as the well from which we draw to do our work effectively.
There is a danger, though, in working in pluralistic environments. We must be careful that, in our eagerness to be relevant in our diverse contexts, and in our desire to be helpful to all, we do not hold pluralism itself at such a high value that we lose the very identity that grounds our chaplaincy. I argue that it is precisely our concrete and visible faith as Christians that allows others to feel anchored and to receive hope even if they do not embrace the same faith. This is especially relevant in an increasingly diverse and secularized West.
Chaplains work within a tension in which we are constantly negotiating our Christian identity in secular environments. There is a profound vulnerability that comes with sharing deep fears and traumas, especially when a person’s worldview may differ from that of the chaplain’s. Chaplains, therefore, often cannot speak explicitly about their own faith without potentially violating the space of trust that belongs primarily and properly to the person with whom the chaplain sits. How then do we faithfully negotiate the pluralistic spaces in which we walk as Christian chaplains? Certainly not by suppressing our Christian identity. On the contrary, I believe that in order to be effective as Christian chaplains, we must be strongly and unapologetically Christian. Our religious identity, whatever religion we hold, not only keeps us grounded as chaplains but also allows us to draw on the unique resources within our respective faith traditions that make us most effective. Veiling our faith would rob us of the very thing that makes us effective in the diverse environments in which we serve.
I practice military chaplaincy, one of chaplaincy’s oldest forms (especially if you extend the definition to include priests in the Pentateuch who served in Hebrew military camps).2 The Council of Ratisbon officially recognized military chaplaincy in 742 AD.3 Explicitly prohibited from bearing arms by the council, military chaplains were not soldiers but provided a pastoral presence for the wounded and those for whom death could be imminent.
I have mentioned military chaplaincy specifically not only because of its long practice but because militaries are constituted by a cross section of society and the subcultures contained therein. As such, they were excellent soil for chaplaincy. While villages and towns could remain somewhat homogenous for hundreds of years, the nature of the military necessitated the coexistence of people of different classes, races, and religions, often beyond what would be encountered in the military member’s home context. It is not surprising, then, that as religious diversity increased in the United States, so did the diversity of chaplaincy, with Jewish chaplains introduced during the American Civil War. During the 19th and 20th centuries, multifaith and even secular forms of chaplaincy emerged and expanded to include many other settings, such as hospitals and prisons. However, the fundamental character of chaplaincy, as a ministering presence outside traditional worship spaces, remained.
The ability to move easily in worlds outside a chaplain’s own faith setting has become increasingly relevant and necessary today, especially as the West continues to shift away from religious affiliation. In the United States, institutional churches have been bleeding adherents rapidly since 2000.4 Interestingly, this has not led to a corresponding decline in spirituality. In a Pew Research Center poll from 2023, 70 percent of Americans described themselves as “spiritual,” with 22 percent of that group describing themselves as spiritual but not religious.5 The term “nones” has arisen to describe this growing demographic who believe in a higher power but are religiously unaffiliated.6
Spirituality, even if it is not well-defined, can be a source of strength that provides a sense of purpose and meaning. Charles Taylor, a noted philosopher, observes that beliefs are not just ideas to which human beings subscribe; both belief and unbelief are lived conditions which have a particular moral and/or spiritual shape in which we find fullness of life.7 Often, that shape can be well-defined, but in my work as a chaplain, I find that, just as often, it is not. Even so, persons operate from a form of belief that provides some kind of meaning and structure, even if it is not well-articulated:
[A]ll beliefs are held within a context or framework of the taken-for-granted, which usually remains tacit, and may even be as yet unacknowledged by the agent, because [they are] never formulated.8
Chaplains pay attention to these belief systems because they are fundamental to a person’s self-understanding.
Our beliefs are integral to the formation of our personhood. Indeed, for those deeply embedded in their faith, that faith is often primary in identity formation and the lens through which they experience the world. In times of trauma, however, faith can be a double-edged sword. Under great stress, those fundamental beliefs can be a major resource for coping, but they can also lead to distress, especially when a person’s beliefs conflict with their experience. Chaplains can be part of the holistic treatment of a person’s wellness by tapping into and addressing the spiritual dimension of human existence, including those times of existential crisis. But what if the person’s spirituality is not well-defined or, as Taylor states above, is “as yet unacknowledged?” This can add another layer of complexity to walking with persons during times of crisis.
When people leave traditional religious spaces, often with good reason, it is not without cost. Those structures, while stifling and even damaging for some, can also provide clear beliefs, parameters, and guidelines that have been tested throughout time in the community of faith. Even when individuals hold beliefs that may not accord with the totality of a tradition’s doctrines, those differences still operate within the tradition’s fundamental structures. In contrast, the emerging spirituality of the last few decades in the West appears increasingly centered around the individual person, their core values, and what constitutes, for them personally, human flourishing and a fulfilled life. Religions have typically leaned into the transcendent, the sense of something beyond ourselves, but as Taylor notes, there has been a shift away from the transcendent toward a self-sufficient order that does not need reference to God.9 The “immanent frame,” as he calls it, references primarily the natural order. This is where Taylor situates many in the West:
What I have been describing as the immanent frame is common to all of us in the modern West, or at least that is what I am trying to portray. Some of us want to live it as open to something beyond; some live it as closed. It is something which permits closure, without demanding it.10
This, along with an increasing regard of Christianity as just one religious or ideological option among many others, has contributed to a more anthropocentric approach to spirituality in which the starting point is the person rather than the religion itself. Where previously, faith in a Christian God was largely a given in the West, a person can now seek just those areas of spirituality that will strengthen their personal values and sense of meaning rather than conforming to a preexisting structure of belief. This can involve cobbling together different religious elements from various traditions to create an individual belief system.
A strength of this approach is that it provides a sense of worth and meaning to a person and reinforces the beliefs and values they hold dear, but it has a great weakness as well. When belief systems are self-configured (which all are to some degree), they tend to privilege beliefs that make us feel comfortable over those that challenge us, test us, and force us to grow. A self-constructed spiritual framework is only as good as the skill and thoughtfulness of the person who builds it. One may build a house, but without the skill set that comes from years of tradition and mentors who pass on those proven skills, the result may be a lean-to that leaks when the storms come. (Take it from someone who has tried to put together Ikea furniture holding the instructions upside down, or even right side up; a lot can go wrong.)
Even people firmly rooted in a faith tradition, who have reflected deeply on their faith, can experience crisis when life goes horribly wrong—as C. S. Lewis’s A Grief Observed bears poignant witness. That said, the more vague a spiritual or ideological system, the fewer concrete resources it has from which to draw, especially if it is self-referential. Because such belief systems are anthropocentrically oriented and not always rooted in a coherent philosophy or theology, the foundation on which such houses are built can fail dramatically and terribly. This is, in large part, because an individual’s self-created system can consist of incommensurable beliefs that result in cognitive dissonance. As long as these beliefs are untested, a person may just live with that dissonance. What happens, though, if a tragedy occurs, such as the loss of a child, that shakes a person to their core? Suddenly, pressure is put on incommensurable belief constructs that should have offered resilient shelter but that now reveal structural weaknesses that can result in collapse.
This is where chaplains are especially efficacious. The religious traditions, beliefs, and doctrines that underlie a chaplain’s work have been tested many times over. Tragedy is part of the human condition, and deep resources have developed within faith communities from which chaplains can draw, even if the person to whom the chaplain is ministering does not hold the same beliefs.
When people go through trauma, it is like being caught in a terrible storm while desperately looking for shelter. People tend to be drawn to shelters that look strong and safe. They may not stay for longer than a few minutes, but, in those moments, they can find respite, even if the religious or spiritual shelter is not one in which they want to permanently reside. This is precisely because that shelter is concrete and substantive. Spiritual resources matter. The deeper and more tested those resources are, the more helpful they can be, even for those whose own belief system may be less determinate.
I once had a Muslim man come to me who was experiencing a personal crisis. As a Christian, woman chaplain, I was somewhat surprised he sought me out, but he told me he did so because he knew I was connected to God and wanted my thoughts, as a Christian, before he went to his imam. As I have reflected on this encounter, I realized that if I were seeking a safe harbor, I might well seek counsel with a Muslim chaplain deeply committed to his or her faith before I went to someone for whom faith was self-
referential. I suspect that this young man was looking for someone devoted to their faith who could understand his own commitment, even if theirs was a different faith from the one he himself practiced.
Concrete faith matters in times of crisis; chaplains are tangible embodiments of God’s love and presence in our particularity and visibility as Christian chaplains. While being sensitive to the current pluralistic cultural climate, chaplains must work to be continually relevant to those who are not Christian, while never losing sight of the very thing that allows us to be most effective. If we are not securely moored to our own faith, it will be difficult to be a resource to others—even if those others are non-religious, have no specific religious affiliation, or are from a different faith tradition. We must not confuse the need to be sensitive to our pluralistic contexts with needing to be pluralists ourselves. If we cut ourselves from our Christian anchor, we run the risk of becoming a less potent spiritual presence and will lose the very thing that allows us to be a strong support to those who feel battered by life’s tragedies.
The heart of the chaplain is to love others as Christ has loved us. In emulating Christ’s own way of being with others, we meet people where they are in the needs of the moment. We do so not by abandoning who we are but by embracing who we are in Christ and listening to what the Holy Spirit is doing in this person, in this moment. It is the abandoning of grand agendas save for the simple one of being present with and for another as God is with and for us. This is our superpower: leaning into and participating in Christ, not by slipping into a generic spirituality.
One of my favorite dialogues in the Bible is between Jesus and Peter right before Jesus ascends. Jesus asks Peter three times if Peter loves him, to which Peter responds all three times, “Lord, you know that I love you.” You can almost hear the growing distress in Peter’s voice as Jesus repeats his question. What is notable in this exchange is revealed in the Greek. The first two times, the word Jesus uses for love is agapaō (ἀγαπάω), which is the highest form of unconditional love. Each time, Peter replies, not with agapaō, but with the word for brotherly love, phileō (φιλέω). Peter cannot quite meet Jesus in what is being asked of him. What I love about this story is this: Jesus must have seen Peter’s growing agitation and grief, because the third and final time, Jesus asks, not using agapaō but rather says, “Simon, son of John, do you phileis (φιλεῖς) me?”
This rich exchange has a number of nuances in the Greek and has been interpreted several ways by commentators, but this is what stands out for me: When Peter cannot quite meet what Jesus is asking from him, Jesus instead meets Peter at the level at which Peter is capable. It is a wonderful illustration of the heart of chaplaincy: God meets us where we are in the moment. He demonstrated this when he showed his amazing love by becoming human and identifying with us so profoundly in his recapitulation of human existence, even to the point of death. What an example of love that God himself has set for us in Christ! We are, at the end of the day, Christian chaplains, and the ministry of presence is grounded in God’s own way of being. It is a practice for all Christians, not just chaplains.
Being a Christian chaplain does not require compromising our faith to work in pluralistic environments, even if we are often constrained from being able to speak explicitly about Jesus. There is a grounded clarity that Christian chaplains bring to spirituality that is attractive and effective precisely because it comes from a place of unequivocal authenticity as Christians. This is helpful not only to those who are committed to their respective faith traditions but also to those for whom spirituality is less defined. Christian chaplains may not verbally proselytize, but, guided by the Holy Spirit, we share the gospel by being a tangible presence of God’s love and care to the person before us, understanding that our faith tells us each human being is created in God’s image and of immeasurable value. That seems an excellent starting place to build a shelter for those caught in the storm, whether they need prayer or a cup of water.
Marèque Steele Ireland is affiliate associate professor of theology and a faculty member of the MA in Chaplaincy program. She has contributed two articles to The Global Dictionary of Theology (2008) on “Postcolonial Theology” and “Syncretism.” She also serves as a chaplain in the United States Navy Reserve. In 1994, she earned her MCS in theology at Regent College, immediately followed by studies at the University of Cambridge, where she earned her PhD.
As I write this essay, I look up now and again to watch the squirrels play in the forest out my window, and my eyes fall on the bronze medallion sitting on the windowsill—a medallion awarded to Christian chaplains of the Army and Navy at the end of WWI.1 On one side is a large cross superimposed over a battleship. On the obverse, a chaplain kneels beside a prone, wounded soldier. There is no Bible in sight, and the chaplain is not—as far as we can tell—praying. There is only a gas mask lying on the ground, which the chaplain, at risk to his own life, has temporarily removed so he can administer water to the wounded soldier on the battlefield. This medallion serves as a representation and personal reminder of the heart of chaplaincy: Chaplains are called to meet the needs of the person in the moment. While sometimes that might indeed involve prayer, it may just as easily take the form of a cup of water or sitting quietly with a father whose heart is breaking over the unimaginable loss of a child.
This way of being with others is often referred to in chaplaincy as “ministry of presence,” an intentional way of being a caring, listening, and facilitating presence of God’s love. It is certainly not restricted to chaplaincy, but chaplains practice it regularly as part of our vocation. It is not that the Bible and prayer are not essential to what we do as chaplains; I wholeheartedly believe we could not do our work in their absence. However, because chaplains often work in pluralistic settings and engage with non-Christians, these practices, instead of being explicit in our interactions with others, serve, rather, as the well from which we draw to do our work effectively.
There is a danger, though, in working in pluralistic environments. We must be careful that, in our eagerness to be relevant in our diverse contexts, and in our desire to be helpful to all, we do not hold pluralism itself at such a high value that we lose the very identity that grounds our chaplaincy. I argue that it is precisely our concrete and visible faith as Christians that allows others to feel anchored and to receive hope even if they do not embrace the same faith. This is especially relevant in an increasingly diverse and secularized West.
Chaplains work within a tension in which we are constantly negotiating our Christian identity in secular environments. There is a profound vulnerability that comes with sharing deep fears and traumas, especially when a person’s worldview may differ from that of the chaplain’s. Chaplains, therefore, often cannot speak explicitly about their own faith without potentially violating the space of trust that belongs primarily and properly to the person with whom the chaplain sits. How then do we faithfully negotiate the pluralistic spaces in which we walk as Christian chaplains? Certainly not by suppressing our Christian identity. On the contrary, I believe that in order to be effective as Christian chaplains, we must be strongly and unapologetically Christian. Our religious identity, whatever religion we hold, not only keeps us grounded as chaplains but also allows us to draw on the unique resources within our respective faith traditions that make us most effective. Veiling our faith would rob us of the very thing that makes us effective in the diverse environments in which we serve.
I practice military chaplaincy, one of chaplaincy’s oldest forms (especially if you extend the definition to include priests in the Pentateuch who served in Hebrew military camps).2 The Council of Ratisbon officially recognized military chaplaincy in 742 AD.3 Explicitly prohibited from bearing arms by the council, military chaplains were not soldiers but provided a pastoral presence for the wounded and those for whom death could be imminent.
I have mentioned military chaplaincy specifically not only because of its long practice but because militaries are constituted by a cross section of society and the subcultures contained therein. As such, they were excellent soil for chaplaincy. While villages and towns could remain somewhat homogenous for hundreds of years, the nature of the military necessitated the coexistence of people of different classes, races, and religions, often beyond what would be encountered in the military member’s home context. It is not surprising, then, that as religious diversity increased in the United States, so did the diversity of chaplaincy, with Jewish chaplains introduced during the American Civil War. During the 19th and 20th centuries, multifaith and even secular forms of chaplaincy emerged and expanded to include many other settings, such as hospitals and prisons. However, the fundamental character of chaplaincy, as a ministering presence outside traditional worship spaces, remained.
The ability to move easily in worlds outside a chaplain’s own faith setting has become increasingly relevant and necessary today, especially as the West continues to shift away from religious affiliation. In the United States, institutional churches have been bleeding adherents rapidly since 2000.4 Interestingly, this has not led to a corresponding decline in spirituality. In a Pew Research Center poll from 2023, 70 percent of Americans described themselves as “spiritual,” with 22 percent of that group describing themselves as spiritual but not religious.5 The term “nones” has arisen to describe this growing demographic who believe in a higher power but are religiously unaffiliated.6
Spirituality, even if it is not well-defined, can be a source of strength that provides a sense of purpose and meaning. Charles Taylor, a noted philosopher, observes that beliefs are not just ideas to which human beings subscribe; both belief and unbelief are lived conditions which have a particular moral and/or spiritual shape in which we find fullness of life.7 Often, that shape can be well-defined, but in my work as a chaplain, I find that, just as often, it is not. Even so, persons operate from a form of belief that provides some kind of meaning and structure, even if it is not well-articulated:
[A]ll beliefs are held within a context or framework of the taken-for-granted, which usually remains tacit, and may even be as yet unacknowledged by the agent, because [they are] never formulated.8
Chaplains pay attention to these belief systems because they are fundamental to a person’s self-understanding.
Our beliefs are integral to the formation of our personhood. Indeed, for those deeply embedded in their faith, that faith is often primary in identity formation and the lens through which they experience the world. In times of trauma, however, faith can be a double-edged sword. Under great stress, those fundamental beliefs can be a major resource for coping, but they can also lead to distress, especially when a person’s beliefs conflict with their experience. Chaplains can be part of the holistic treatment of a person’s wellness by tapping into and addressing the spiritual dimension of human existence, including those times of existential crisis. But what if the person’s spirituality is not well-defined or, as Taylor states above, is “as yet unacknowledged?” This can add another layer of complexity to walking with persons during times of crisis.
When people leave traditional religious spaces, often with good reason, it is not without cost. Those structures, while stifling and even damaging for some, can also provide clear beliefs, parameters, and guidelines that have been tested throughout time in the community of faith. Even when individuals hold beliefs that may not accord with the totality of a tradition’s doctrines, those differences still operate within the tradition’s fundamental structures. In contrast, the emerging spirituality of the last few decades in the West appears increasingly centered around the individual person, their core values, and what constitutes, for them personally, human flourishing and a fulfilled life. Religions have typically leaned into the transcendent, the sense of something beyond ourselves, but as Taylor notes, there has been a shift away from the transcendent toward a self-sufficient order that does not need reference to God.9 The “immanent frame,” as he calls it, references primarily the natural order. This is where Taylor situates many in the West:
What I have been describing as the immanent frame is common to all of us in the modern West, or at least that is what I am trying to portray. Some of us want to live it as open to something beyond; some live it as closed. It is something which permits closure, without demanding it.10
This, along with an increasing regard of Christianity as just one religious or ideological option among many others, has contributed to a more anthropocentric approach to spirituality in which the starting point is the person rather than the religion itself. Where previously, faith in a Christian God was largely a given in the West, a person can now seek just those areas of spirituality that will strengthen their personal values and sense of meaning rather than conforming to a preexisting structure of belief. This can involve cobbling together different religious elements from various traditions to create an individual belief system.
A strength of this approach is that it provides a sense of worth and meaning to a person and reinforces the beliefs and values they hold dear, but it has a great weakness as well. When belief systems are self-configured (which all are to some degree), they tend to privilege beliefs that make us feel comfortable over those that challenge us, test us, and force us to grow. A self-constructed spiritual framework is only as good as the skill and thoughtfulness of the person who builds it. One may build a house, but without the skill set that comes from years of tradition and mentors who pass on those proven skills, the result may be a lean-to that leaks when the storms come. (Take it from someone who has tried to put together Ikea furniture holding the instructions upside down, or even right side up; a lot can go wrong.)
Even people firmly rooted in a faith tradition, who have reflected deeply on their faith, can experience crisis when life goes horribly wrong—as C. S. Lewis’s A Grief Observed bears poignant witness. That said, the more vague a spiritual or ideological system, the fewer concrete resources it has from which to draw, especially if it is self-referential. Because such belief systems are anthropocentrically oriented and not always rooted in a coherent philosophy or theology, the foundation on which such houses are built can fail dramatically and terribly. This is, in large part, because an individual’s self-created system can consist of incommensurable beliefs that result in cognitive dissonance. As long as these beliefs are untested, a person may just live with that dissonance. What happens, though, if a tragedy occurs, such as the loss of a child, that shakes a person to their core? Suddenly, pressure is put on incommensurable belief constructs that should have offered resilient shelter but that now reveal structural weaknesses that can result in collapse.
This is where chaplains are especially efficacious. The religious traditions, beliefs, and doctrines that underlie a chaplain’s work have been tested many times over. Tragedy is part of the human condition, and deep resources have developed within faith communities from which chaplains can draw, even if the person to whom the chaplain is ministering does not hold the same beliefs.
When people go through trauma, it is like being caught in a terrible storm while desperately looking for shelter. People tend to be drawn to shelters that look strong and safe. They may not stay for longer than a few minutes, but, in those moments, they can find respite, even if the religious or spiritual shelter is not one in which they want to permanently reside. This is precisely because that shelter is concrete and substantive. Spiritual resources matter. The deeper and more tested those resources are, the more helpful they can be, even for those whose own belief system may be less determinate.
I once had a Muslim man come to me who was experiencing a personal crisis. As a Christian, woman chaplain, I was somewhat surprised he sought me out, but he told me he did so because he knew I was connected to God and wanted my thoughts, as a Christian, before he went to his imam. As I have reflected on this encounter, I realized that if I were seeking a safe harbor, I might well seek counsel with a Muslim chaplain deeply committed to his or her faith before I went to someone for whom faith was self-
referential. I suspect that this young man was looking for someone devoted to their faith who could understand his own commitment, even if theirs was a different faith from the one he himself practiced.
Concrete faith matters in times of crisis; chaplains are tangible embodiments of God’s love and presence in our particularity and visibility as Christian chaplains. While being sensitive to the current pluralistic cultural climate, chaplains must work to be continually relevant to those who are not Christian, while never losing sight of the very thing that allows us to be most effective. If we are not securely moored to our own faith, it will be difficult to be a resource to others—even if those others are non-religious, have no specific religious affiliation, or are from a different faith tradition. We must not confuse the need to be sensitive to our pluralistic contexts with needing to be pluralists ourselves. If we cut ourselves from our Christian anchor, we run the risk of becoming a less potent spiritual presence and will lose the very thing that allows us to be a strong support to those who feel battered by life’s tragedies.
The heart of the chaplain is to love others as Christ has loved us. In emulating Christ’s own way of being with others, we meet people where they are in the needs of the moment. We do so not by abandoning who we are but by embracing who we are in Christ and listening to what the Holy Spirit is doing in this person, in this moment. It is the abandoning of grand agendas save for the simple one of being present with and for another as God is with and for us. This is our superpower: leaning into and participating in Christ, not by slipping into a generic spirituality.
One of my favorite dialogues in the Bible is between Jesus and Peter right before Jesus ascends. Jesus asks Peter three times if Peter loves him, to which Peter responds all three times, “Lord, you know that I love you.” You can almost hear the growing distress in Peter’s voice as Jesus repeats his question. What is notable in this exchange is revealed in the Greek. The first two times, the word Jesus uses for love is agapaō (ἀγαπάω), which is the highest form of unconditional love. Each time, Peter replies, not with agapaō, but with the word for brotherly love, phileō (φιλέω). Peter cannot quite meet Jesus in what is being asked of him. What I love about this story is this: Jesus must have seen Peter’s growing agitation and grief, because the third and final time, Jesus asks, not using agapaō but rather says, “Simon, son of John, do you phileis (φιλεῖς) me?”
This rich exchange has a number of nuances in the Greek and has been interpreted several ways by commentators, but this is what stands out for me: When Peter cannot quite meet what Jesus is asking from him, Jesus instead meets Peter at the level at which Peter is capable. It is a wonderful illustration of the heart of chaplaincy: God meets us where we are in the moment. He demonstrated this when he showed his amazing love by becoming human and identifying with us so profoundly in his recapitulation of human existence, even to the point of death. What an example of love that God himself has set for us in Christ! We are, at the end of the day, Christian chaplains, and the ministry of presence is grounded in God’s own way of being. It is a practice for all Christians, not just chaplains.
Being a Christian chaplain does not require compromising our faith to work in pluralistic environments, even if we are often constrained from being able to speak explicitly about Jesus. There is a grounded clarity that Christian chaplains bring to spirituality that is attractive and effective precisely because it comes from a place of unequivocal authenticity as Christians. This is helpful not only to those who are committed to their respective faith traditions but also to those for whom spirituality is less defined. Christian chaplains may not verbally proselytize, but, guided by the Holy Spirit, we share the gospel by being a tangible presence of God’s love and care to the person before us, understanding that our faith tells us each human being is created in God’s image and of immeasurable value. That seems an excellent starting place to build a shelter for those caught in the storm, whether they need prayer or a cup of water.
Marèque Steele Ireland is affiliate associate professor of theology and a faculty member of the MA in Chaplaincy program. She has contributed two articles to The Global Dictionary of Theology (2008) on “Postcolonial Theology” and “Syncretism.” She also serves as a chaplain in the United States Navy Reserve. In 1994, she earned her MCS in theology at Regent College, immediately followed by studies at the University of Cambridge, where she earned her PhD.
Tyler Brewington-Mathis, chaplain and Fuller alum, reflects on the faithful tasks of accompaniment and of bearing witness to the stories of others as we journey with people in their suffering.
