by Oscar Mata
Several weeks ago, someone asked me to visit one of their friends who was hospitalized. The patient was a man over seventy years old, English speaking, with the distant demeanor of someone who hadn’t set foot in a church for decades. He received me only because I came at his friend’s request.
He was a man of strong character, estranged from his family, with a deep aversion to churches. Yet he agreed to speak with this Hispanic pastor whose heavily accented English was our only common ground. We talked about life, his passions, his wounds — about everything except religion. I visited him once a week, though he wished I could come more often. I explained that my time was limited, but each week I returned to his side.
I work as a hospital chaplain, and these visits are common for me. However, this visit was as a pastor, not in my role as a chaplain. It turned out to be a fascinating way for the Creator to teach me about people who live outside of churches, yet have a thirst to be heard and understood. People who don’t seek sermons or impositions but rather seek a sincere ear, a presence that loves them without pressure. In those visits, I learned that, in the end, it’s God who touches hearts. We, imperfect as we are, are merely His instruments.
The man’s hospitalization continued, and, little by little, his resistance began to break down. Over the weeks, he brought up a conversation about God and the reasons he had distanced himself from faith. I didn’t judge him or speak of creeds; I simply listened. He confessed that he regretted his life away from God and sought His forgiveness. He asked me if I would be his pastor once he left the hospital.
I missed visiting the man for more than a week while I attended the Ministerial Council in October. The very same day I came back, I received an urgent message from the person who had asked for that first visit: My patient was dying.
I hurried to his side and found him fragile, barely able to speak. I held his hand, we prayed together, and in that shared silence, he took his last breath.
The man never visited my church, and I was never his pastor in an official capacity. But I hope, with all my faith, that God accepted his repentance. By divine design, I am a pastor. But you don’t need a title to do something similar for someone. Sometimes God calls us to be pastors without a temple. You could be that shepherd for a person in need. You could be the channel of blessing God uses to heal and listen. We all have the power to walk beside someone, to extend a hand without judgment, and to be the silent answer to their cry, for love is the most powerful force in the universe.
