Living with Mystery: Reflections on a Hindu Chaplain's Pastoral Theology

As chaplains, we are often invited into moments where life is unraveling. A devastating diagnosis, the death of a loved one, or uncertainty about the future can raise questions that medicine cannot answer and theology cannot fully explain. It is in these moments that I have come to appreciate how profoundly my Hindu tradition has shaped not only what I believe, but how I seek to be present with those who suffer.

As I have reflected on my own spiritual care, I have come to realize that the more important question is not simply what my Hindu tradition teaches about suffering, but how those teachings have shaped the way I care for those who suffer. These reflections are, in many ways, an exploration of my own pastoral theology.

A traditional story attributed to Ādi Śaṅkarācārya has remained with me throughout my spiritual journey. In the story, a seeker learns that pain and suffering are not the same. That simple distinction has become an internal compass in the way I accompany patients and families.

My experiences in chaplaincy have reinforced this observation. Two people living with the same diagnosis may experience their illness very differently. Their physical pain may be similar, yet their suffering can be worlds apart. My Hindu tradition has taught me that suffering (duḥkha)¹ extends beyond physical pain. It includes grief, fear, uncertainty, and the search to make sense of illness, loss, and change.

One teaching that has profoundly influenced me is viveka—the discernment between what is lasting and what is temporary. We naturally become attached to our health, relationships, achievements, and expectations of how life should unfold. When those change, we suffer. Hindu theology does not ask us to deny grief. Rather, it gently reminds us that our deepest identity is not exhausted by what illness or loss can take away.²

Equally formative has been the concept of the sākṣī, the witness.³ I understand the witness not as an arm's-length transaction, but as compassionate presence. The witness observes without becoming uncaring or aloof, yet without becoming tangled in the patient's world. It is about being steady and centered without becoming overwhelmed or judgmental. Over time, this understanding has quietly shaped my ministry. It reminds me that before I speak, I must first learn to listen. Before I seek to guide another person, I must first learn to accompany them.

Another teaching that has profoundly shaped me is the Hindu understanding of karma. Few concepts are more misunderstood. Occasionally, patients ask, "What did I do in a past life to deserve this?" My Hindu tradition does not give me an answer because, quite simply, there isn't one to give. Karma is not a running tally that allows us to trace present suffering back to a specific action in a previous life. To claim otherwise would be both presumptuous and pastorally unhelpful.⁴

Instead, this question has taught me humility. Not every question has an answer. More importantly, not every question needs one. Rather than searching endlessly for explanations that may remain beyond our understanding, my tradition has taught me to live with mystery. The search to make sense of our experience is often more important than the search for definitive answers.

This understanding has transformed the way I practice chaplaincy. Although my patients—even my Hindu patients—rarely hear words such as ātman, sākṣī, or avidyā, they do not need to. Those concepts belong to my own spiritual formation, not necessarily to theirs. Their purpose is not to become the patient's theology, nor is it my role to become their theologian. Their purpose is to shape my own presence as a chaplain.

My Hindu theology accompanies me into every patient encounter. It shapes the person who walks into the room, but it is not the message I bring into the room. I meet patients within their own theological or spiritual framework without forgetting my Hindu roots. Unless a patient wishes to explore Hindu beliefs, my theology remains quietly in the background, informing my presence rather than becoming the focus of our conversation.

Clinical Pastoral Education deepened this understanding. It reinforced that my calling is not to explain suffering or resolve another person's spiritual questions. My role is to create a compassionate and respectful space in which patients and families can reflect on their own beliefs, values, hopes, and fears. If meaning emerges, it must be their meaning—not mine.

My Hindu tradition has not given me answers to every question about suffering or the self. Ramana Maharshi's enduring inquiry, "Who am I?" reminds me that some of our deepest spiritual questions invite continued inquiry rather than simple answers.⁵ My tradition and my own searching have taught me to live with mystery, to become comfortable with unanswered questions, and to trust that compassionate presence can sometimes be more healing than explanation. If my theology has done its work well, my patients will remember not the concepts that shaped me, but the compassion and presence I offered, and the space we created together where they could begin to make sense of their experience and their suffering.