God arranged the members in the body, each one of
them, as he chose. As it is, there are many parts, yet one body. The parts of
the body that seem to be weaker are indispensable, and on those parts of the
body that we think less honorable we bestow the greater honor. (1 Corinthians 12:18-23)
Sitting with my son through
an entire church service is no easy task. As a matter of statistical fact, most
parents of special needs children choose to not attend church (or they attend sparingly) because of the stress that accompanies potential, attention-grabbing disturbances caused by their child’s disability.
It’s easier to stay home and
stay out of the congregational eye—the eye that seemingly stares and judges and
blinks and winks.
“Yet the eye cannot say to the hand, ‘I have no need
of you.’ On the contrary, the parts of the body that seem to be weaker are indispensable.”
Indispensable:
Not subject to being set aside or
neglected; absolutely necessary; essential. (Merriam Webster)
My son is a 20-year-old
autistic man with the cognitive mentality of a 2-year-old child, yet he is
indispensable to the congregation of Redemption Church. He cannot speak (although
he can make plenty of noise) yet he is indispensable to the worship service. He constantly kicks the chair of the person in front of him, he claps during the quiet times
and cannot sit still for five minutes, much less the length of a sermon. Yet he
is indispensable to the church—indispensable to the Body of Christ.
How can the least become essential and the weaker become indispensable in God’s seemingly
backwards, upside down and inside out church body? With Jesus as the head, let
me show you a picture of God’s great grace in the Body of Christ—His Church.
It’s Sunday morning and Jake
is sitting in the very back row of the sanctuary. We are not placed in the back
because we are unimportant; we choose the back mostly for strategic reasons. A hasty
exit is sometimes required. Four seats are reserved for our family. This is
just one of the ways our church ministers to us.
My wife sits on one side of
Jake and I sit on the other. We take turns stroking his arms and his back to
keep him calm enough to sit through an entire worship service. His mother runs
her fingers through his thinning auburn hair. It has always been Jake’s
sedative.
But this service is
different. The pastor has just preached one of his final messages from an
entire sermon series in the book of Romans and has come to a key verse that obviously
catches Jake’s attention. The verse is Romans 16:16 “Greet one another with a holy kiss. All the churches of Christ greet
you.”
Jake perks up and listens as
the pastor begins to apply the text, asking the congregation, “Why don’t we do that anymore? Why don’t we
show affection in the church? Why don’t we greet each other with hugs and
kisses? Why are we afraid of touch?”
Jake nods in approval of the
pastor’s plea and gives an affirming grunt—his unmistakable, “Amen!”
I give my wife that silent
look. She knows what it means. We have learned to speak clearly without words
over the years—across rooms, through crowds, over noise, and in church. It’s a head
slightly tilted forward, wide-eyed, pursed lip look. A nervous mix of, “Isn’t that cute” and “Batten
down the hatches, something is about to happen!”
The pastor continues as he
concludes his sermon. “We’re going to try
something new today. (Just what every good church member wants to hear) After The Lord’s Supper, turn to the person next to you
and give him or her a hug. And show some affection!”
You could feel the
uncomfortable anticipation creep across the room as people began to think, “Is he serious? We have to touch each other,
beyond a casual handshake?” I imagined what the visitors were thinking that
morning; some after sneaking quietly into the room, now were exposed to their
worst fear—being ousted from their anonymity and physically embraced by
complete strangers.
People were looking around
the room, checking out their neighbors, their prospective huggers, and the
nearest exits.
I honestly remember thinking to myself, “If some guy tries to kiss me, I’m going to put him on the ground.” My
heart began to drift—like hearts do, when they are afraid.
But the man-child moved to
the edge of his seat and leaned in to the pastor’s words.
As the final prayer was
prayed, the “amen” was sounded and the congregation dismissed, people began to
mill uncomfortably towards each other. Some even tried to head for the door and avoid
the offending invasion of their personal comfort zones.
The pastor gently prodded,
“Come on now, find someone to hug before you leave!”
Two or three married couples
at the front of the church, closest to the pastor, did a lean in shoulder bump
with a patronizing pat on the back. Then a few more followed suite, as most of
the congregation simply did not know how to respond to the awkward invitation
and were content to go through the motions to please the pastor.
And that’s when it happened.
That’s when the broken little toe
led the foot, and the foot led the leg, and the leg led the body, and the
weaker member became indispensable.
Jake sprung from his seat and
bolted into the isle before we could catch him. He ran straight over to an
older gentleman (who was trying to exit the building unnoticed and presumably untouched)
and nearly knocked him off his feet with a bear hug. It wasn’t gentle and it
wasn’t pretty, and it wasn’t short lived. Jake held onto the man until I could
get through the crowd of people to pull him off. The stern look on the man’s
face told me this was an uninvited intrusion into his wide, impermeable bubble.
But just as I began to unwrap
Jake’s grip from the victim’s shoulders and apologize for the inconvenience, I noticed wetness in the older man’s
eyes. Jake held tight and the man resigned his objection; his body went
somewhat limp as sternness melted to a smile and unsure hands reciprocated the embrace.
My son finally released the
man and I thought all was well and complete, but before I could redirect Jake
back to his seat or to an exit door, he broke loose again. This time instead of
restraining him, I let him go—because sometimes you have to set people free to
experience the greatest freedom yourself.
He ran to hug another, and
another, and yet another. He was laughing and jumping and hugging and loving. It
was sloppy and loud and rough and painful. And the entire body was watching and
learning and discovering what “indispensable”
really meant.
Soon others joined in and the
hugs spread like sparks jumping from a small, intense fire. As the wind of the
Spirit blew where it pleased, the sparks turned to flames and raged through the
church. But the only thing that burned up that day was the long-standing boundaries
around comfort zones of personal pride and inward self-esteem.
People were laughing and
talking and whooping and hugging—real hugs—feet off the ground, cheek to cheek,
steal your breath hugs. And unbeknownst to most of the congregation, Jake was
in the middle of it all, like an imprisoned apostle set free; like a preacher
without a voice, called by God to “go and make disciples”.
That Sunday started something
new for Jake, and something new for the local body of Christ at Redemption Church—a sort of mini
revival set afire by the unsuspecting, silent ember of one indispensable
blazing heart.
Now every Sunday he sits,
waiting for the end of the service. Waiting for the Lord’s Supper, the closing
benediction and the final “Amen”. Not so he can get home and watch Sunday afternoon football
or fix Sunday dinner or take a Sunday nap. Those things are the farthest from his simple
mind.
He lives to apply the meaning
of the message with complete lack of inhibition for his unbridled, bubble
busting, in your face, knock you to the ground, God honoring, Jesus exalting,
Spirit saturated —joy!
Sometimes it’s loud and
painful. Sometimes he pokes an eye, or lands a knee, or leaves a slobbered wet spot on someone’s
clean Sunday best. Sometimes we have to restrain his ambition just a bit for the
protection of the elderly and the petite. Sometimes we wince when a visitor gets picked for the embrace. It's usually awkward and it’s almost
always uncomfortable.
But every Sunday after
church, the real worship begins in the heart of obscurity. And an autistic, non-verbal, disabled, man-child
shines like a white hot spotlight of God’s grace for the motley, multifaceted church body
to see and understand—
“God arranged the members in the body, each one of
them, as He chose. The eye cannot say to the hand, ‘I have no need of you.’ On
the contrary, the parts of the body that seem weaker are indispensable, and on
those parts of the body that we think less honorable we bestow the greater
honor.”
