In my school classes like art and music were called “specials.”
I always thought that was odd since math was the most special class of all. When you start attaching labels, weird things happen.
Last week I called myself The Special Needs Guy on our team. A few folks, notably my friend Kristen, called me out. They correctly pointed out that we’re all broken, we all have special needs, and my disability just happens to be more visible than others.
I’ve used this analogy before. If you’re car is operating according to designer specifications, we say it’s operating normally. Otherwise, it’s broken or disabled.
So which human, other than Jesus, is operating according to Designer specs? Anyone raise a hand? No? Then we’re all broken or disabled.
Like I said, weird things happen when you begin attaching labels. Like the church we once attended with a “special” section for “disabled” people. Using my analogy, I wanted to ask them who sat in all those other seats.
Or the church where the pastor told me no one with “special needs” ever needed to get onto the platform. So who preached? I was supposed to speak that evening, which was also sort of humorous. Yeah–he told me that while they were figuring out how to get me on the platform.
But here’s reality: what I know in my head is tough to feel in my heart when I have to be lifted onto that stage. We tell my colleagues who teach art and music their classes matter, but schedules and budgets tell unfortunate, hard truths.
I know the spiritual truth–we’re all disabled, and one day Jesus will toss this wheelchair aside just as He’ll discard the rest of our brokenness. But this isn’t home, not yet.
Until that day, pardon me for being a little frustrated when I slow things down. And I’ll pardon you when you feel a little embarrassed when we show down to deal with your issues.
Because that’s how we get down the road, and how we do life, together.
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