Pastoral Psychol (2010) 59:747–767

DOI 10.1007/s11089-010-0278-7

From My Center to the Center of All Things: Hourglass

Care (Take 1)

Gregory C. Ellison II

Published online: 9 March 2010

# Springer Science+Business Media, LLC 2010

Abstract In the tradition of presenting metaphors as theoretical and practical models of

care, this article introduces the hourglass as a new direction for pastoral care. Everything in
this model is “a circle with a triangle in it.”

Keywords Self . Care . Hope . Center . Metaphor . Pastoral care . Pastoral theology .
Brita Gill-Austern . Philip Culbertson . Carl G. Jung . Thelonious Monk . Henri Nouwen .
Howard Thurman

Introduction

In the summer of 2009, I worked with two doctoral students to conduct an internal review
of the Coca-Cola Pre-College Leadership Program at Morehouse College. On the first
evening, Dr. Walter Earl Fluker, executive director of Morehouse’s Leadership Center,
framed the program around the following statement: “Everything this week is a circle with
a triangle in it.” A circle with a triangle in it? I never liked geometry, but little did I know
that this theorem would reshape how I viewed the field of pastoral care and counseling.
Like many of the students in the room, I was both confused and intrigued by the image
of the circle with a triangle in it. Anticipating that we would need further explanation,
Fluker challenged us to envision these images taking shape. “This is a liberated circle. It
spirals outward for infinity and inward simultaneously.” Understanding that this image may
still be difficult for some of us to imagine, he continued methodically, “This is a liberated
circle and together we are a part of this cosmic dance. Spiraling in. Spiraling out.” Then
referencing two of the program’s central themes—the need to form a beloved community
and live with integrity—he concluded by stating, “We can’t create a beloved community
outside, unless we do so inside.” Bombarded with the task of making sense of the image
being described to me, my frustration grew as I began to remember how completely
clueless I felt in my tenth grade geometry class. Clarity was closer than I imagined.

G. C. Ellison II (*)
Candler School of Theology, Emory University, Atlanta, GA 30322, USA
e-mail: gelli01@emory.edu
748 Pastoral Psychol (2010) 59:747–767

Shortly after being introduced to this geometric concept, the students were invited to
participate in a ritual that embodied the interrelatedness of the self and the community.
After being asked to stand and join hands, the students were taught a song that would
structure the week’s activities around the themes of self-awareness and social action. This
song would also experientially complement the abstract geometric image just described.
The lyrics of the song, originally used as a pagan chant to channel energy from both the self
and the other, are as follows: “Spiraling into the center, the center of the wheel. Spiraling
into the center, the center of the wheel. I am the weaver. I am the woven one. I am the
dreamer. I am the dream.”
Led by Fluker, who held a hand-carved (“talking”) stick in the air, the participants
interlocked hands and created a circle with one opening. They then began spiraling into the
center of the room, singing the song they had just learned. While coiling to the center,
Fluker instructed them to “look in the face of your brother.” Once in a tight coil in the
room’s center, the students then spiraled outward and unraveled into a larger circle.
Following this experiential exercise, the students were individually invited to the center of
the circle. Surrounded by the larger community of their peers, they were given a space to
“reverently” hold the “talking” stick and speak their truth “from their center to the center all
of things.” The center of the liberated circle provided these young men with a space to face
themselves and share their innermost truths, to empathically see and hear the “other,” and
occasionally catch a glimpse of the divine.
In the succeeding weeks, in preparation for my first year of teaching the course
Introduction to Pastoral Care and Counseling, I imaginatively revisited the image of the
liberated circle and the corresponding “spiraling” ritual. I put more thought into the themes
of wholeness and the dynamic interplay between the self and the community. In the midst
of this contemplation, I heard three words from my own center: “Self, Care, Hope.” Shortly
thereafter, I envisioned these words moving fluidly like grains of sand through an
hourglass.
An hourglass is an invertible device with two connected glass bulbs containing sand. It
takes one hour for the sand to stream from the top bulb through a narrow center to the
bottom bulb. After further reflection on the shape of an hourglass, I realized that when
viewed two-dimensionally from a top-down perspective an hourglass is in fact a “circle
with a triangle in it.” Shortly thereafter, the hourglass model of care began to take shape.
The circular top and bottom bulbs of the hourglass would represent what Philip Culbertson
calls the “wholeness wheel”, with one bulb representing self and the other representing
community. The three sides of the hourglass’ funnel-like triangles would represent the
themes of self, care, and hope. Lastly, a narrow pass holds the two bulbs of an hourglass
together. This center is the point of convergence between self and community, and
consciousness and unconsciousness. This center is ultimately the site of divine wisdom.
The hourglass, complete with two circles and two triangles spiraling into an identifiable
center, would emerge as a practical metaphor for pastoral caregiving, underscored by
themes of wholeness, self-awareness, context-sensitive care, and the generation and
sustenance of hope.
This article is a first iteration of the hourglass approach to pastoral care. In setting forth
this approach, first, I reflect on the historical precedence of metaphors as descriptors of
pastoral care theory and practice, and present the artistic interdisciplinary approach that
frames this model of caregiving. Secondly, I deconstruct and analyze the component parts
of the hourglass: the circle as a creative revision of Philip Culbertson’s “wholeness wheel”;
the three sides of the triangle—S.E.L.F., C.A.R.E., and H.O.P.E.; and the center as the site
of divine wisdom. Finally, this article closes with reflections on the dynamism of the
Pastoral Psychol (2010) 59:747–767 749

hourglass model and its utility as a medium of discovery for seminary students, caregivers,
and the communities they seek to assist.

A circle with a triangle in it (?): Metaphor madness and Monk’s multiple takes

In Images of Pastoral Care Robert Dykstra (2005) contends that pastoral theologians have
long used metaphorical images as guiding frameworks for theoretical analysis and
therapeutic practice. In his text, Dykstra highlights nineteen different images that have
shaped pastoral theological theory and practice (e.g., Seward Hiltner’s solicitous shepherd,
Bonnie Miller-McLemore’s living human web, Henri Nouwen’s wounded healer). These
image-focused frameworks are a provocative tool in articulating how pastoral theologians
conceptualize their work. For one, they offer students and pastors memorable metaphors
that often translate into ministerial action. They also provide a myriad of options to assist
practitioners in choosing a framework that best suits a specific context (i.e., the wounded
healer image may be more beneficial with a grieving parent than the metaphorical image of
the wise fool).
Dykstra traces the trend of producing metaphorical images in pastoral theology back to
the discipline’s fragile and fragmented identity. He suggests that many pastoral theologians
feel uncertain of who they are and what they do as professionals (p. 2). Since Anton
Boisen’s call to analyze persons as “living human documents,” pastoral theologians have
occupied a marginal space in the modern research university, which prizes specialization
and scientific objectivity. The modern research approach has long been problematic for
pastoral theologians who believe that practice is epistemic and who through their work
inhabit “a messy, pluralistic, characteristically Protestant and thereby occasionally
heterodox universe” (p. 9). Pastoral theology’s emphasis on practical experiences and the
complex nature of life has led some to question its rigor, sophistication, and merit as a field
of study.
As I have witnessed in my young teaching career, some students find it maddening when
they discover that pastoral theology as a discipline concerns itself with such messiness and
can hardly define itself with words. In spite of the apparent madness associated with the
innumerable metaphors and the messy practical matters of daily life that concern pastoral
theologians, I exhort these students not to dismiss the metaphorical images or the creators
behind them as crazy. Indeed, history has taught us that there is a thin line between creative
genius and insanity. The famed social critic and comedian Dave Chappelle (2006) echoes
these sentiments: “The worst thing to call somebody is crazy. It’s dismissive. ‘I don’t
understand this person. So they’re crazy.’ That’s bullshit. These people are not crazy.
They’re strong people. Maybe their environment is a little sick.”
It was the sickness of theological institutions that prized textual documents over the
lived stories of human beings which led the “seemingly crazy” and institutionalized Anton
Boisen to creatively reform theological education in the early twentieth century by inviting
seminarians into psychiatric facilities. It is in this heritage of experimenting with “crazy”
ideas, viewing lived experience as epistemically valuable, and seeing images as evocative
resources for caregivers that I present the hourglass model of pastoral care.
Boisen and his successors who have crafted images of care are also instructive in their
willingness to engage disparate subjects from liminal spaces. Pastoral theologians are
challenged to negotiate existence between seemingly disparate worlds—the church and
academy, theology and psychology, self and community. A depth of meaning and creativity
is cultivated in this back and forth negotiation. In this hourglass model, there is dynamism
750 Pastoral Psychol (2010) 59:747–767

and energy in the narrow pass conjoining the glass bulbs—one bulb representing the self
and the other bulb, community. At this center point, between two worlds, divine in-sight,
“the capacity to gain a deep and intuitive understanding of a person or community,” is
available. This gift of insight is rewarded to the pastoral theologian and caregiving
practitioner who attentively scrutinizes her own (emotional, spiritual, mental, physical,
social, volitional, and cultural/historical) center. Awareness of one’s own center and
cognizance of neglected parts of the self that leave one less than whole, afford the attuned
pastoral theologian and caregiver this gift of in-sight, to see deeply and intuitively into the
self and the lives of others. Developing the gift of in-sight, a creative and counterintuitive
move to see the self in order to see more clearly and care for the other is the central premise
of this model.
This model was borne out of personal reflections on my center in relation to the center of
all things. In this creative space between worlds, I was drawn by theorists from distinct
disciplines (ranging from pastoral theology and analytical psychology to mysticism and
jazz) to consider the component parts of the hourglass and the meaning therein. Challenged
with how to place this odd pairing of artful theorists in conversation I garnered wisdom
from pastoral theologian Donald Capps (1999) and from Thelonious Monk, the boldly
imaginative, and enigmatic jazz pianist who is recognized as one of the most original music
thinkers of the twentieth century.
Thelonious Monk is remembered by fans not only for his distinctive hats and mysterious
behavior (e.g., on stage pirouettes, mumbling speech, pacing), but also for his playful
experimentation with sound that charted new rhythmic territory in jazz music. Fewer fans
are aware of Monk’s role as a healing presence, a caregiver if you will, and a mentor/
teacher to other musicians, some of whom were struggling to right their path.1 One such
struggling artist was a young saxophonist named John Coltrane, who joined Monk’s band
after being fired by Miles Davis for his reckless drug habits. In referring to Monk’s
guidance and attention to the “simple truths,” Coltrane explained
I learned a lot with him. I learned little things, you know, I learned to watch little
things. Little things mean so much in music, like everything else you know? …Monk,
he’s always doing something back there [behind the soloist] that sounds so
mysterious. And it is not mysterious at all when you know what he’s doing. Just
like simple truths. (in Porter 1998, p. 111)
Coltrane’s biographer Lewis Porter (1998) explains that Monk’s mysterious background
antics challenged Coltrane’s knowledge of harmonic progression. Porter claims that Monk’s
presence stretched Coltrane such that he stumbled into a new-found freedom of showcasing
his improvisational greatness within Monk’s asymmetrical structure. Interestingly, Porter
notes that Sonny Rollins, who also struggled with drug addiction, thrived in a similar
framework while playing with Monk (p. 111). In addition to mentoring artists, throughout
his career Monk played as a headliner (at the center) and sideman (on the margin) alongside
other jazz musicians like Art Blakey and Charlie Rouse. Monk’s ability to care-fully bring
gifted musicians into a similar space and offer them freedom to showcase their talents while
he (as soloist or sideman) made a distinctive impact on the overall sound of the music
informs the interdisciplinary nature of the hourglass model.
In “The Lessons of Art Theory for Pastoral Theology” Capps (1999) uses teachings from
art theory to craft an interdisciplinary approach to dialogue within pastoral theology. Of the

1
A new direction in pastoral care I hope to follow in the future is a psychobiography of Theolonius Monk
through the lens of Henri Nouwen’s work, namely, that of the wounded healer.
Pastoral Psychol (2010) 59:747–767 751

three art theory concepts Capps presents as potential paradigms for pastoral theologians in
broaching interdisciplinary dialogue, juxtaposition is most germane for the hourglass model
of care. Based on the concept of metonymy, juxtaposition implies that meaning is produced
by seeing things associated in a common space. So, the juxtaposition of images, or for that
matter disciplines, in common space is potentially informative. In this regard, like the
Monkian tendency to bring gifted musicians into common space such that creative freedom
might be found in the company of talented others, the hourglass model is informed by the
creative energy and insights of uniquely gifted, yet distinctive theorists from varied
disciplines—namely, Philip Culbertson, Emmanuel Lartey, Henri Nouwen, Brita L. Gill-
Austern, Howard Thurman, and Carl Jung.
While on the subject of jazz, one final note on the subtitle of this article: Coltrane spoke
highly of the commitment, artistry, and mystical nature of Monk’s teaching style and his
improvisational quest to achieve the right sound of every song. Of this teaching, Coltrane
explains:
I’d go by his house… and I’d get him out of bed…. And then he’d wake up and go to
the piano…. He’d start playing and he’d look at me I guess, and so when he’d look at
me I’d get my horn and start trying to find what he’s playing. And he’d continue to
play over and over and over and over and I’d get this part, and next time he’d go over
it, I’d get another part. And he’d stop to show me some parts that were pretty
difficult, and if I had a lot of trouble, well he’d get his portfolio out and show me the
music. He’s got the music, he’s got all of them written, and I’d read it and learn it.
He’d rather a guy learn without reading, you know, because that way you feel it
better…. And so when I almost had the tune down he would leave me with it…. He’d
leave me to practice it alone…. [Finally] I had it pretty well and then… we’d play it
down together. (in Porter 1998, p. 108)
Monk believed in feeling the music, and playing it over and over and over and over until it
felt right. In this regard, it is no surprise that even though his music was improvisational,
some of his most famed tunes are recorded as multiple takes. For instance, one of his most
notable songs is aptly titled “Straight No Chaser (Take 3).” This article is titled, “From My
Center to the Center of All Things: Hourglass Care (Take 1)” in homage to the creative
submission and discipline of Thelonious Monk. Indeed, this is the first iteration of this
model. I hope these caregiving strategies will be discussed, revised, and practiced (alone
and in community), over and over and over and over again until it feels right.

Component parts of the hourglass: Circles, triangles and the center

After presenting the metaphor of the hourglass as a “circle with a triangle in it” to my class,
a student drew my attention to a marble sculpture displayed in Candler School of
Theology’s building that I had never noticed. Interestingly, it was a circle with a triangle in
it. Research discovered that this sculpture was of historic significance.
Since the Middle Ages the triangle has occupied great significance in Christian
iconography. According to art historian A.N. Didron (1965), “An unbroken area, terminated
by three angles, expressed, with wonderful exactitude, the unity of one God in three
persons” (Didron and Millington 1965, p. 58). Furthermore, a circle around the triangle
represented the Trinity’s eternal nature. Additional research also uncovered that a circle
with a triangle in it has contemporary relevance, as this symbol was officially and
unofficially employed as the logo for Alcoholic Anonymous. That organization’s website
752 Pastoral Psychol (2010) 59:747–767

explained that, though still employed unofficially by members today, the logo was used
officially from 1955 to 1994. “The three legs of the triangle represented the three legacies
of recovery, unity, and service, and the circle symbolized the world of AA.”2 Recognizing
the historic and contemporary significance of a triangle embedded in a circle, it is necessary
to clarify the meanings of these two shapes and the identifiable center as component parts
of the hourglass model of care.

A liberated circle: Creative revisions of circles and wheels

The circle has significance in pastoral care. In Here and Now Henri Nouwen (1994)
referenced the importance of the circle in pastoral care by metaphorically speaking of the
circle as wagon wheel. He states in his reflection “The Hub of Life”: “Wheels help me to
understand the importance of a life lived from the center. When I move along the rim, I can
reach one spoke after the other, but when I stay at the hub, I am in touch with all the spokes
at once” (p. 23). Though Nouwen’s reflections speak explicitly of the hub as the center of
the circular wheel, connoted are the many facets of one’s identity represented by the
individual wheel spokes. For the hourglass model, the circle is a composite of seven unique,
yet complementary, identity traits. When considered collectively these seven traits represent
wholeness.
Philip Culbertson (2000) furthered Nouwen’s notion of the spoked circle by presenting
what he calls the “Wholeness Wheel” in the opening pages of Caring for God’s People. He
differentiates wholeness from oneness, sameness, and even perfection, because few
individuals or communities can attest to being fully healthy and whole. Instead, for
Culbertson, wholeness refers to interconnectedness, as “no single element of the whole is
thought of as functioning independently of the other components” (p. 5).
Similar to Fluker’s declaration to the young men at Morehouse when introducing the
liberated circle that, “[w]e can’t create a beloved community outside, unless we do so
inside,” Culbertson stresses the importance of self-awareness and interconnection for
caregivers. He notes that when teaching, he uses the visual image of a “Wholeness Wheel”
to impress upon students that all parts of one’s identity “are related to each other and that
health [and wholeness] must be understood as inclusive and comprehensive” (p. 5).
Recognizing the limits of a two-dimensional drawing to show the dynamic interplay
between the parts of one’s identity, Culbertson uses the diagram to contradict the tendency
of “[splitting] off parts of our self and [treating] them as though they are not part of an
integrated ‘community’” (p. 5). In this regard, instead of viewing the diagram as
compartmentalized portions of identity, he challenges the student to see the wheel’s pieces
as interactive. Therefore, one could intuit that it is difficult to be socially unhealthy, but
spiritually healthy because any unhealthy aspects of the self affect all the healthy aspects
and vice-versa.
Culbertson’s wholeness wheel identifies six segments or component parts of identity.
They are: mental, emotional, social, physical, spiritual, and volitional. For the purposes of
the hourglass model, I have added a seventh part the cultural/historical. Each segment,
according to Culbertson, is shaped by issues such as gender, culture, and life experience,
such that physical health may be defined differently for those who are physically disabled,
social health may be defined differently for men or women, and volitional health may have

2
See http://www.aa.org/subpage.cfm?page=387.
Pastoral Psychol (2010) 59:747–767 753

a different definition for a teenager, adult, or senior citizen. The seven segments are
considered briefly below.
Mental health: As the source of creativity, active memory, and vision, the healthy
mind, for Culbertson, is typified by malleability. A mind that is open to change and
new ideas has the ability to hold in balance joy and sorrow, past and present, and even
hope for a more generative future. When whole, “the healthy mind has the ability to
resource all other segments of the wheel through reflection, recall and reason” (p. 6).
Spiritual health: Spirituality extends beyond the ritualized, systematic faith of
institutionalized religion, because religion is but one of many ways to be spiritual.
“Spiritual wholeness requires repeated awakening and deliberate nurturing of the spirit,
for as any one part of the wholeness wheel can atrophy, so can one’s spirituality”
(p. 6). Under these circumstances, spiritual nurture and awakening can be found in the
gathering of friends, appreciation of nature, or in the transcendent quality of good
music.
Social health: In the words of the English metaphysical poet, John Donne, “No man is
an island.” Thus, social health is the creative balance between self and community and
is demonstrated in respecting others. It is from social health’s emphasis on respect, that
the caregiver is enabled to empathize with the vilest of persons. While social
wholeness may look different in different cultures, the socially healthy generally have
the capability of relating deeply to a few, while maintaining connections with larger
groups.
Physical health: Physical health recognizes the body as sacred and worthy of care,
thereby rejecting the Augustinian body/soul dualism that characterizes many forms of
Christian thought. To this end, physical wholeness involves a healthy and appropriate
equilibrium of activity, intimacy, and rest. As true of other segments of the wholeness
wheel, when equilibrium is imbalanced the caregiver is at risk of crossing unhealthy
boundaries.
Emotional health: Emotionally healthy caregivers have the ability to find, name, and
address emotions appropriately. In the act of caring, caregivers are susceptible to the
surfacing of repressed emotions. Closely connected to social health, maintaining
emotional health may involve seeking the assistance of others (i.e., counselors, support
networks, clergy groups) to manage emotional disturbances. Emotional maturity and
wholeness also involves knowledge of cultural rules and finding appropriate outlets to
express emotions.
Volitional health: “Volition” is “the power to choose or use one’s own will.” Since
humans are not islands unto themselves, but instead in relationship with others,
volition requires caregivers to balance their own freedom with that of others. This is
a major point for caregivers, particularly those with savior complexes, who want
people to change when they want them to change: “Volitional health means that our
choices are not imposed upon us by the group, nor do we impose our choices on
others” (p. 7).
Cultural/historical health: In his In Living Color Emmanuel Lartey (2003) explains
that caregiving should be guided by the maxim that “Every human person is in some
respects (a) like all others, (b) like some others, and (c) like no others” (p. 171).
Cultural and historical health attends to the fact that though humans may share
common physiological and psychological capabilities, all persons emerge from unique
cultural and historical backgrounds that shape their worldview. Cultural and historical
health recognizes that all persons are informed in ways that they may choose not to
754 Pastoral Psychol (2010) 59:747–767

acknowledge, by familial, religious, cultural, and communal histories. The culturally

and historically whole attend to these matters of origin and influence with care.
The seven segments of the wholeness wheel are woven together in interdependence,
such that neglect of one segment of the interdependent self has ill-effects on other
segments. Culbertson finalizes his treatment of the wholeness wheel by exclaiming that “no
part is beyond the reach of healing… [or] the love of God” (p. 7). Though Culbertson
explains that one can never be perfectly whole, he does imply that through intentional
nurture and the love of God, the healing of broken segments of one’s wheel is attainable.
This bespeaks of the theological concept of sanctification, and the state of becoming more
holy—or even whole—through God’s grace.
Sanctification, as a gift from God and goal for human striving, also has communal
implications when reflecting on Culbertson’s wholeness wheel. In this regard communities,
like individual caregivers, are challenged to acknowledge and attend to the seven segments
of the wholeness wheel. Like individual persons, communities have interconnected parts
that are susceptible to atrophy. Communities, too, through intentional nurture and the grace
of God can be sanctified and move ever closer to wholeness.
Sanctification—the process of making more whole—of self and other is a significant
point for the model of care being proposed. The hourglass has two bulbs and, in turn, two
liberated circles—one representing the self and the other community. These circles are
liberated (and liberating) because they are comprised of seven interconnected parts that
have the potential for wholeness. In this model the caregiver who is critical of self has the
power through caring to model awareness of and attention to the seven component parts of
the wholeness wheel. This caregiver, who is informed by and informing community, serves
as an agent of hope and catalyst for communal introspection. Such introspection is a
precursor of wholeness and sanctification. The following section explores the three sides of
the funnel-like triangle: self, care, and hope.

Siding with self and other: SELF.CARE.HOPE. as tools for caregiving

S.E.L.F.

Wholeness begins with the desire to know and care-fully for one’s self. Within the
hourglass model, S.E.L.F. is an acronym that highlights seeing, encountering, listening, and
feeling as sensory foci necessary to attend care-fully to the dynamism within one’s essential
being. Self-awareness as a starting point for caregiving is not foreign to pastoral care. In
The Wounded Healer Henri Nouwen (1972) speaks of the caregiver’s necessary ability to
bind his or her own wounds one at a time in order to be able to respond quickly to the needs
of others. Nouwen’s accentuation of binding one’s own wounds before tending the needs of
others is instructive. As previously stated, lack of attention to parts of one’s wholeness
wheel contributes to an overall state of imbalance and ill health. Additionally, as noted by
Pamela Cooper-White in Shared Wisdom (2004), the caregiver’s unprocessed countertrans-
ference phenomena serve as potential threats to boundary violations and the livelihood of
those receiving care. Outside of precautionary measures to be aware of one’s personal and
professional boundaries, awareness of self concretizes purpose.
In the 10 years that I have been associated with theological education—as a student and
now a professor—it is becoming increasingly clear that scores of students both young and
old flock to theology schools in search of purpose. Through attentiveness to self in the
Pastoral Psychol (2010) 59:747–767 755

hourglass model, one is conditioned to contend with issues of vocation. “Vocation” is

derived from the Latin word vocare meaning “to call.” Many students arrive on seminary
campuses straining to hear or respond to a call to ministry. However, their minds are filled
with competing voices that impair the ability to hear God’s instruction for their lives. In a
reflection titled “How Good to Center Down” mystical theologian Howard Thurman (1953)
likens these competing voices to “traffic.” He states:
The streets of our minds seethe with endless traffic; our spirits resound with
clashings, with noisy silences, while something deep within hungers and thirsts for
the still moment and the resting lull. With full intensity we seek, ere the quiet passes,
a fresh sense of order in our living; A direction, a strong pure purpose that will
structure our confusion and bring meaning in our chaos. (p. 29)
Students and seasoned caregivers alike must consciously attend to the endless traffic that
impairs them from hearing the divine voice of God calling and instructing them from their
center. (More will be said about hearing the divine from the center later.) An inability or
unwillingness to hear this voice of direction and “strong pure purpose” positions caregivers
to exceed the boundaries of their gifts and be reckless in their appropriation of care. A
classic example, cited by my doctoral advisor, is exemplified in a seminary student turned
pastor who, equipped only with resources from “Introduction to Pastoral Care,” attempts
long-term counseling with parishioners. Appropriate self-awareness and sufficient
knowledge of one’s gifts, purpose, and call would compel such a pastor to refer their
parishioner to someone professionally trained and “called” to counsel. Lacking such
discernment of purpose and knowledge of limits, the ill-equipped pastor might enter into a
counseling relationship that could potentially cause greater harm than good to the
parishioner in need. In addition to actively pursuing knowledge of one’s purpose, and, in
turn one’s limits, self-awareness heightens sensory attentiveness, a requisite quality for
caregivers.
Like photographers, who by profession are trained to see things that the average person
overlooks, the hyper-attentive caregiver is challenged to see that which may be hidden in
plain sight and hear that which is unspoken. Nouwen (1979) underscores this art of seeing
as a tool for caregivers in Clowning in Rome. He begins by delineating the relationship
between contemplation (or attuned self-awareness) and ministry. For Nouwen, “To
contemplate is to see, and to minister is to make visible; the contemplative life is a life
with a vision, and the life of ministry is a life in which the vision is revealed to others”
(p. 88). He furthers the connection of how seeing within, through contemplation, heightens
the depth of care offered in ministry by discussing the necessity of caregivers to move from
opaqueness (“the place where things are dark, thick, impenetrable, and closed”) to
transparency (“the place where these same things are translucent, open, and offer vision far
beyond themselves”) (p. 89).
The movement from opaqueness to transparency is three-tiered and begins with
attentiveness to nature and the world around us. Nouwen contends that by viewing the
natural world as a gift deserving of admiration instead of as property to be possessed, the
caregiver becomes attuned to the developmental qualities of birth, growth, maturation,
death, and the necessity of gentle care, patience, and hope (pp. 92–93).
The second movement to transparency involves attentiveness to time. Nouwen
highlights the tendency of caregivers and care receivers alike to see life as movement
from one deadline to the next, a monotonous amalgamation of random incidents and
accidents beyond one’s control. However, he proposes another view of time that sees life as
a state of becoming, is open to new possibilities, and strains to see the Kingdom of God in
756 Pastoral Psychol (2010) 59:747–767

the present. This formulation of time, as kairos or the opportune moment, enables
caregivers to see that there is transformative power in seemingly mundane, or even tragic,
circumstances (pp. 94–97).
Finally, Nouwen advocates a move to viewing people transparently. People are viewed
opaquely when they are seen uni-dimensionally as characters of spectacle or scorn or as
characterizations (i.e., psychiatric, religious, or racial labels). Transparency, however,
requires seeing points of intimate connection with others and recognizing that the points of
giftedness or brokenness in the other also exist in me (pp. 97–100). This type of Nouwenian
transparency, which strives to see God in the subtlety of nature, the seemingly mundane (or
tragic) moments of time, and the empathic intimate connections with others, is only
possible through heightened sensory awareness and attentiveness to self. These skills of
attentiveness—seeing, listening, encountering, and feeling—are the building blocks and
resources for caring.

C.A.R.E.

Self-awareness is a starting point for caring because in order to come to the need of others,
one must not only have knowledge of personal limits and boundaries, but also must be
attentive to spatial (nature/surroundings), temporal (time), and relational (people) contexts.
Along these lines, care, also an acronym in the hourglass model, asserts that “contexts and
relationships [are] essential.” Such attentive contextual care is grounded in the
understanding that people do not come seeking care as “a blank slate.” Instead, every
moment of care is specific and unique, emerging from a particular space, time, and person
(s) (who is formed and informed by various communities both living and dead). Attentive
caregivers, who have invested time scrutinizing their own wholeness wheel, are better
equipped to embrace the uniqueness and commonalities of others and use these similarities
and differences to offer situation-specific, context-sensitive care.
Lartey (2003) speaks to the necessity of approaching every person, community, and
situation differently in his maxim, stated earlier. “Every human person is in some respects
(a) like all others, (b) like some others, and (c) like no others.” According to him, these
three spheres, like the component parts of the wholeness wheel, are in constant and
continual interaction as humans learn, grow, and change.
Attention to the first sphere calls for the caregiver to inquire about and identify points of
intersection which we all share as human beings and individuals created in the image of
God. In so doing, the caregiver affirms the humanity, in all of its complexity, of the person
(s) seeking care. Such recognition of humanity is vital in working with marginalized
populations who have been devalued and dehumanized; however, the context-sensitive
caregiver must make these humanizing connections cautiously, doing so only after
acknowledging one’s own shortcomings, vulnerabilities, social location, and inherent
power (Lartey 2003, pp. 172–173). Failure to do so places the caregiver at risk of
paternalistic universalizing care that assumes that all people and situations are the same and
can be approached similarly.
Recognition that people are like some others primes the caregiver to deal with social and
cultural forces that influence the person(s) seeking care. In this regard, Lartey encourages
caregivers to make “an affirmative as well as a self-critical and open exploration” of social
factors and cultural influences that have bearing on the issue of care being considered
(p. 173). Attention to how issues such as power relations, social class, gender dynamics,
and faith perspective have changed over time may provide vital clues for context-sensitive
care. Careful examination of genograms and other developmental schema (i.e., Erik
Pastoral Psychol (2010) 59:747–767 757

Erikson’s life cycle, Lawrence Kohlberg’s moral development model, and James Fowler’s
stages of faith) may be one tactic caregivers might employ to chart these changes over time
and assess how varied social and cultural factors contribute to the incident of care.
The final sphere maintains that the individual seeking care is like no other, and the
corresponding issue of care is uniquely attributable to the care receiver’s personal life
story. To this end, no two situations of care can be approached the same way. For
example, two African American mothers from the same neighborhood who have lost
their sons to gun violence at the same time and same place (unfortunately, it does
happen) cannot be expected to grieve uniformly and be receptive to the same types of
care. Caregivers confronted with ministering to these two mothers must make
appropriate choices about how, if, and when to ask questions of the grieving parent.
If questions are asked, they must be asked care-fully with attentiveness to the mother’s
relationship with her child, her philosophy of parenting, her faith position, as well as
other factors. Philip Culbertson (2000) describes the shrewd hyper-attentiveness
demanded of the context-sensitive caregiver in what I have described to my students as
the “Caregiver’s Creed”:
In ministry we are called to stand alongside not only the lovable but also the
unlovable; to help bear not only the full range of human joy and gratitude, but also
anger, despair, and ingratitude; to know how to respond not only to the simplest of
faiths, but also to the most complex and contradictory; to discern not only the right
answer to give at the right time, but also when it is most godly to admit that we have
no answers. We are called to be self-assured and yet humble, self-aware without
being self-centered, self-protective yet self-sacrificing, courageous yet meek, peace-
makers yet zealous for the gospel—in short, as wise as serpents and as innocent as
doves. (p. 280)
Culbertson’s “Caregiver’s Creed” not only expresses the necessity of astute decision-
making around issues of context, but also challenges the caregiver to conceive how best to
situate themselves in relationship to those seeking care. Henri Nouwen is instructive in this
regard.
In Out of Solitude Nouwen (2004) traces etymologically the history of the word “care”
to its Gothic origins of “Kara.” Nouwen notes that its root means to lament, to experience
sorrow, and to cry out with. This meaning is striking because “caring” is generally seen as
“an attitude of the strong toward the weak, of the powerful toward the powerless, of the
haves toward the have-nots” (p. 34). Similarly, Nouwen states that the position of the
caregiver is to be non-judgmentally present and to attentively listen, speak, and ask
questions that are pertinent to the individual in need of care at that moment and time.
Anecdotally, I have come to understand the power of presence and “here”-ness when caring
for students in my role as a teacher.
Thursday morning I hold office hours from 10:00 am until 1:00 pm. One particular
Thursday, seven students enter my office presenting a range of academic and emotional
concerns. Shortly after these appointments, I receive a pastoral call that ends just minutes
before my class that afternoon began. I enter class unsettled from an emotionally
wrenching morning. A few seconds later, I share with my students that I am not fully
present because of the morning’s events, but I desired to be fully “here” with them. I
stand and as I exit the room, I state, “I don’t care if you talk, or throw spitballs. I need
ten minutes and I’ll be back.” Ten minutes later, I return to a silent classroom and offer
the following prayer, “Dear God, we are grateful to be here. I pray for students who are
here but don’t fully appreciate it. I also pray for students who would love to be here, but
758 Pastoral Psychol (2010) 59:747–767

are not afforded the opportunity. Dear God, we pray for here-ness that we might
appreciate this moment. Amen.” Following this prayer, ironically, we began discussing
Nouwen’s Wounded Healer.
Here-ness is about being fully present in the moment, and Nouwen describes this
presence as healing. It is healing because it accepts people on their terms, encourages them
to take life seriously, and trust their own vocation (Nouwen 2004, p. 36). It is this healing
here-ness that leads self-aware caregivers to sit outside the city gates among the infirmed,
and mend their own wounds of personal and professional loneliness one at a time, while
care-fully crying out, “I am fully present to be hospitable and concentrate on your needs.”
This here-ness, or hospitality as Nouwen calls it, is attentive to, but not preoccupied with
the caregiver’s own needs. Instead, the hospitable caregiver offers an inviting and liberating
space, a liberated circle, if you will, “to let others dance their own dance, sing their own
song and speak their own language without fear” (Nouwen 1979, pp. 92–92).
For the purposes of the hourglass model, two observations must be made about the
conditions necessary to create an environment for a care receiver to engage in singing and
speaking one’s truth from a hospitable center. First, as previously stated, Nouwen (1979)
speaks of the necessity of self-awareness of one’s own wounds. He aptly states, “Anyone
who wants to pay attention without intention has to be at home in his [sic.] own house—
that is, he [sic.] has to discover the center of his life in his own heart” (p. 90). This
attentiveness to self and connection to one’s center is vital to offering context-sensitive
relational care.
Second, Nouwen metaphorically positions the wounded healer on the margins, sitting
among the poor and wounded outside the city gate. In regards to context-sensitive
relational care, it is helpful to view the entirety of this image metaphorically. For
example, a financially affluent person who lacks social and spiritual health can be
holistically poor, wounded, and in need for care. Likewise, one may view the margins as
structural, take residence in destitute areas outside of the city gate, and use the gifts of in-
sight to see the muted and invisible who are systemically unacknowledged. However, the
city gate, itself, may be a metaphorical margin that is actually internal and represents
taking residence around persons unaccustomed to speaking freely with another about
sensitive subjects. This discussion on care-fully relating to those on the margins leads us
to the final side of the triangle, hope.

HOPE

My grandfather Willie “Dub” Simpson once told me, “We sit under shade trees we did not
plant and drink from wells we did not dig.” Not until recently have I understood the
magnitude of this statement. As a sharecropper with only a fourth-grade education, my
grandfather made a living planting and digging. In his early twenties under the heat of the
Mississippi sun, he resolved that none of his kids would ever pick a piece of cotton and all
of them would go to college. Imagine the foresight, sacrifice, and hope behind such a
statement. Nearly 70 years later, after all nine of his children attended college, never
picking a piece of cotton, I sit at my desk reflecting on shade trees and wells. Now, I realize
as I weave my thoughts together at this desk, I have been intricately woven by people like
my grandfather. As I dream of new possibilities for my life and the lives of my children, I
understand that my grandfather dreamed that education would open new possibilities for the
lives of his family. Therefore, when I pray for the here-ness of my students, I know it was
the prayers of people like Grandpa Dub that got me here in a position to do so. Hope, the
third leg of the triangle, is about interconnectivity.
Pastoral Psychol (2010) 59:747–767 759

Unlike the previous two sections, I have yet to develop a meaningful acronym for hope.3
However, I define hope as a desire for existential change generated and sustained in a
community of reliable others that names difficulties, envisions new possibilities, and
inspires work toward transformation of self and other. As my definition suggests, hope is a
communal act that is generated and sustained through the presence (read: here-ness or
hospitality) of reliable others. The following treatment of hope specifically looks at how the
caregiver’s placement as a “reliable other” assists in the generation and sustenance of hope.
Central to the aforementioned definition is the presence of a community of reliable
others. This community may be a multitude of well-intentioned, hopeful caregivers.
However, it is not necessary for this community to be large or even present in the earliest
stages of development (as Eriksonian theory suggests the rudiments are borne in infancy).
“Instead, this community may consist of just one well-intentioned, hopeful caregiver
accompanied by the Reliable Other. In these cases, this singular reliable other at some point
must entrust the well-being of the person in need to the care of others” (Ellison 2009,
p. 486). This leads to questions of what it means to be reliable and can a caregiver be
unreliable at times but still work to generate and sustain hope?
Just as wholeness is not oneness or perfection, but an ideal for human striving, reliability
is not contingent on any abstract sense of perfect reliability. However, this does not
preclude the caregiver from responsibility or concerted action that will encourage
movement toward desired existential change in the person being cared for. As has been
echoed throughout this article, reliability involves self-awareness. To stand alongside the
lovable and unlovable, as the “Caregiver’s Creed” instructs, the caregiver must continually
assess their own wholeness, care-fully bind their own wounds, and attend to their own
sense of purpose and calling in order to maintain healthy boundaries and hold unprocessed
countertransference phenomena at bay. Likewise, a reliable caregiver recognizes and
embraces the commonality and uniqueness of persons seeking care. Such care-full attention
and in-sight are essential preconditions for caregivers assisting others to generate and
sustain hope.
The definition also stresses the fact that hope is a desire for existential change. Hope is
borne out of a feeling of some felt deprivation and a desire to change the circumstance
which created the conditions for the depravity. Returning to the case of my grandfather, his
deprivation was a feeling of despair and blocked possibilities based on the color of his skin
and his lack of education. Living in a racially charged environment that did not support the
thriving of African Americans, he did not communicate his dreams and prayers for
existential change publicly. However, I recall him telling me about the countless prayers
and conversations he had with the Reliable Other about the future of his family, while he
tilled the Mississippi soil. Pastoral caregivers have a similar task of being present as reliable
others to confidentially hold sensitive information and be fully present to lament, express
sorrow, and cry out with those at the margins who experience pain.
Finally, my definition identifies three qualities that caregivers must be cognizant of when
seeking to assist those in search of hope. Nouwen’s three movements from opaqueness to
transparency are instructive for caregivers in this regard. First, hope names difficulties.
Naming challenges is a delicate process that can be fatalistic if not approached with care.
Nouwen’s movement to view the natural world and the challenges of our surroundings, as
in process, constantly changing and developing, is hope-inducing during this naming
process because that which (currently) is does not have to be (in the future). Secondly,

3
On the basis of his reading of this section of my paper, one conference participant suggested this acronym:
heritage, opportunity, patience, expectation.
760 Pastoral Psychol (2010) 59:747–767

persons envisioning new possibilities may be threatened by apathy and the feeling that
although change may be possible, it is in the too distant future. Nouwen’s second
movement to reorder time breaks the monotony of life (i.e., picking one piece of cotton
after the next) that induces boredom and challenges those seeking hope to find
transformative meaning in the seemingly insignificant subtleties of life. Lastly, Nouwen’s
movement of transparently viewing others through a lens of intimate connection is useful
for inspiring work for transformation of the self and the other. It is hope-inducing for me to
know that I am the manifestation of answered prayers of persons like my grandfather who
under great pressure and strain sacrificed for me to be here. It may sound cliché, but those
efforts challenge me to plant, dig, weave, dream, and pray for the lives of my unborn
grandchildren. One may question the usefulness of idealizing family history and triumphs
over adversity as a tool for instilling hope and inspiring change in the self and the other,
especially when working with persons with troubled progeny. But, I contend one only need
expand their understanding of family, for beyond one’s biological relatives are stories of
triumph over adversity that span the millennia, tracing back to biblical figures like Hannah,
Deborah, Naomi, and the carpenter from Nazareth. Hope is about interconnectivity, and the
triangle is now formed.

From my center to the center of all things: The center as divine wisdom in the works
of Howard Thurman and Carl Jung

The center, also known as the core, nucleus, or nerve center, is also defined by the Oxford
English Dictionary as “a point from which things, influences, etc. emanate, proceed, or
originate” (online edition). Each of these definitions suggests that the center is much more
than the middle point of a circle. Instead, the center is a site of both energy and origins. The
hourglass model is centrifugal, meaning all its component parts, from the seven spokes of
the wholeness wheel to the three parts of the triangle, are drawn to the center. This center is
the seat of the genuine voice of purpose, the source of creative genius, and the site of divine
wisdom. This section will briefly describe the significance of the center for the hourglass
model.

A deeper note: Howard Thurman’s “sound of the genuine”

In his famed baccalaureate address to the graduates of Spelman College, Howard Thurman
(1980) challenged the graduating students to attune their ears to hear and respond to their
unique (vocational) purpose rumbling up from their center. Thurman begins the
baccalaureate address as follows:
There is in every person something that waits and listens for the sound of the genuine
in herself…. Nobody like you has ever been born and no one like you will ever be
born again—you are the only one. And if you miss the sound of the genuine in you,
you will be a cripple all the rest of your life, because you will never be able to get a
scent of who you are (pp. 14–15).
These opening words are significant in that Thurman suggests that each person is like no
other, and uniquely gifted with a special purpose that rests at the core of their being. In as
much, each person is commissioned to discover that purpose and to live it out. As a
Christian minister, like Thurman was, I would argue that this purpose resting at the center
of each human being is benevolent and awaiting discovery. My work with counseling gang
Pastoral Psychol (2010) 59:747–767 761

members in Newark led to this revelation when I talked with a young man who sold drugs
to his mother to prevent her from prostituting out of their home and endangering his two
little sisters to supply her drug habit. At this young man’s core was benevolence; however,
he was conflicted because no matter how good his intent (protecting his sisters), he
recognized his actions were injurious to others. This conflict signifies brokenness or a lack
of wholeness, a more politically correct translation of Thurman’s phrase, “crippled.” This
lack of wholeness, brokenness, and inability to recognize the genuine sound emanating
from one’s center is impeded by “traffic,” positive and negative voices that distort one from
discerning the unique idiom within. Thurman concludes this speech with the following
summons:
So the burden of what I have to say to you this afternoon is: “What is your name? Who
are you, and can you find a way to hear the sound of the genuine in yourself?” There
are so many noises going on inside of you, so many echoes of all sorts, so many
internalizing of the rumble and the traffic, the confusions, the disorders by which your
environment is peopled that I wonder if you can get still enough—not quiet enough—
still enough to hear rumbling up from your unique and essential idiom the sound of the
genuine in you. I don’t know if you can. But this is your assignment (pp. 14–15).
The assignment of the caregiver is to move from voices to vision. In order to hear the
unique idiom, the deeper note, rumbling from within, the self-aware caregiver must isolate
the many competing voices clamoring for attention that steer one away from vocational
purpose. These voices are both positive and negative. They are the well-intending parent
who has always told you, “You’re going to grow up and be a great doctor,” though you’ve
always felt called to be a sculptor. In this traffic of competing voices is also the scolding
third grade teacher, who even now, in the most inopportune moments, seems to remind you,
“Your mother was nothing and you ain’t going to be nothing either.” These voices vie for
attention and steer persons away from their center, where their genuine purpose lies. Carl
Jung offers direction on how to sift through the traffic of competing voices, uncover the
voice of creative genius, and find purpose at the center.

Demonic, daimonic and the collective unconscious: Carl Jung’s creative genius

In considering one’s purpose and unique place in history, Carl Jung contends that there are
certain features buried in the center of human unconscious that are inherited from one’s
ancestry. If and when the person struggles for individuation, the human mind slowly
uncovers these universal structures imbedded in the unconscious. Jung mentions these
psychic universals or archetypal remnants in “The Father in the Destiny of the Individual”:
Man possesses many things which he has never acquired but has inherited from his
ancestors. He is not born as a tabula rasa, he is born unconscious. But he brings with
him systems that are organized and ready to function in a specifically human way,
and that he owes to millions of years of human development. …[M]an brings with
him at birth the ground-plan of his nature, and not only his individual nature but of
his collective nature (quoted in Stein 1998, p. 89).
Developing a unique personality through attention to becoming more whole and unearthing
the ancestral treasures hidden at the center of the unconscious are ideals upheld in the
hourglass model for the caregiver. However, Jung contends that the latter ideal of
excavating the treasures of the unconscious requires extreme discipline and submission to
inner urgings.
762 Pastoral Psychol (2010) 59:747–767

Jung (1964) explains in “Man and His Symbols” that psychic growth is not fostered by a
conscious effort of willpower, but instead it occurs involuntarily and naturally through
dreams (p. 161). I would add that similar growth and in-sight is also possible for the
centering caregiver through care-full adherence to Nouwen’s movements from opaqueness
to seeing the natural world, time, and people more transparently. Both techniques require
steadied discipline and submission to the ego for guidance in seeing and coming to
understand that which is not apparent or readily visible.
Counter-intuitively, Jung contends that in order to draw closer to the ancestral treasures
of psychic universals—that which is common in all humans of all time—one must chart her
own path, and move away from the traditions and norms that accustom the lives of
individuals unable or unwilling to mine the unconscious. Jung refers to this irrational choice
as a “vocation,” in which the unique personality distinguishes herself from the well-worn
path of the masses, listens to an inner voice (which may be ancestral utterances or the spirit
of God) and obeys the laws of an inner daimon that blazes new trails (p. 175).
Acutely, trailblazing caregivers change lives, but adhering to the direction of these inner
voices comes at a great cost. Nouwen implies that caregivers who listen to this inner voice
sit among the poor and wounded and are faced with personal isolation and professional
loneliness, castigation, and physical harm, as a result of such adherence. Torn between
convention and calling, the hourglass practitioner may experience attention to these voices
as both a blessing and a curse.
In The Development of the Personality Jung (1954) implicitly refers to dual nature of
daimon possession as providing qualities of charisma and curse. He explains that
development of personality is paid for dearly, as the individual self-segregates from the
undifferentiated and unconscious herd, which “hatches forth the monsters of isolation”
(p. 173). At the same time, the individual is gifted with the favor of “fidelity to the law of
one’s own being” and loyal perseverance and confident hope in a grander goal (p. 173).
Further insight into the dual nature of inner daimons in the unique or creative personality
can be found by referring to the varied meanings of daimon as defined in the Merriam
Webster Dictionary: (1) usually demon: a: an evil spirit b: a source or agent of evil, harm,
distress, or ruin; (2) usually daemon: an attendant power or spirit: GENIUS; and (3) one
that has exceptional enthusiasm, drive, or effectiveness < a demon for work > (online
edition, underlined section added).
Jung’s concept of daimon encompasses all three definitions. The first, most common,
understanding of daimon is found in the isolation and loneliness that overwhelms the
creative person and has the potential to deter them from their life’s work. In regard to this
demon of loneliness and being misunderstood, Jung (1963) himself stated in his
autobiography Memories, Dreams, Reflections:
As a child I felt myself to be alone, and I am still, because I know things and must
hint at things which others apparently know nothing of, and for the most part do not
want to know. Loneliness does not come from having no people about one, but from
being unable to communicate the things that seem important to oneself, or from
holding certain views which others find inadmissible. (p. 356)

This evil demon of self-doubt and loneliness is counteracted by the daimon of GENIUS, which
propels creative persons forward and drives them to fulfill their life’s purpose. Jung also
describes this redemptive side of daimonic possession in his autobiography by explaining:
There was a daimon in me, and in the end its presence proved decisive. It
overpowered me, and if I was at times ruthless it was because I was in the grip of the
Pastoral Psychol (2010) 59:747–767 763

daimon. I could never stop at anything once attained. I had to hasten on, to catch up
with my vision. (p. 356)
In tandem the warring spirits of the evil demon and the GENIUS daimon drive the unique
personality to stand outside the realm of convention and make an indelible mark for better
or worse on the unconscious masses.

Thoughtful interlocutors on the center: Jung, Thurman and Monson in conversation

on care

For Thurman and Jung the center is the site of vocation and creative genius. Both contend
that accessing this center point does not come without adversity, as one must face the
demonic competing voices of support, scolding, self-doubt. They also imply that pursuit of
wisdom at the center is an assignment in which few succeed. None the less, movement
toward the center, the point which all things emanate, proceed, or originate is the goal of the
hourglass model. This grand goal is set for the attentive caregiver and hyper-vigilant
hourglass practitioner because hearing the sound of the genuine voice of genius resonating
from one’s own center situates the caregiver to fully see, encounter, listen to, and feel the
center of all things. This is the truest form of empathy and love. It is from this center, where
the caregiver is fully present, hospitable, and “here,” that those seeking care can speak,
sing, and dance their truest truth. The center is liberating. The center is truth.
As I move to place the component parts of the hourglass together, it is necessary to
underscore that though the hourglass model is center-focused, it is most concerned with
acknowledging and empowering the marginal. Along these lines, Connie Monson, a former
professor of college English and a student in my Introduction to Pastoral Care class, stated
in a correspondence that the sand in the hourglass model is analogous to the caregivers’
intentions to see that from the margins which is characteristically overlooked. In her words:
I think it’s a perfectly apt model toward caring for “disappeared” populations, and
here’s why. First, an hourglass has no corners. It does not admit of someone being
swept off to the side and never seen or heard of again. (I’ll explain what I think this
means for pastoral theology in a minute.) Second, it seems doubly important to return
through the I/eye that can see with perspective: a telescope has a much wider field of
vision than its lens, for one thing…. The way I think this applies to marginalized
populations is precisely in the circulating movement that you described on the first
day of class. Yes, your model is center-focused. But it’s impossible to stay in the
middle of an hourglass (even if you knock it on its side!) but only to move back into
the source and out again, sweeping around the circle and taking everything in—able
to observe the formerly hidden or occulted through conversation with what is hidden
or occulted in our own beings and culture (October 6, 2009).

I offer visual representation of my understanding of Monson’s profound insight. When

standing upright, the sand of the upper bulb of the hourglass, even if on the edges of the
glass, at some point will spiral to an identifiable center. In this movement toward the narrow
pass, that which was once hidden in plain view is revealed. In spiraling toward the center,
toward greater self-awareness and attentiveness, caregivers may uncover repressed demonic
psychic matter within themselves and gain notice of unacknowledged persons or previously
invisible populations. This circulating movement toward the I/eye also generates renewed
perspective on one’s unique idiom or vocational purpose and heightens one’s acuity to see
and empathize with the unseen and unheard who are in need of care.
764 Pastoral Psychol (2010) 59:747–767

Legoland: Piecing together the hourglass, a dynamic model for care

The joys of my childhood are relived with my son on Sunday afternoons as lego blocks
scattered across our living room floor are pieced together to imaginatively form medieval
castles, steam engines, and houses for his super hero action figures. Now, after scattering all
the component parts of the hourglass—circles, triangles, and an identifiable center—it is
with great joy that I begin the process of piecing them together. I even encourage you, the
reader, to see with your third-eye, and imaginatively envision this image taking shape. The
bricoleur that will help cement this structure together is Brita L. Gill-Austern (2009).
To aid in this imaginative exercise, I have provided a brief excerpt of how I introduced
this model to my students on the first day of class.
Everything in this course is a circle with a triangle in it. Please open your journal and
draw a large circle. Within this circle draw a large triangle, such that the three points
touch the edges of the circle. Finally, I ask that you draw a tiny circle in the middle of
that triangle. (PAUSE) Please stand. Now I ask that you lean over that circle with the
triangle in it. What we will attempt to do is see this two-dimensional image, three-
dimensionally. Seeing is key! Stare at the circle, the triangle, and the small dot in the
middle. Keep staring… do you see it starting to rotate? The triangle is moving. Don’t
lose sight of the center. Do you see it? Do you see? The triangle is starting to spiral
down… It’s forming a funnel shape. Do you see the funnel? Now look down through
that spiraling, descending funnel. Can you see the radiant light emanating from the
center at the bottom of the funnel? Seeing is key! See the light my friends…
(PAUSE) Now, look through the light. Do you see what I see? Wow! The funnel is
opening up. Y’all think I’m crazy. You can sit down.
For the next forty-five minutes I explain the model that just imaginatively took shape.
Pastoral Psychol (2010) 59:747–767 765

The top bulb of the hourglass has a circular base, and beneath this circle is a triangle that
spirals or funnels down to the center. This top bulb of the hourglass represents me, or you, the
caregiver. Each of us has a circle on the top of our respective hourglass, which is comprised
of seven component parts of identity—the emotional, spiritual, mental, physical, social,
volitional, and cultural/historical. This circle is our wholeness wheel, and if any of these parts
is unhealthy all parts suffer. Our task is to be cognizant of the identity components that are
healthy and those in need of further attention and care. This leads us to the right side of the
triangle, here one finds S.E.L.F.1 the starting point of the hourglass model of care.
The first task of the hourglass practitioner, in the words of Gill-Austern, is to become
ruthlessly “self-aware” by “knowing home.” Home, for many, is a familiar place; however
it may also be the site of dysfunction. Speaking of the importance of knowing home, in her
field-shaping article “Engaging Diversity and Difference: From Practice of Exclusion to
Practices of Practical Solidarity,” Gill-Austern (2009) notes that prior to connecting with
those outside our own immediate circle, “we need to know and own our familial home,
cultural home, economic home, and our faith home” (p. 37). The reflective practice of
centering down and becoming more aware of home moves caregivers from opaqueness to
transparency and ultimately closer to their vocational center.
This process of becoming ruthlessly self-aware of home moves the caregiver to the
center: the I/eye. The long hard look at one’s self, including the privileges and powers as
well as the suffering and despair connected to one’s home, while at the center makes the
caregiver aware of her limits in caring and aware of potentially dangerous countertrans-
ference phenomena. Importantly, reflection at the center primes the caregiver for empathic
connection because knowing home, alerts the caregiver “that nothing can be totally alien,
for we see the stranger and ‘other’ lives within us. In them, I see me; in me, I see them. In
self-examination we see the connection within and between” (p. 38). It is notable that this
revelation of connection within and between happens at the center because the narrow pass
holds together the upper and the lower bulbs. If the upper bulb represents me and you, the
caregivers, then the lower bulb represents the community. The center is the unifying and
cohesive force between self and other. After passing from the right side of the top bulb, S.E.
L.F.1, through the center, the now more self-aware caregiver enters the communal sphere,
and learns to C.A.R.E.1, on the left side of the bottom bulb.
To learn how to care we must leave the familiarity of home (S.E.L.F) to make
pilgrimage. Astoundingly, the language of pilgrimage by Gill-Austern (2009), a resonant
voice to me, echoes significant terms discussed in this article. She contends that pilgrimage
“displaces the self from the center of reality and creates a new organizing center of the self”
(p. 40). Away from the familiarity of home caregivers encounter persons different from
themselves and ideas and places different from theirs. This leads to healthy recognition that
care is context-sensitive and relational because the people encountered on pilgrimage are
like all others, like some others, and like no others.
Pilgrimage also “becomes a way to deconstruct the home that has built borders to keep
others out, as well as to see clearly where it has created space to receive others” (p. 40).
Pilgrimage is uncomfortable and it requires the caregiver to see their wounds, and even joys
that were taken for granted when in comfortable surroundings, more clearly. These in-sights
of tending care-fully to one’s wounds in uncomfortable spaces while outside the city gates,
conditions the caregiver to hospitably receive the other.
Finally, pilgrimage teaches hourglass practitioners to care as it “weave[s] ties of
connection and relationship with those outside home” (p. 40). In this process of weaving
ties of interconnection the hourglass practitioner moves from the left edge of the bottom
bulb, C.A.R.E.1, to the base of community where H.O.P.E.1 is waiting to be borne and
766 Pastoral Psychol (2010) 59:747–767

reborn. The bottom of the bulb is grounded in the life of others. It is here where the
caregiver must be most conscientious of self, so as not to bleed unprocessed
countertransference phenomena on those seeking care. Grounded in the existential reality
of others, the increasingly self-aware caregiver models attentiveness to the component parts
of one’s own wholeness wheel to those in community. In so doing the caregiver becomes
aware of places of brokenness in community, and persons in community become aware of
atrophied parts of their own wholeness wheel. For instance, consider again the case of the
caregiver and the grieving mothers. The emotionally and spiritually assured caregiver may
sit confidently in the presence of an emotionally and spiritually distraught grieving mother
and not feel the need to offer solutions. Though this bereaved mother may have a
fundament of faith that is challenged in grief, the here-ness and full presence of the self-
assured caregiver models wholeness and offers a healing presence.
Also, while entrenched in the heart of community the caregiver stands alongside the lovable
and the unlovable, seeking to name difficulties, envision new possibilities, and inspire change
for self and other. Gifted with Nouwen’s (1979) resources of transparency, the caregiver
informs community as a reliable other who seeks to embody the reliability of the Reliable
Other. But, in this process the self-aware caregiver is also being formed. She comes to see that
through her work of intimately weaving new beginnings for the lives of others in community,
she, too, is being woven. Recognizing that one’s work is fulfilling, but also the fulfillment of
others’ dreams draws one back to S.E.L.F.2-reflection, the right side of the bottom-bulb.
Though one may physically not leave the work of ministry, epiphany draws the
caregiver back to inward reflection. Gill-Austern (2009) refers to this final movement as
“returning home”: “Returning home requires that we find ways to weave new connections
with those we have left” (p. 42). Again at the center, formed and informed by intimately
working in the lives of others, the caregiver is challenged to reassess affiliations with home.
Life changing occurrences and connections with others have ways of reordering priorities,
such is the case at the center. This second pass through the I/eye further attunes the
caregiver to hear the genuine sound of vocation more clearly and heightens awareness to
previously unacknowledged portions of the self. Also, in hearing this genuine sound more
resolutely, the caregiver may access the blessed curse of the daimon.
Once in contact with the demands of the daimon at the center, that gifts one with
empathy, love, and wisdom, the caregiver who now intimately connects in the lives of
others must be hyperattentive to self-C.A.R.E.2 Self-care, for the deeply empathic caregiver
is vital because the demonic curses of personal isolation and professional loneliness are
fertile ground for boundary trespass of the unaware and less-than vigilant caregiver. Finally,
the hyper-vigilant practitioner that attentively cares for self receives the gift of H.O.P.E.2 as
she returns to see the power of sanctification and notice once-atrophied parts of her ailing
wholeness wheel being healed by God’s grace.

Acknowledgements On this first take, I express my gratitude to my research assistants, Christina Repoley
and Quentin Samuels, who played the role of sidewoman/sideman as I soloed from center stage.

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