A Disabled God
a sermon by Andrea Harles ©
7th Sunday after Epiphany, February 19, 2006

These past few Sundays we have heard Gospel stories about healing. Today it is the story of the man in Capernaum who had wonderful friends who were willing to dig through the roof in order to get him into Jesus’ presence. Jesus was there as always doing the unexpected. First Jesus said man’s sins were forgiven. When outrage was expressed about who was he to say that sins were forgiven, Jesus told the man to get up and go home—which the man did. Then people were amazed—“We have never seen anything like this!” they said.

I don’t know about you, but these healing stories make me feel uneasy. I’m not sure what to do with them. Primarily I think of them as being examples really of something much closer to psychological healing---it was all in their heads really. Or, more positively, we recognize the need for healing of the spirit as much as healing of the body. Then as Bill so ably pointed out in his sermon last week, the stories are there as metaphor for other concepts and purposes of the Gospelers. But I still think about the people’s amazement. I think of the many examples of miraculous healing in the Bible and throughout the ages. I don’t understand why it doesn’t happen for me or for the family and friends that I love.

I suspect that my disappointment and non-comprehension stems from getting caught with an image of God that is not always effective, at least not for me. This is the image of God that we all carry in some chink in our hearts as powerful, majestic, and ready to amaze. This is where we want God to be—this is where we want to be.

Today I want to speak of a different image of God: a God driven out of town, a God hanging on a cross, a God who carries holes in his hands, feet and sides, a Disabled God. This is an image of God that catches me, but also makes me shake my head in wonder if I heard that right. As they say in the commercial on TV, “this is not your parents’ image of God.” Yet it is, I believe, a profoundly Christian image of God.

But before I go on to speak about what the image of a disabled God means to me, I need to share with you about Charlie, my husband, who is an integral part of my understanding and development of this image. The crutches on the altar are his. He has a bone condition called polyostotic fibrous displasia. This means he has what I call funny bones. Some bones and parts of some bones grow in irregular, curved or lumpy shapes. The parts of his bone affected are mottled and brittle. As a result he uses crutches to get around. From Charlie I have learned much about love and joy and caring, but also about the ordinariness of disability.

As I reflect on the image of a Disabled God there are two main aspects: embodiment and relationship. We recently celebrated Christmas; a time in which we focus on God Incarnate, Emmanuel, God with us. God in flesh and blood. At Christmas time we think of a beautiful, smiling baby; other times it is easy to slip into a Greek God walking around image: tall, sleek, beautiful, powerful in the body, capable. This is what I call the Nike (Just do it) image of God. It is clearly one that so many in our country worship as they endeavor to transform their bodies into that image. It is one that we are all impacted by as we are daily bombarded by images and calls to achieve that strength and beauty. This image seduces us into equating bodily perfection and healthiness with Godliness.

There is much in our Judeo-Christian tradition that has given life to that image. In many places in scripture and thus in our tradition and practice wellness and wholeness are indications of righteousness, being in right relationship with God. As in today’s Gospel there is much discussion of sins being forgiven when someone is healed. This has led to the practice of the church viewing people with disabilities as objects of curing or ministry and not as companions on the journey.

The alternative view has been to see a person with a disability as an inspirational hero. People who are so far from the Nike image of God who somehow manage to overcome their disability. This is the, “They told her she would never walk again...” /against impossible odds image. This is the disability of the week movie on TV. They are all very special people singled out by God; angels do you suppose? But they are “they”, not “we”.

With this Nike image of God we operate out of a narrow standard of what is normal. It is one based on our own image in a way.  What is true for me, and I suspect for many others, is that I dart back and forth between unconsciously having an expectation that everyone else is (or ought to be) just like me and at other times feeling lonely, isolated and unbearably unique. This is operating out of the Nike image; sometimes embracing it, other times not measuring up.

The Disabled God offers a different way of embodiment. It finds the sacred in the ordinariness of life. It finds the sacred in the heat of life, in the disappointments of life, in the saltiness of life. The Disabled God can experience pain, can struggle, can do what God can and then retreat to the other side of the lake. The Disabled God hanging on the cross can be unable. The Disabled God can also love, shout for joy, dance, and be passionate. The Disabled God embraces her body with all its limitations and confinement and beauty. The Disabled God shows us we can be at home with who we are with legs that don’t work right, eyes that don’t see well, brains whose functions are not reliable, and still, as it was in the beginning, it is good.

Unlike the Nike God the Disabled God lives in the body recognizing that there are equal parts death and life. We live continually dying. To receive the gift of life we must have open hands, hands that can let go to receive. A Disabled God can live the difficult life without a sense of diminishment or heroism.

Relationship is the other main aspect I find in the image of the Disabled God. People with disabilities live in a world of relationship, connectedness and mutuality. Assistive devices and accessible architecture can create self-sufficiency for many, but there is remains a recognized need by them for others in their life. The Disabled God operates out of interdependence, not from a position of power. Since God is incarnate in each of us, God needs us as we very much need God.

This Sunday like every Sunday Christians around the world will join together in Holy Eucharist, Holy Thanksgiving, repeating Jesus’ words, “This is my body broken for you.” This act reflects deep mutuality. As people of faith we come to know Christ, our disabled God, in brokenness, in the act of giving and receiving, and in the context of community.

This embodied, Disabled God of interdependence and mutuality makes transformation of disability possible. Our first thought of transformation might be that of healing, of the removal of the disability. While this has occurred on some occasions, I would generally view healing to be the removal of that which we cannot bear or which would destroy us. More importantly, I think of the kind of transformation of the person that is possible with a God who helps us to fully be who we are.

I think of Charlie. I can’t imagine him without his funny bones or his crutches. They are part of his life’s journey. They are part of his strength, his gentleness, his sense of humor. I think of Dylan Levine, a very charming and capable 13 year old that we were with yesterday at a wheelchair basketball tournament.  His wheel chairs and endorsements shape an essential part of him,  as are his parents who are always ready to help him be who he is.  I think of our grandson Devon whose autism is in part expressed through a now 5 year long total obsession with Larry Boy a super hero cucumber. At age 5 Devon was writing on his note pad, “Larry Boy, Larry Boy, Larry Boy, Larry Boy, Larry Boy, Larry Boy, Veggie Tales Family Home Entertainment Inc,” at a time when he literally couldn’t speak 10 words or even know his own name. Transformation for Devon will not lie in removing his disabilities; rather it lies in the love and delight that is mutually shown in and through him and those around him.

Transformation through a Disabled God comes not from a God who embraces us with power and authority, but from a God who embraces us with arms stretched out on a cross. When we carry an image of the Disabled God we can engage in life knowing that however imperfect we are and even because of the imperfections, in the words of Julian of Norwich, “And all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all shall be well.

Andrea Harles