A Rash Exposure

Several adults with disabilities attend our church along with the rest of us who have our own sorts of disabilities, probably more than we would think about without the more obvious reminders provided by our officially diagnosed fellow bench warmers.

Take, for example, J, who actually isn’t brought along anymore because he was too frightening to some others. J would stand up during sharing time and reach for the roving mic and then preach a fiery sermon, pounding or slamming down his Bible in his drawn-out passion. Occasionally the rest of us could catch a few words (“heaven,” “Mom,” “tree”) but mostly it was entirely nonsensical for us listeners, and our pastor would eventually intervene and move the microphone along to the next person, who as “non-disabled” spoke in clear, complete sentences–perhaps about God’s will and definite-if-undisclosed purposes–that, frankly, made little more sense to me than had J.

My response to so much of sharing-time God talk–and most other God talk–is, “What does that mean?” Or, “What does that mean?”

Now, I recognize that people need some sort of big-picture order to the cosmos, as do I. I just don’t often get theirs.

My preferred suggestion of the order is this: Good/God/Love enriches life, and Bad/Evil/Hate ruins life. In the fog of reality, what is what can be confusing; the devil is in the details, which require a lot of grace, and so we do what we can. I may be as qualified as anyone else to discount buddy-God religion or atheism or anything, but I like to think that my “ordering” is humble, flexible, and nonexclusive yet true to my own feeling that there is, whether I believe it or not, some sort of higher reality.

Sometimes “spirituality” strikes me as a bit, well, mostly about control, getting out the God lobby to pray some sense into the big Dude in the sky who is driving it all but apparently needs steering advice.

It makes sense, of course: since we can’t physically do anything about most everything, we pray to God–humanity’s last hope–for help so things will turn out okay. While I’ve certainly prayed that way before, I see prayer and spirituality more as being quiet meditativeness for calming my mind and sorting through the fog. Think the serenity prayer.

By the way, M has posted that prayer in our kitchen. A friend recently pointed out its entirely unintentional on our part, but completely appropriate placement right next to the little trivet my mom found for my bachelor’s pad before M and I had even started dating:

Another person at our church, A, who is my age and likes bugs and plastic bling, gave her own unwitting commentary on prayer last Sunday, inadvertently exposing the me-centeredness of common prayer.

Our procedure during sharing time was for someone nearby the person who shared a burden to pray for that person. A eagerly offered to pray about another congregant’s rash: “I hope you feel better, R.” Then, without even a split-second pause for breath, she shifted gears and continued praying: “My legs have been hurting me, and I have to go back for more appointments” and so on.

Perfect.