Resurrecting Hope

Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! In his great mercy he has given us new birth into a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, and into an inheritance that can never perish, spoil or fade - kept in heaven for you. 

- 1 Peter 1:3,4 

One of the highlights of my brief time in this role as lead pastor of our Special Needs Ministry has been our Parent Support Group. Every time I enter into their meeting I feel I've stepped out of the superficiality of our illusory defects-free world and stepped into a refuge of reality, their transparency and honesty inviting me with all my flaws to rest in God's constant sustaining presence. God must be drawn to brokenness, because his felt presence there is almost palpable, the tenderness and pain of their words and presence hammering at my hardened heart.

Tonight we drew our attention to the externally-focused mission of our church. We have six individuals with developmental disabilities preparing to go on our first Special Needs Ministry Short-Term Missions Trip to Mexico, and the invitation was extended to other parents to begin thinking about transformative possibilities for their children.  

Recognizing the scepticism in the room, our perceptive and spiritually discerning group leader asked how the vision of mission for all applies to the profoundly disabled. She raised the question, is ministry only for the "walkers" and "talkers" (all six of our people going on this short-term-mission trip are "higher-functioning", as we like to say in the field, meaning that they have a higher degree of independence and mobility, both verbally, cognitively and physically). 

Is the mission of God for all? Is God's mission crossing the borders of ability/disability divisions and disrupting the established order of the status quo in creative inclusion, or should we resign ourselves to the fact that some will always be sidelined?  

The parents clearly had not accepted the proposition for their children, for while they applauded this mission trip for other "higher-functioning" individuals, it had not changed the world they live in; a world that's tidily divided people into groups of fit and unfit, with their sons and daughters inevitably winding up on the losing end of the great divide.

We went around the circle sharing how our children had made a "positive impact" on the lives of others. This was clearly a painful exercise for most parents, for most of them have given up hope, and accepted the lie the world has pounded into them with tired despair and a spirit of passive resignation; namely, their children are more trouble than their worth.  

I have no license to preach, but I felt compelled to share how one mother's daughter impacts me every time I see her.  She requires intensive supports and is non-verbal, though she's spoken to me with a language too rich for words, speaking into my life of love's openness. For the life of me, I don't know why my face causes hers to light up. I really haven't done anything for her at all, but simply accepted her uneven measures of grace, as I know I could never fully return what she has given to me.  

She's taught me to never underestimate the ministry of presence, even (and especially) in our utilitarian culture that values productivity at all costs.  As is so often the case at our Parent Support Group meetings, the unasked (and sometimes unanswerable) questions are raised, and tonight our model of normalcy, "normal ministry" as our Parent Support Group leader put it, was put into question. 

We live in systems, and sometimes those that don't fit into the prevailing system, those that have been rendered unfit or disruptive to the system, set aside to erase from our memories or demonized as "rebellious", can surprisingly be the most healthy of all, simply pointing out (sometimes non-verbally or unknowingly) from an outsider's perspective, that something's not quite right in the system, something's dysfunctional with the system itself.       

The leader of our Parent Support Group spoke of "resurrecting hope" that evening, and I felt hope rising in our spirit for those who for too long have been left out of God's prevailing purposes for all His beloved people. In powerlessness and rejection, a song of living hope emerging for the whole world: Rise up Church! 

Freedom! Hallelujah!

It is for freedom that Christ has set us free. Stand firm, then, and do not let yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery.

- Galatians 5:1

We were sitting quietly together in our worship service, listening to a woman's profound testimony of the saving power of Jesus Christ, when my friend overwhelmingly responded with an "amen" of approval and then hollered "hallelujah!", startling slumbering spirits. Another friend on the other side of me broke into laughter, disrupting the orderliness of religious routine. 

I self-consciously panicked as others turned around pronouncing the inappropriateness of the moment. I almost surprised myself as I abruptly hushed him and made him jump in his seat. He sat stunned for a moment, a look of shame and anxiety crossed his face as he bent over to me and whispered in my ear, "Pastor Dallas...It's great to see you today. Pastor Dallas, I'm sorry I was too loud." 

In that light, with the hallelujah of a growing chorus of angels ringing in my ear, my moralistic behaviour modification appeared rather small-minded; I was not an educator, advocate, resource specialist, pastor, in his questioning eyes - he was speaking to me as a friend. I knew he hadn't misbehaved, nor was anyone offended but my own ego and control spirit.

He was simply caught up in the moment of worship and praised God directly from his heart, without filtering praise through complex layers of control - the control mechanisms that dictate the expression of most typical adults.  How can we limit praise, when the word, "hallelujah", is itself undefinable (since a definition is by nature a self-imposed limitation)? The "hallelujah" of the heart is the unconstrained response of the human spirit to our infinite God who loves us beyond words, for no human word is the final word.

This was our Remembrance Day service, and as we spent time in silence to remember our fallen soldiers in the line of battle - the wide screen displaying row after row of white crosses in an endless field of green - I thought about their sacrifice, and what they had laid down their lives for, namely; freedom, including our freedom to worship. Not the self-serving indulgence of an anything-goes relativism, but the freedom to live for God. 

The moment was particularly sobering as I reflected on the restrictions I unnecessarily imposed on my friends to limit their free expression of worship to our living and loving God. 

I thanked God for friends today - friends willing to confront and invite me to remember, for a spirit of oppression is the result of ingratitude and forgetfulness, "they have oppressed the alien and mistreated the fatherless and the widow...For you have forgotten me, declares the Sovereign Lord" (Ezekiel 22:6-12). Lest we forget, how far Jesus was willing to reach to secure our freedom, with outstretched hands nailed to a cross.  

Differently Blessed

May God be gracious to us and bless us

and make his face shine upon us,

that your ways may be known on earth,

your salvation among all nations.

May the peoples praise you, O God;

may all the peoples praise you.

- Psalm 67:1-3

I've been meeting with the parents of children with special needs to prepare for a parents panel session  included in our Special Needs Conference for parents and caregivers.

What a privilege to step into the homes and lives of these courageously real parents who have stuck together under seemingly unbearable stress that has torn apart most families (the rate of divorce for parents of children with special needs is considerably higher than the typical rate, with estimates as high as 80-90%). I say "courageous" because they have faced many odds against them, but "real" because I know they resent being singled out as "special" or "heroic" when they have simply lived with what has been given to them. 

As one parent candidly remarked, "reality lives in this house." The reality for me is that I will never be able to fully step into their shoes and identify with their lived reality, yet I am so thankful for each parent who has vulnerably risked unpacking the reality of their daily lives, as I've assumed a listening posture in their presence.   

I listened to the stories of the daily grinding challenges - working and coming home to pick up the pieces, day after exhausting day searching for hope as if fumbling in the dark for the light switch, only to be told by the "professional expert" that their child is "hopeless" and to not expect any improvement; to be told by friends and family that their "disruptive" children are "misbehaving" due to their poor parenting skills; to be told they are no longer welcomed in their circles of community if they insist on bringing their "out-of-control" child with them; to receive their child's school yearbook only to realize that their child's special education class was conveniently left out; the behaviour of a child is rendered "cute" at the age of five, but when their adolescent's behaviour has not progressed past the age of five they are told that their child has become a problem. And so on.  

When parents are given space to share the pain that has been pushed down as a matter of survival, the reality all surfaces irrepressibly. A mother shared with me a session she had taken in at our last conference on the character of God and the problem of pain in the context of raising children with special needs. As parents shared their questions and expressed their anger at God, often for the first time, a raw nerve was touched, "the pain in the room was almost physical", she said with tears forming in her eyes, still clearly moved by the experience.

It's become increasingly clear to me that the pain does not sting in response to the disability, in and of itself (even in a medically fragile state), but in response to the accompanying exclusion. Families of children with special needs still feel isolated, ignored and excluded - looking from the outside in communities and churches that are shaped by the world's exclusionary normative standards and power structures. 

I'm praying that our local churches would be a counter-witness to the powers of the age: churches not merely running outreach programs for people with special needs, but an extended family of mixed abilities. A church that not only advertises, "all are welcome", but is by nature welcoming. A church not for people with special needs in a charitable posture of accommodation, but a church of people with special needs, where we all vulnerably gather together in our need (regardless of what that need may look like) and the abundant overflow of God's blessing. 

"I don't like the term special blessing, but he is a different blessing", one parent shared as her son pulled at her arm for her attention. When I think of all the differently-abled people I've worked with I too know that I've been differently blessed, and as we share our lives with each other in the church we will be a blessed people, the blessing of God's manifest presence radiating from our faces, which makes all the difference in the world.   

The evening was getting late, and the parents I was visiting that night asked their son to go to bed. He was still restless and with a guest in the house he simply refused to settle down for bedtime. The Dad laughed with his son and said, "I think you want to wrestle." They began play-fighting on the couch and the Dad asked his son for a hug and kiss, which the son gave gladly.  

"I love you son" his Dad said softly, as his son smiled and expressed the non-verbal language of affection with his shining face and another kiss. We can  manipulate our image with words, but there is no image-management in this household. They are housing a different reality, an altogether different language, the blessing of gentled, affectionate love, softening their spirits and holding their family together in the midst of the painful silence of most typical homes falling apart around the world.  

Pulling Up A Seat At The Table

If you show special attention to the man wearing fine clothes and say, "Here's a good seat for you," but say to the poor man, "You stand there" or "Sit on the floor by my feet," have you not discriminated among yourselves and become judges with evil thoughts?

Listen, my dear brothers and sisters: Has not God chosen those who are poor in the eyes of the world to be rich in faith and to inherit the kingdom he promised those who love him?

- James 2:3-5

I was invited to an exclusive screening of a new documentary, "Then and Now", put out by the Canadian Down Syndrome Society, "a film exploring the past and future of the advocacy movement in Canada as seen through the eyes of Canadians with Down Syndrome." In my mind, the highlight of this event was a stirring and spirited speech on marriage, work and community living, given by a self-advocate and co-chair of the "Voices At The Table Advocacy" (VATTA) Committee, Dale Froese, to set the stage for an inspiring documentary.

Dale shared his journey with us between the "then" of isolation, "spending most of his life living outside of the community", and the "now" of community inclusion, "belonging in all aspects of the community."

Dale put it best, "Hey, who wouldn't want to hang out with a guy like me?"

That's not to say there still aren't challenges to community inclusion. Dale often finds that he's singled out for having a disability - a reverse discrimination that emphasizes his unshared exclusiveness as opposed to our shared togetherness. 

"I don't want people's pity", he looked up at us intently and then returned to his script, "I don't want people to celebrate my successes." He noted that at his workplace customers still treat him with either the unease of ambiguity or a sentimentalism he can't relate to himself. Finally, when workplaces and communities have begun opening doors to people with developmental disabilities and inclusion initiatives, he is still looked down upon - on others one-sided terms - the terms of exclusion.  

"Sometimes you just can't win!" he sighed to the audience's approving laughter. Though people still tend to view his "disability" first as opposed to his personhood, he still concedes generously, "I'm cool with that!"

"Just like everyone else, my routine will start again tomorrow. Tonight, I'll turn over in bed and kiss my wife goodnight." The journey to inclusion can be a long one, but there is wisdom in the simplicity of taking a day at a time and taking in life as it comes every step of the way there. Along the way, Dale's at work making room for one more voice at the table.