The Visit Nobody Wants
"They'll let me in. I'm a pastor."
It sounds like one of the perks of joining "The Club." A special pass that comes with the title. Trust me, it's not as cool as you might think.
Not long ago, a family member was in the hospital. Several of us were visiting at the same time, and one of the visitors offered, "I can step out. They only allow two people in the room at a time." I said, "They'll let me in. I'm a pastor."
There it is. It's not a "Get Out of Jail Free" card from Monopoly. It's access to the room nobody wants to be in.
Hospital visits are one of the parts of being a pastor I have treasured over the years. I know that sounds strange. They aren't fun, and there aren't smiles all around. But I feel most like a pastor in those moments. A pastor doesn't have magic prayers that make everything better. Over time, you learn the right questions to ask the nurses and the family. You learn to read the room: the monitors, the faces, the silence. You learn when to be quiet and when to speak. Most importantly, you invite the Holy Spirit to lead you as you minister His power, presence, and peace to people who desperately need it.
My First Visit
I remember my first hospital visit... all the way back in 1990. I was a Children's Pastor in Orlando, and every pastor on staff took hospital visits. I was sent to see a family whose loved one was going into surgery. I got there early so I wouldn't be late or miss the room.
I told every breathing person I passed that I was a pastor making a hospital visit. The parking attendant. The woman at the visitor desk. Every nurse in the hallway, the janitor, the dietitian, the doctor reading his chart, and the X-ray tech pushing a portable machine. They all gave me the same response: "Great... uh, that's good... uh, OK." Then they shuffled off.
These days, I don't announce my arrival to the entire staff. But I do find myself thanking them for what they do.
The People Who Move Toward Pain
Here's a crazy revelation: hospitals are full of sick people. People who are hurting, confused, scared, and sometimes angry that they don't feel well. The men and women who choose this work bring healing and compassion to people on their worst days. Every single day. They move toward people at their worst to help them heal. They amaze me.
In college, I worked in a hospital as a patient transporter. You develop a "hospital voice." It carries enough authority to get the patient to do what needs to happen, and enough compassion to recognize their pain in the moment. Some days it leans toward "Let's get 'er done." Other days it leans toward "I see you, and I'm here to help." Both carry weight. Both keep a patient moving toward healing.
Moments of Humanity
Over the years, I have seen every kind of human moment in a hospital room.
There has been laughter. Families desperate for a miracle start telling stories about their loved one, and before long the "remember when" moments have everyone laughing, with tears split between sadness and joy.
There have been brutally hard moments: losses that came far too soon, words that never got said while someone could still hear them, the despair of not knowing what to do.
There have been beautiful moments: a surgery that went well, a family's bond growing deeper, the joy of a new life coming into the world.
And there have been moments where God moved beyond anything I can comprehend.
People often ask me if I've ever been in the room when someone passed away. I have, more than once. One moment I'll never forget was being with a believer who loved Jesus as they finished their race. Their family had seen it coming, and the important conversations had already happened while every word could still be said. When the moment came and the alarm sounded, the nurse quietly turned it off, and tears of relief and gratitude flowed around the room. The presence of God filled that space. Sadness and joy. Pain and gladness. And a deep reverence for God. It remains one of the most powerful moments of my life: seeing the peace of God that passes all understanding show up exactly when it was needed most. Wow. It still impacts me.
Power, Presence, and Peace
So why does a pastor do hospital visits? Because it's one of the most tangible ways to minister the truth of the Bible. God brings three amazing gifts into our lives: His power, His presence, and His peace.
His power. God's power is rooted in His character, and there is no limit to what He can do. I've seen Him bring healing and results that leave doctors and nurses shaking their heads.
His presence. God doesn't stand at a distance. He steps into our physical and emotional space in a way only He can, bringing comfort into some of the darkest rooms on earth.
His peace. Philippians 4:6–7 (ESV) says, "Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus."
How does His peace surpass our understanding? How does it guard our hearts and minds? I don't know how. But I know He does, because I've watched it happen over and over, right when peace seemed out of reach. He is big. And He holds me, and the people I love, in His power and presence.
Step Toward Them
I have grown and learned so much through hospital visits. I've had the honor of standing with people I love in some of their hardest moments. I'm grateful. It has made me a better pastor and a better person.
Here's my challenge for all of us: when you see someone in pain, step toward them. I don't have all the answers, and neither will you. But you can see them in the moment, listen to their story, and point them to Jesus. All of us can do that. Hospital room or not, when we do, God's power, presence, and peace are right there to help them heal.
