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My first big break came a few months after I left YFC, when a church
of two thousand members invited me to preach during their annual
Disability Awareness Sunday. Their pastor of twenty years, a
very intellectual and educated man, had just resigned. His
approach to ministry was very cerebral, and each of his sermons
reflected his high level of intelligence. Yet, even with all of
his academic training, he had been unable to speak to the emotional
needs of the people in his congregation. As a result, although
church members had been routinely treated to scholarly messages on
Sunday mornings, they had been discouraged from expressing any
feelings of pain or sorrow that they may have been dealing with during
the week.
That’s where I came in. I was asked
specifically to help the congregation experience some of the emotions
that had been unexpressed for years. I was given forty-five
minutes to speak during the morning service—time enough, I was told,
for only a short sermon.
My cerebral palsy was very evident as I worked my
way to the pulpit that morning, and I could almost hear the
apprehension in the minds of the people watching me. The
auditorium held nearly 1200 people, and in both services, you could
have heard a pin drop as I spoke openly of my struggles with a God who
sometimes allowed my prayers to go unanswered, as well as of the
triumphs and breakthroughs of a journey that began with an acute
shortage of oxygen to the brain at birth.
I candidly talked about how I had seen myself as
being undatable in high school and then about Sandy and all the
trouble I had had while the two of us were dating. I told
everything from how she had taped the picture of her ideal man—not
me—to the refrigerator door, to the Sunday afternoon when she had
asked me to walk straighter. Although having a congregation of
that size wanting to lynch my former girlfriend might have been good
for my ego, my intentions were not to lash out at Sandy.
Instead, I wanted to help everyone in that auditorium to recognize his
or her own agony in life.
“Whether it’s divorce, the death of a spouse,
unemployment, or life with a rebellious teenager who’s out of
control,” I said, “everyone has experienced pain in one form or
another.”
I turned from talking about myself to talking
about Christ.
“Sometimes we minimize Jesus’ humanity, and we
shouldn’t. Christ was publicly stripped and beaten, nailed to a
cross, and then left for dead. His pain was just as real to him
as yours is to you and mine is to me,” I said. “God doesn’t condemn
our moment of despair and unbelief. Christ himself pleaded to
escape the cross and, on it, cried out in agony.”
I then went to the heart of my message. “I
believe,” I continued, “that in our attempt to bring healing to the
broken areas of our lives, we ask the wrong question. Instead of
asking, ‘How can we make our pain disappear?’ we should more
appropriately ask, ‘How can we experience the grace of God in the
midst of our greatest pain?’”
I finished with a prayer and made my way off the
platform. I was completely overwhelmed by what happened next.
I was sitting beside a pastor who had earlier expressed doubts about
my coming, and he was so moved by what I had said that he was in
tears, not just allowing a little tear to trickle down his cheek, but
openly and unashamedly crying his heart out. He wasn’t alone.
Dozens of people approached me afterward to thank me for a message
that had deeply moved them. Some were so filled with emotion
that it was all they could do to look at me, shake my hand, and walk
away, making room for the next person standing in line.
My goal that morning was to infiltrate some of
the deepest and most painful areas of people’s lives with the healing
grace of Jesus Christ. I had put forty hours into preparing my
message, and if the things that people were telling me after the
service were any indication of what was going on in the hearts of the
rest of the congregation, then I knew that my efforts had paid off.
That morning was a good one for me, and I fully
expected that afterwards I wouldn’t have to work so hard at lining up
additional speaking engagements. That expectation turned out to
be somewhat exaggerated. Although it’s true that a certain
number of invitations to preach in other churches did come my way as a
result of the success of that morning, I still faced the task of
having to prove myself to most of the church leaders I contacted.
I understand the need for pastors to scrutinize
prospective speakers. If I still had my own church, I would be
very careful about who I invited to fill the pulpit. That’s the
job of a senior pastor—to make sure that the congregation receives the
best teaching possible. I fully endorse that type of inquiry and
invite pastors to examine my credentials, including my ability to
communicate effectively with my audience. I also do not want to
assume that every church I approach should automatically invite me to
preach. God has his own timing for things, and perhaps his plans
do not include my speaking at a particular church.
However, having said that, let me also say that I
have been discriminated against by both pastors and other church
leaders who, solely because of my disability, refused to even consider
allowing me to speak in their church service or Sunday school class.
Before I approach any pastor or Sunday school
teacher about preaching or teaching in a church, I always obtain
either a written recommendation or a verbal endorsement from a mutual
friend such as Joni Erickson Tada, of JAF Ministries; Jay Kesler,
president of Taylor University and past president of YFC; or Eric
Heard, youth pastor at Fullerton Evangelical Free Church.
None of these people are exactly lightweights
within the Christian community. Both Jay Kesler and Joni
Erickson Tada are nationally recognized, and Eric Heard has worked for
years as the senior high youth pastor at Chuck Swindoll’s former
church in southern California.
It seems reasonable to expect that with
endorsements such as those, most people would at least take the time
to talk with me. Most do. However, every once in a while,
I run into someone who, for one reason or another, appears to have a
real problem with my disability.
I made an appointment one afternoon to see the
director of Christian education at a medium-sized church in Orange
County, California. I arrived at her office, carrying the
appropriate endorsements, but to my dismay, I was written off before
I even had a chance to sit down. She had agreed to see me, all
right, but our meeting was short and straight to the point.
“We have our own staff of volunteers to teach the
Sunday morning classes,” she said, making it very clear that the
church wouldn’t be needing my services.
Not being one to give up easily, I inquired if
her teachers ever took vacations.
“Yes,” she acknowledged. “They usually take
four weeks off during the summer, but the church always finds
replacement teachers.”
I thought about asking if she would consider
using me as a substitute teacher but decided against it. She had
already made up her mind, and any further questions on my part would
only prolong our conversation needlessly.
I had similar difficulties a year or so later
when talking with a Sunday school teacher of another nearby church.
I called on the advice of a well-known member of the congregation who
assured me that I would make an ideal teacher for this particular
class. All I needed to do, he said, was contact the class
president and set up a time to teach. So that’s what I did, but
it wasn’t quite as easy as my friend had made it sound. I called
the class president, explained the reason for my call, and then asked
if there might be a time when I could share my Sunday school series
with her class.
“Maybe,” she said. “Let me talk with a
couple of people, and I’ll call you back in a few days.”
After a couple of weeks went by without hearing
from her, I called again. That’s when things started getting
interesting.
I asked her whether or not she had had the
opportunity to discuss my teaching her Sunday school class with
anyone. She said that she hadn’t. I told her that I
understood and then asked when it would be convenient for me to call
her back. She didn’t know, and when I asked for the name of the
person who had the authority to invite me to teach, she said that no
such person existed. That sounded a bit odd to me, so that’s
when I decided to probe a little deeper. When I asked for the
name of the person in charge of scheduling teachers, she was furious.
“I’m the class president,” she said, clearly
irritated. “I’m the one with the responsibility for lining up
teachers.”
“Okay,” I said. “Would you consider having
me teach your class?”
“I can’t do that, at least not without talking to
other class members first.”
I was upset, she was upset, and around and around
we went. I assured her that I did not want to upset her, and
again asked her to give me the name of the person who would have the
authority to invite me. Once more, she couldn’t do that, because
no such person existed.
The problem for me wasn’t that this woman didn’t
want me teaching her Sunday school class, or that she needed time to
check out my credentials, or even that her class wasn’t interested in
what I had to offer. She could have told me any of those things,
and that would have been fine with me. The problem was that this
woman wasn’t being honest with me. For whatever reason, she
chose to give some far-fetched excuse rather than tell me about the
real problem.
After talking for another five minutes or so, we
reached a compromise. I could come and give my testimony to the
Sunday school class, but anything more was out of the question.
That didn’t make much sense, either. If she had the authority to
invite me to use a full Sunday school hour to give my testimony,
surely she had the authority to invite me to teach. I knew when
to leave well enough alone, and even though I hate the idea of showing
up someplace and giving the “disabled super-Christian” talk, I thanked
her for the invitation and agreed to come, in the hope that further
ministry opportunities might come my way as a result.
I think my performance that morning caught her a
little off guard. The entire class sat riveted to their seats as
I told the story of what life is like for a man with cerebral palsy.
After I finished my testimony, the first person to approach me was
this woman’s husband. He was so impressed by what I had said
that he wanted me to return on the following Sunday and share more
with the class. I was flattered and have to admit that, after
all the tension that had existed between me and his wife during the
previous couple of months, I found his invitation to be very
gratifying. Unfortunately, I already had a prior commitment to
be at another church on the following Sunday and couldn’t return.
What about this man’s wife? She came to me,
after everyone else had left the room, and rather sheepishly praised
me for a job well done. I thanked her for the kind words and
left the classroom knowing that my words had changed the way that
this woman perceived people with disabilities.
I’m well aware that many people prejudge me and
assume that my cerebral palsy precludes effective communication from
behind the pulpit. I suppose it’s only natural to think that a
person who has difficulty doing a lot of other things in life would
also have difficulty speaking in public. What would happen if I
walked up to the podium, lost my balance, and fell off the platform?
What if, in the middle of my sermon, I begin drooling all over my
notes, embarrassing myself and everyone else in the auditorium?
Or, for that matter, what if I just did not have what it takes to hold
people’s attention while speaking and bored the socks off of everyone
listening?
I know that I may come across as a little
self-serving by making this next statement, and I don’t mean to.
Because I’m aware of the prejudice that does exist in the minds of
some people regarding my capabilities to address an audience, I want
it known, even if I’m the one saying so, that I’m very good at what I
do. At the risk of sounding conceited, let me assure you, in the
strongest possible terms, that I never stand up in front of a group of
people without commanding the full attention of everyone in the room.
God has gifted me, and when I get behind a podium and open my mouth to
speak, people listen. That’s just the way it is. I’m good
at what I do, and I’m especially good when I’m in front of an
audience.
Oh, sure, just like anyone else who regularly
speaks to groups of people, I, too, have days when I’m not at my very
best. Even on my off days, though, I’m still very good.
And when I’m at my best, nothing can stop me from clearly articulating
my thoughts in a way that moves the listener to the core of his or her
being. I don’t make these statements lightly, nor do I want to
imply that I’m God’s gift to the pulpit. I’m not. However,
I’ve worked hard over the years to develop my ministry skills, and I
am proud of my ability to speak directly to the hearts of people.
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