Coronavirus interrupting last rites for Catholics
When the Rev. Francis Zlotkowski ministers to a COVID-19 patient, he brings an unusual prop: an 8x10 photo of himself.
It's his attempt to provide a personal touch in a world that has become increasingly impersonal, he said. Before the coronavirus pandemic, Zlotkowski, 73, a chaplain known as Father Frank at Ascension Seton hospitals, gave hands-on care to patients struggling with grave illnesses or facing serious medical procedures. He anointed their heads and palms with holy oil for the sacrament of the sick. He leaned in close to hear confessions. He gave them Holy Communion and held their hands.
Now, he stands with a covered face outside the window of their hospital rooms and prays with patients by phone. The photo, he said, shows there's a real person behind the mask.
COVID-19 cases have surged in Central Texas and hospitalizations continue to climb with intensive care unit beds in the area's three major hospital systems more at than 80 percent of their capacity. And some hospital policies are forcing Catholic clergy to adapt or suspend rituals for sick patients. The Vatican developed new protocols for priests to safely administer the sacraments to sick patients, such as using cotton balls or Q-tips to apply holy oil. The National Association of Catholic Chaplains also provided guidelines for specific pandemic phases, recommending remote ministry in areas experiencing a surge. Priests are relying on nurses and iPads to assist with end-of-life care.
New protocols
The anointing of the sick, one of the church's seven sacraments, is usually given to Catholics who are at risk of death because of old age, illness, a major surgery or a grim diagnosis. A priest lays hands on the recipient's forehead, applies oil and intones: "Through this holy anointing, may the Lord in his love and mercy help you with the grace of the Holy Spirit. May the Lord who frees you from sin save you and raise you up."
Catholics believe that as the oil is absorbed into the skin, it acts as a vehicle for the Holy Spirit, which can strengthen patients and help them to heal, said the Very Rev. James Misko, vicar general for the Diocese of Austin. The sacrament absolves recipients of their sins, according to church teaching, even if they are unable to make a confession. The last rites, which Misko said is a colloquial term, may include the anointing, confession and Holy Communion, referred to as viaticum when given to a dying person. Only a priest can hear confession or perform the anointing, he said, but a lay person can administer Communion.
Whether Austin-area priests can physically administer the sacraments depends on hospital policies, which vary.
Many nursing homes are not allowing clergy members to even enter the building, Misko said.
In extraordinary situations like the current pandemic, he said the church teaches that "the Holy Spirit supplies where human capabilities are lacking." If Catholics cannot receive the sacraments, Misko said, they can make an act of perfect contrition, a prayer expressing remorse for sins and an intention to make a confession to a priest if they recover. The Vatican, he said, has deemed this sufficient to receive "God's forgiving grace."
Priestly duties in a pandemic
When a Catholic patient arrives at the hospital with COVID-19, Zlotkowski tries to pay a visit within the first day or two to find out if the person wishes to receive Holy Communion, "the sacrament that fully unites them with Christ." He worries if he waits too long, the patient may deteriorate and be placed on a ventilator.
Zlotkowski picks up the phone outside the room, presses his 8x10 picture against the glass and finds out the person's spiritual needs. More than 50% of the time, he said, the conversations are in Spanish.
If the patient asks to receive Communion and is able to swallow, he places the host in a container, and a nurse delivers it. He also fields calls from family members who can't visit their loved ones.
Ministering to patients and their families by phone can be awkward, Zlotkowski said. "The hardest part is when I come upon a patient who is vented. The family is talking to me, and the patient is dying. And I cannot be in there to give that final touch."
Even in a pandemic, priests feel called to provide some measure of comfort to sick and dying believers, said the Very Rev. Bud Roland, pastor of St. John Neumann Catholic Church in West Lake Hills.
"This is what we do," he said. "We're not going to say no."
On June 21, he responded to a call from St. David's South Austin Medical Center. An elderly woman with COVID-19 was dying and had asked for a priest, he said. Roland donned the same personal protective equipment the nurses wore, right down to the gauzy booties. As he entered the patient's room with his prayer book, holy oil and cotton swabs, he thought about his nephew, an ICU nurse in Colorado who has been overwhelmed by the COVID-19 cases among the Navajo tribe there.
"If he goes in every day and is working for over 60 hours a week," Roland told himself, "I can go ... pray for somebody briefly and commend them to the Lord."
When asked about Roland's visit, St. David's officials released a statement: "While we get these requests from family members and deal with them on a case by case basis, it's hard to say without knowing the specifics of this patient's condition why the priest entered the room. However, our policy is to work with priests to administer last rites over a phone or iPad."
Requests from parishioners for the sacrament of the sick have dropped since the pandemic began, Roland said. He used to receive calls to anoint people who were preparing for elective surgery or had received a worrisome diagnosis. Now the calls are for people close to death or facing emergency surgery.
Ed Martin, 73, was among the latter. After fainting before Mass, he learned he needed a quadruple bypass. Within a matter of days, he was at St. David's preparing for surgery.
Martin had faith in his doctors, three of whom were fellow parishioners at St. John Neumann. But the lifelong Catholic didn't want to take any chances with his soul.
"This is the real thing," Martin said. "I could have a massive heart attack and die on the table."
A spiritual response
Zlotkowski has been thinking lately about the words of 20th century theologian Johann Metz, who said the simplest definition of religion is interruption.
"Our lives are interrupted," Zlotkowski said. "So now how do we respond?"
The interruption of the pandemic, he said, has prompted more introspection, an opportunity to notice "the wonder of breath, the wonder of a sunrise, the gift of God in this cup of coffee."
"God is present in so many ways, and we get sloppy about being attentive to that," he said.
While driving home on Interstate 35 each evening, he prays for the hungry, the afraid, the people who live in cramped apartments.
Zlotkowski is a priest in the Congregation of Holy Cross, the Catholic order that founded St. Edward's University where he lives. When he returns home, he throws his clothes in the washing machine and takes a shower before interacting with anyone. Across the street sits the retirement home for elderly Holy Cross priests and brothers. He longs to visit them. But out of precaution, he hasn't set foot inside the house for months.
He reminds himself what he tells family members who can't hold their sick and dying loved ones: God overcomes all distances. God is still present even if you can't be.