The Ministry of Lay Chaplaincy: Reflections from the Bedside

By Brian Stock, Lay Chaplain

When I first answered the call to serve as a lay chaplain at Saint Michael and All Angels, I carried with me a carefully curated mental checklist. I had my Book of Common Prayer, a stack of handwritten cards, and a repertoire of comforting things to say. I thought my job was to bring the answers.

But as I have navigated the hallways of Dallas’s hospitals, rehabilitation centers, and hospice units over these past few months, I have learned a humbling lesson: the most important thing I bring is not in my pockets or my backpack. It is the willingness to simply be.

In a city like ours, we are conditioned to be fixers and problem solvers. When someone we love is hurting, we naturally want to offer a solution, a platitude, or a timeline for recovery. However, in the quiet of a hospital room or the hushed intensity of a hospice suite, fixing is rarely an option. Instead, the work of a lay chaplain is the ministry of presence.

People often ask how I feel during these visits. To be honest, they can be heavy. I have sat with those as they await daunting test results, and I have held the hands of lifelong parishioners in rehab centers as they struggle to regain the simple independence of walking.

Yet, in those spaces, something extraordinary happens. When the noise of the world—the emails, the busy daily routine, the social obligations—is stripped away by illness, the conversation shifts to what truly matters. We talk about family, about legacy, and about where God is in the midst of the struggle.

I recall a recent visit with a gentleman in hospice. He didn’t want a formal liturgy or a theological discussion. He wanted to talk about his garden and the way the light looks through the stained glass in our Church during the 9 a.m. service. In that moment, sharing a laugh over a memory was as much a sacrament as any formal prayer. It was a reminder that God is present in the joy of a life lived, even as that life prepares for its next journey.

One of the greatest challenges I faced was learning to be comfortable with silence. In our Episcopal tradition, we have beautiful, structured prayers for the sick and the dying. They are anchors in the storm. But I have learned that sometimes, the most profound prayer is the silence shared between two people when words fail.

In the rehab units, where progress is often measured in inches and frustration can run high, my role is often just to be a witness to the struggle. To say, "I see you, and you are not alone," is a reflection of Christ’s own walk with us. We are the Body of Christ, and when one member suffers, we all do. Bringing a piece of Saint Michael—the warmth of our community—to the bedside is a way of reminding our members that they are still woven into the fabric of our parish, no matter how far they are from the altar.

I began this work thinking I was the one bringing the light to others. I was wrong. More often than not, I am the one who leaves the hospital feeling filled. I see the fierce devotion of spouses, the tireless care of nurses, and the incredible resilience of the human spirit.

These visits have changed the way I sit in the pews on Sunday morning. When we pray the Prayers of the People, those names aren't just abstractions to me anymore; they are faces, stories, and sacred encounters.

"For I was sick and you visited me." (Matthew 25:36)

This work is vital because it ensures that the walls of Saint Michael and All Angels extend far beyond Douglas Ave. As I continue this journey, I am reminded that while I may walk into a room as a representative of our church, I walk out having seen the face of God in the courage of my neighbors.

**This article was written by Brian Stock and was featured in the 2026 Fall Archangel.