It was communion Sunday. Joel, then eleven, sat between his father and me. As usual, we sat in the front pew so that Joel wouldn't be able to kick the pews in front of us or reach forward and grab someone's hair. By trial and error we had found that with Dad to his right, Mom to his left, and empty space to the front, Joel could usually sit through half of the worship service.
We began bringing Joel to worship with us when he was five. Because of behavioral issues surrounding his disability (autism and moderate cognitive disabilities), we had temporarily given up on Sunday school. Sunday school was just too difficult: too much like "real" school, a place where “keeping it together” was a real struggle. Because Joel loved music, and was enthralled by the choir, the beginning of the service was something he looked forward to. It took other members of the congregation a while to get used to Joel's spontaneity. Often he stood up, pretend baton in hand, and imitated the choir director. During hymns he loved to sing along, usually (thank God) on tune, with a few words right, and always with a loud AMEN! at the end, generally a few beats behind the rest of the congregation.
During the boring parts of the service—any part without music was boring as far as Joel was concerned—he would twist and turn in the pew, stare at the people behind us, wave at the pastor, swing his feet, clap his hands or stomp his feet. He usually saved these last two for times of silent prayer. At least once during every service, he would say in a loud voice, "I have to go to the bathroom!" As you can imagine, worshiping with Joel at age 11 was an interesting experience. It was not unlike sitting on the edge of your seat during an action movie, when you're not quite sure what's going to happen next—you only know something is going to happen. It's difficult to develop a prayerful attitude in those circumstances.
On the first Sunday of the month in this particular church, communion was served. We passed the bread along the pews, administering it to one another, saying, "This is the body of Jesus, broken for you." Likewise, we passed the wine to one another with the words, "This is Jesus' blood, shed that you might live." My husband and I allowed Joel to take a piece of bread, reciting the familiar words to which he never seemed to pay attention. He would chew the bread, picking at the sticky stuff left in his teeth with his fingers, but he far preferred the wine, which in this church was really grape juice. Again, we would recite the words to him, "Joel, this is Jesus' blood, shed for you." He slurped down the juice and stuck his tongue into the cup, determined to get every last drop. His father and I would close our eyes briefly to pray our own private prayers of thanksgiving for this unbelievable gift of grace. Joel would crane his neck to watch as everyone else was served, and wiggled through the remaining quiet time.
This particular Sunday, the pastor raised the plate high in the air and proclaimed, "This is the body of Christ, broken for you." Then he raised the cup, saying, "And this is the blood of Christ, poured out that you might live." Joel pulled on my sleeve. I looked down to see him grinning, his face lit up as if from within. He stood up tall, and tapped himself on his chest. "For me! For me!" he cried joyfully. He turned around to the people behind us. "For me!" he repeated. "For me!"
Ordinary time stopped. All that existed in that moment was the radiant look of understanding on Joel's face. Joel knew that God loved him. On a spiritual level he knew that God had sent Jesus for him. My body remained in the front pew of College Hill Presbyterian Church, but my spirit stood in the sacred presence of God. All the accumulated Sunday hours of embarrassment, impatience, frustration, and yearning for wholeness as the world knows wholeness sloughed away, as I watched the love of God glimmer like gold in the face of my son.
In 1 Corinthians 13, Paul writes, "For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall understand fully, even as I have been fully understood." For a moment the mirror of existence, like a mirror wiped clear of steam by a towel, brightened and cleared and I understood clearly. Joel, despite his autism and cognitive deficits, is spiritually whole.
The sacred surrounds us as does the very air we breathe—an entire realm as real as this world we live in, but invisible to the naked eye, a realm beyond our concept of space and time. A realm where schedules and priorities and developmental timetables do not exist, a realm where it is enough simply "to be."
This blog post is included in A Place Called Acceptance: Ministry with Families of Children with Disabilities, by Kathleen Deyer Bolduc. Please feel free to share it with your pastor and/or board of elders!
Kathy is a spiritual director, author, and co-owner, with her husband, of Cloudland, a contemplative retreat center outside of Oxford, Ohio. The mother of 3 sons, 1 daughter-of-heart, and 1 grandson, she also enjoys writing middle grade fiction. You can reach her through her website, kathleenbolduc.com.
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