What would Jesus think if I showed up in Bethlehem?

I’ve been trying to spend some time each day during this Christmas season at the nativity scene, wondering about the thoughts, emotions, and experiences of each character. And I found myself wondering how Jesus would respond to the presence of a disabled person in that holy circle.

I’d probably try to stay away. I’d list endless excuses to stay in my own warm, safe environment and let someone else go.

I don’t do cold very well. Bethlehem isn’t wheelchair accessible—no pavement, dirty streets filled with all sorts of obstacles. So when I showed up I’d be reluctant, maybe even angry or bitter. Would He notice? Would it matter?

I always interrupt. I’d need help across the rough floor. Perhaps one of the Magi or a shepherd would leave his place to assist, or maybe an angel would clear a path for me. One of the animals might need to move. I hate causing so much commotion.

They came to see Him, not to help me. Would my presence break the mood?

I’d need a place near the front. Someone else might move farther away so I could see from my seated perspective.

Everyone wants the good seats, the best places. Everyone wants to be close to Jesus. Would my special need cause resentment?

Others brought gifts. My hands fumble with wrapping, and the ruts and bumps and jolts make carrying a package impossible.

I didn’t bring anything with eternal symbolic value or meaning. Would He think I wasn’t grateful?

Everyone else kneels in worship and praise, but I can’t assume the customary posture of humility. I can only slump forward and hope muscle spasms don’t cause me to lurch onto the floor. I don’t look like I’m worshipping.

Would the others question my sincerity? Would He be offended?

I’m crashing a party for special guests. The Magi received an astrological invitation along with the first GPS directions. Shepherds were summoned by an angel’s proclamation. But I just showed up with no special summons.

Nobody will compose a carol about a wheelchair and a manger. I won’t have a part in the Christmas programs. Would my presence destroy the symmetry of a carefully choreographed eternal moment?

Perhaps I should just hang back and observe from a respectful distance. I don’t fit in; I don’t want others making a fuss. I can’t really participate anyway.

I don’t belong here.

# # # # #

You see it, right? The excuses and self-pity, the misplaced focus that completely misses the point of the gathering?

IT’S NOT ABOUT ME!

It’s not about neatly wrapped gifts or carefully chosen guests. It’s not about bumpy floors or animal poop in my wheels or who gets to sit in front.

It’s not about whether I go. It’s about the fact that He came.

What makes you feel like you don’t belong?

(note: This is a re-write of a year-old article (A Wheelchair And A Manger) as a follow-up to (Do We Really Need The Baby?).

Please leave a comment.

• Please use the icons below to share this article.
• Want to receive free updates? You can follow by RSS, or email updates.

You might also like:

10 Ways You Can Enjoy An Intentional Christmas

Do We Really Need The Baby?

Adversity And Christmas

What’s the hardest thing you’ve had to do?

Have you ever wished you could gracefully get out of a situation? That’s how I felt when I arrived at my last speaking engagement.

The small church invited me to their men’s group, the sort of experience I usually anticipate and enjoy. I love the opportunity to connect and share in an intimate setting.

But that night I wanted to escape. The elevator was broken; ten imposing steps stood between me and the meeting room.

The man who invited me apologized profusely. He’d contacted me earlier to explain the situation and offer the opportunity to re-schedule. I replied that if they were willing to help me, we’d go ahead as planned.

Now, facing those ten steps, I regretted my false bravado.

I hate being carried; I especially hate being carried in public by strangers. I can’t adequately describe the horrible feeling of helplessness that arises when I’m hauled like a piece of baggage.

People stare—I know they’re only concerned for my welfare, that they don’t mean to be rude. And the guys carrying me—why do they get to be strong and helpful? Why do I have to experience this degrading dependence?

But it was too late now, so I leaned back and allowed four strangers to lift what felt like a useless, lifeless body up those ten steps.

As I tried to calm my heart and prepare for my presentation, I thought about this incident in Jesus’ early ministry.

A few days later, when Jesus again entered Capernaum, the people heard that he had come home. So many gathered that there was no room left, not even outside the door, and he preached the word to them. Some men came, bringing to him a paralytic, carried by four of them. Since they could not get him to Jesus because of the crowd, they made an opening in the roof above Jesus and, after digging through it, lowered the mat the paralyzed man was lying on. [Mark 2:1-4]

I know exactly how that man felt—friends carting him around, creating a spectacle, calling even more attention to his pitiful plight.

What right did this guy and his buddies have to demand access? Why couldn’t he just accept his place on the edges? He was making everyone uncomfortable, interrupting their dinner as well as Jesus’ teaching.

And they destroyed the roof! I can only imagine the disruption, the mess, the mixture of pity and outrage.

So I began by referencing this story, thanking the men who helped me, and joking that at least they didn’t have to create a makeshift skylight in the church ceiling. Everyone chuckled

My prepared remarks went well, and then it was time for discussion and questions.

What’s the hardest thing you’ve had to do?

I could have answered safely, offered an example of some trivial physical accomplishment. But that’s not what he was asking and this gathering wasn’t about being safe. So I answered honestly “The hardest thing I’ve had to do … was to let you carry me up the stairs.”

Men are supposed to be strong, independent, self-sufficient. We stand tall. We don’t watch things happen, we MAKE things happen.

That not how life feels in a wheelchair.

In a wheelchair you ask for help with simple tasks that everyone else takes for granted. The item you need at the grocery store is always just out of reach. The single step into a friend’s house is an insurmountable obstacle.

In a wheelchair you quite literally allow others to wash your feet—along with other, much more personal, acts of service.

In a wheelchair you learn that humble, humility, and humiliating all originate from the same root word.

I’m not thankful for being in a wheelchair, but I can be thankful in a wheelchair. I am not grateful for my injury, but I am grateful for the lessons it’s taught me. One of those lessons is the humility to allow others to help.

In a wheelchair, you get carried by strangers. It’s the hardest thing I’ve had to do.

What’s the hardest thing you’ve had to do?

Your attitude should be the same as that of Christ Jesus … [Philippians 2:5(a)]

Did you enjoy this article? I encourage you to leave a comment, visit my website, and/or send me an email at rich@richdixon.net.

Receive free updates via email:

Subscribe in a reader

Related articles:

Sins Of Righteousness

Fifteen Lessons I Learned From My Dog

What About The Third Line?

Am I a Christian?

Yesterday I wrote about labels (What’s Your Label?) from my perspective as a wheelchair user. One commenter observed that labels make it easier to navigate our relationships. Once I know you’re one of “those” I automatically respond in a certain manner. While that may not be right, it’s probably realistic.

But it got me thinking—how do my behaviors define and represent the labels I stamp on my own forehead? For example, when I see someone apparently abusing one of my personally-labeled blue parking spaces, how does my response influence that person’s perception of other wheelchair users?

Earlier this week I read a wonderful story called Who Is A Christian? posted by Lori Laws. It’s pretty short—if you want to read it now go ahead—I’ll wait.

Too frequently I forget that I represent Jesus to the people I encounter. Personally, I wouldn’t have chosen me for that position. However, as my friend Jeff Lucas points out, God uses sinners like me to accomplish His work because we’re the only kind of people He has. With all of my faults and imperfections, I’m directed to be “Jesus in a t-shirt and tennis shoes” (or in my case, “Jesus in a wheelchair”).

Representing the King of creation is a daunting task. There’s no shortage of advice on how to fulfill that role, and no matter how hard I try I know I’ll fail. If God asked my advice (He hasn’t) I’d tell Him to publish a list of Ten Sure-fire Ways To Represent Jesus. I’m sure it would be a best-seller, but for reasons of His own He chose a different plan.

So, after trying to do it my way and wondering why I seem to miss the mark so badly, I seek some advice.

One of them, an expert in the law, tested him with this question:

“Teacher, which is the greatest commandment in the Law?” Jesus replied: ” ‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.’ This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’ All the Law and the Prophets hang on these two commandments.” [Matthew 22: 35-40] 

That’s it—love? All I have to do is value and model authentic relationships with God, others, and myself? If only I’d known that’s all there was to it.

And then all I can do is paraphrase the father’s plea in Mark 9:24: I do want to love; help me overcome my inability to love the way You love me.

The next time I see someone misusing one of those blue parking spaces, help me reflect Your love.

What’s a specific situation in which you struggle to represent Jesus?

Did you enjoy this article? Please leave a comment, visit my website, and/or send me an email at rich@richdixon.net.

Receive free updates via email:

Subscribe in a reader

Related articles:

Grace And Truth

Christmas In A Single Word

What’s Your Label? 

How To Expand Your Circle

What would Jesus think?

I’ve been doing a little exercise based on 10 Ways You Can Enjoy An Intentional Christmas. I’m trying to spend some time each day at the nativity scene, wondering about the thoughts, emotions, and experiences of each character. And I found myself wondering how Jesus would respond to the presence of a disabled person in that holy circle.

I tend to disrupt impromptu situations. Since Bethlehem wasn’t wheelchair accessible, I’d probably need help across the rough floor. My wheels would get dirty. Perhaps one of the Magi or a shepherd would leave his place to assist, or maybe an angel would clear a path for me. Would my presence break the mood?

I’d need a place near the front. Someone else might move farther away so I could see from my seated perspective. Would my special need cause resentment?

Others brought gifts, but the bumps and jolts of an uneven floor make carrying a package difficult. Would I appear less grateful because I couldn’t present something of value?

Everyone else kneels in worship and praise, but I can only slump forward and hope muscle spasms don’t cause me to lurch onto the floor. Will the others question my sincerity because I don’t assume the customary posture of humility?

Would I be perceived as a party-crasher? The Magi received an astrological invitation along with the first GPS directions. Shepherds were summoned by an angel’s proclamation. But I just showed up with no special summons. Would my presence destroy the symmetry of a carefully choreographed eternal moment?

Perhaps I should just hang back and observe from a respectful distance. I can’t really participate anyway. I don’t fit in; I don’t want others making a fuss.

I don’t belong here.

What would Jesus think?

Those were my thoughts beside my tiny porcelain manger—I’d love to hear your reactions. Please consider leaving a comment below, and I’ll write some additional thoughts in the next post.

Did you enjoy this article? Please leave a comment, visit my website, and/or send me an email at rich@richdixon.net.

Receive free updates via email:

Subscribe in a reader

Related articles:

Will You Accept The Gift Of Christmas?

What Are You Giving Jesus For Christmas?

Jesus Writes About Christmas

Who Else Wants To Finish Strong?  

Christmas In The Hospital

Happy Monday!

For the next few Mondays, I’ll post a series of excerpts from RELENTLESS GRACE. You can read previous excerpts here.

I hope you enjoy them, and that you’ll encounter God’s invitation to give hope another chance.

BACK TO SCHOOL (Relentless Grace Excerpt #10)

Prior to my accident, I taught mathematics in a junior high school. Now, more than eighteen months after falling on my head and losing the use of most of my body, I once again encountered a new group of young teenagers. I had anticipated the first day of school more than fifteen times before, but the beginning of this school year was different.

I sat in my wheelchair. How would kids react to a teacher who couldn’t stand? I’d learned the basics of life with paralysis, and now came the next test in reconstructing my life: Could I still manage a classroom?

I was terrified. Lesson planning, conducting classes, grading, the myriad small tasks that comprise my profession—just a few short months ago I couldn’t turn over in bed by myself. Now this group of fresh young faces looked to me for direction, as though I had any clue how to be their teacher. I wondered if they could see the fear as I struggled to keep my emotions under control and pretended I knew what to do.

I felt their uneasiness. They got much quieter than normal as they entered the room, sharing my uncertainty about what to expect. Who is this guy? What’s with the wheelchair? Does he know what he’s doing? What will this class be like?

Some of the kids knew the story, but for most of them this was just the first day of school and I was another teacher to figure out. They were more concerned with who sat next to them and how much homework their new math class would require than with how I ended up in this wheelchair.

The bell signaled the start of the first class, and I was supposed to do something. I had rehearsed this moment over and over, sitting alone in this familiar classroom, but now I was totally unsure. The whole idea was crazy; I was not nearly ready. How did I let my principal talk me into thinking I could pull off this act? Yeah, I climbed a hill more than a year ago, but this was different. They all waited, staring at me. I had to get class started, but suddenly my plans deserted me. What should I do first?

Call role, that’s a safe way to start. Thirty pairs of eyes stared as I struggled self-consciously to pick up a pen and fumbled to mark the attendance sheet. I gave the kids an activity to complete. They welcomed the assignment, grateful for a diversion from the unspoken questions circling the room. Students worked together and I began moving among them, rolling uncertainly between desks, acting like it was just another first day while the fear knotted my stomach. Should I say something about the chair, about my injury? How long could we pretend there’s really nothing different about this initial class?

One boy looked up as I passed his desk. In the honest, unassuming manner only a thirteen-year-old could manage, he announced, “I think I’m going to like being in your class.”

“Oh yeah? Why is that?”

“Because,” he said with a grin, “I hate it when teachers stand and look over my shoulder.”

Right then, I knew. As I chuckled and shook my head, I knew it was going to be all right. I moved on, commenting a little now on student work, making small talk. The atmosphere in the room lightened a bit, students talking to each other and to me, the first day of the new school year underway. Somehow, everything was going to be OK.

I should remember that young man’s name. I don’t, but I think about him every year as I greet another new group of students. Each year, for nineteen years now, I’ve wondered a bit about the reaction of each new group to a wheelchair and a teacher who writes in what we affectionately refer to as “Chinese Hieroglyphics.” Every year I remember that first day, the uncertainty, the uneasy quiet, and the silly one-liner that dissolved my fear and eased the tension. Each year as I prepare for a fresh collection of new faces, I chuckle to myself, knowing it’ll all be somehow OK.

I’ve learned to adapt. Technology helped, along with a bit of specially designed furniture and some experience with what’s effective. I’ve learned that, just like everyone else, I can take advantage of the many things I do well and that I have to find ways to overcome weaknesses. I’ve learned after a lot of pain and struggle to enjoy my own corny sense of humor, to laugh at myself, to take it all a little less seriously.

That young man’s joke helped me realize it’s better to chuckle than to complain. I’ve learned that my students, like most other folks, see a person more than they see a person in a wheelchair. I’ve learned that my kids, like most people, care a lot more about how they’re treated than whether I stand or sit.

Nineteen new groups of students—I’ve helped them learn a bit of math, they’ve helped me to get my life back.

I’ve received the better end of the deal.

If you’d like to read the story of Relentless Grace, you can order a signed copy here or purchase it at Amazon.com.

Did you enjoy this article? Please leave a comment, visit my website, and/or send me an email at rich@richdixon.net.

Receive free updates via email:

Subscribe in a reader

Happy Monday!

For the next few Mondays, I’ll post a series of excerpts from RELENTLESS GRACE. You can read previous excerpts here.

I hope you enjoy them, and that you’ll encounter God’s invitation to give hope another chance.

ELEVATOR–Part 1 (Relentless Grace Excerpt #8)

Note: This is part 1 of my initial unassisted encounter with an elevator. It’s a great reminder that even the simplest tasks can be overwhelming in the center or the storm.

A hospital elevator appears easily accessible. Smooth floors, wide entrance, clearly labeled controls installed at the proper height. No sweat, right?

I eased up to the call buttons and maneuvered until they waited directly in front of me at eye level. But with my halo brace and lack of stability I couldn’t reach forward to press the button without falling on my nose. I needed another approach.

I backed up, much more difficult than going forward, and turned until I sat beside the buttons.

Uh-oh. Pushing buttons required a new set of movements. My arms still lacked complete control, especially when I reached away from my body. I braced against the armrest, reached out, and—my fingers didn’t work. How do you push a button without using your fingers?

I could use my thumb a bit. Braced again, zeroed in on the “DOWN” arrow, and stabbed. A few misses, and then—SUCCESS! The button illuminated. I heard the mechanism, responding to the call of my wavering arm and barely controlled thumb.

Two chimes signaled the elevator’s arrival. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the car in front of me. I heard the doors open behind me as I struggled to back up.

The elevator waited a few seconds, declared a false alarm, and moved on. I turned just enough to see the doors slide shut.

I rested a few minutes. Moving the chair quickly made shoulders burn and arms ache. While I waited, the elevator returned, and a man in hospital scrubs emerged. Do you need a hand? Hold the door for you?

No. I didn’t want him to watch me struggle. I flailed my arm to wave him on.

Ready for another attempt, I rolled beside the controls and stabbed at the button. My fumbling thumb hit the “UP” arrow. Oh, well.

Quick! Back and turn. I heard the car moving. Back a little more, and I was in position directly front of the doors. The bell chimed once, but the other set of doors opened! I hadn’t anticipated that possibility. I turned and pushed forward, but as the doors closed I sat several feet away.

Why are these elevators so hard to use? Why don’t they wait longer? I’ll never get off this floor without help! This isn’t fair!

I decided I’d have to press the button, choose my door and push toward it immediately. I moved too slowly to wait and see which car arrived.

I teach math. I’ve made up all sorts of silly probability questions using marbles, coins, dice, buses and elevators. Who cares? Well, now I cared. Which one would arrive next? The score was two to one. I’d ask my students to calculate experimental probabilities, graph the data, and make a prediction. Which one should I choose?

As I stabbed at the button again I decided to bet on the car in front of me. Each door is equally likely, and I could get there faster because I didn’t have to back up.

The DOWN arrow lighted again. First try! I rolled forward, turned, and faced the doors. The signal sounded. I looked up and the other doors opened, waited those few miserable seconds, and closed.

With any thought at all I would have just stayed where I was. Someone eventually would have emerged from that car, and I’d have been ready to jump through the doors.

Unfortunately, stubbornness and frustration supplanted clear-headed reasoning and problem solving. So I struggled around in a half-circle and prepared for another try. The score stood three to one. Should I change my bet?

I decided to stick with my initial guess. I probably wouldn’t reach the alternative anyway because of the backing-up thing. I was becoming a fairly proficient button-pusher. I pressed and scrambled to turn, the car arrived, and now it was four to one. The doors opened and closed. They probably just appeared to smirk as they eased together.

Now what? What are the odds? As the wrong car appeared and departed once more, I slumped in defeat. If I hadn’t been so angry and frustrated I might have chuckled at the thought of students dutifully taking notes while I assured them that elevators don’t know the odds and can’t remember the five to one tally.

I wasn’t changing, committed now as a matter of either principle or stubbornness. Besides, I would really feel stupid if I switched and my original choice appeared.

Turn, stab, light, scramble. I heard the whir of machinery, but which one would appear? I stared at the lights, expecting another failure.

A double chime signaled an arrival and a victorious adrenaline rush accompanied the parting of the shiny silver doors before me. I couldn’t stop to rejoice. I rolled forward, prepared to celebrate my triumphant passage through the winning portal.

Instead, I encountered once more a basic principle of my recovery process: no important gain would ever happen easily.

If you’d like to read the story of Relentless Grace, you can order a signed copy here or purchase it at Amazon.com.

Did you enjoy this article? Please leave a comment, visit my website, and/or send me an email at rich@richdixon.net.

Receive free updates via email:

Subscribe in a reader