This morning’s psalm, psalm 50, repeatedly calls for God’s people to offer to Him a “sacrifice of thanksgiving”. Today we don’t offer physical sacrifices of animals on an altar, but we can, and should offer all kinds of sacrifices in our hearts. A sacrifice of thanksgiving is just that – offering thanksgiving to God when it is a sacrifice to do so. But for so long, this concept has been used to perpetuate bad theology and unhealthy attitudes to disabilities of all kinds.
The number of times I have had a well-meaning Christian tell me what I should be giving thanks for in my personal, and painful circumstances, are more than I can remember. I just hope that the two fellow students at theological college who gave such a suggestion remember my reaction to it, and that that dissuades them from offering such patronising suggestions to parishioners now under their care!
The other main way the idea of a sacrifice of thanksgiving is used to harm disabled people in the church is by equating an apparent failure to offer such a sacrifice (in the way that the person making the claim thinks a disabled person *should* offer it) with not being miraculously healed. Let’s be clear, this us spiritual abuse, and needs to stop.
However, the ways in which the idea of a sacrifice of thanksgiving have been misused and directed abuse towards disabled people do not mean that God does not require all of His disciples to give thanks at a time when, and in circumstances in which, that would be a sacrifice, including in the midst of our own physical, emotional, mental and spiritual pain associated with our disabilities. All Christians are called to give thanks continually, regardless of circumstances, feelings or thoughts. That does not mean we do not lament, in fact, many psalms of lament give thanks to God.
I will not use this blog post to tell you how you should offer your sacrifice of thanksgiving. I will simply reflect on some of my recent experiences and what they are showing me about the challenge of offering such a sacrifice.
When I read Psalm 50 this morning, to be honest, I felt quite pleased with myself, due to the first experience I will reflect on.
I was born with bilateral talipes, a fairly common form of joint contracture, known as clubfoot. As a baby, this was corrected with extensive soft-tissue surgery – the splitting and lengthening of the tendons in my lower legs and feet. In older childhood/early teenage years, it seems I began to relapse significantly, but due to the way I compensate, this wasn’t fully identified until last summer.
Like many born with clubfoot, I am quite self-conscious about my feet and lower legs. “Clubbie” feet are generally smaller than non-clubbed feet, and “clubbie” calves and legs are usually shorter and thinner than non-clubbed feet. In addition I have poor circulation in my feet, and my relapse means that neither inside edge and bigger toes touch the floor, unless I’m weight-bearing when I compensate by twisting heels, knees and hips to ground them. So often I find myself sat in the shower before bed, running lukewarm/gradually warming water over my feet to bring them back to a temperature where I won’t wake myself up with my cold feet.
Last night as I warmed my feet up, I looked sadly at my feet (now an interesting shade of mauve-blue) and wished they were different. I then found myself actively looking for things to thank God for in relation to my feet, the treatment I have had and am still having, and so on. In my head I know that I am “fearfully and wonderfully made”, “woven together within my mother’s womb” (Psalm 139), but that is much harder to accept in practice when I see my feet and legs that, however much people try to tell me otherwise, look different to my peers, and do not function as “normal feet and legs should”, with all the baggage that comes with living with limited mobility.
I chose to thank God for:
- That I was born with bilateral talipes, so leg length, foot size and calf muscle mass difference are not particularly noticeable
- That the visible nature of my disability makes me vulnerable, and in turn, gives permission for others to be vulnerable in my presence
- That I am fearfully and wonderfully made, with love, by the Creator of heaven and earth
- That I had surgery from the best surgeon in the country, at a specialist hospital which I happened to live less than 5 miles from, as a baby
- For healing me from an undiagnosed neurological condition as a teenager
- That I am now receiving good physio treatment, from a physio that listened to me
- That I have been re-referred to orthotics to get aids that will support my mobility, and that that appointment has come around much quicker than expected, especially in a global pandemic
- That, despite the pandemic, I have seen one consultant and am waiting to see a second, to explore what further treatment (if any) to pursue at present
So I went to bed worshipping God, with thanksgiving in my heart, despite the limitations, pain and poor circulation. Reading Psalm 50, I was close to congratulating myself in this achievement of faith. And then. And then…
And then, I asked the wrong question, at the wrong time, in the wrong context, in the wrong way, hurting someone I love, and, at first not properly registering the non-verbal signals that tell you to back off, so I just kept on digging. *facepalm*. I was devastated. I hate causing people hurt and pain, and yet I seem to do it alarmingly often.
You see, I have dyspraxia. Dyspraxia is part of a family of neuro-diverse conditions, which affect the way that we process the outside world. It’s related to the better known dyslexia. Those that have heard of it think that it’s only to do with gross motor coordination. Whilst that is certainly part of it (which really doesn’t help my already limited mobility), for me it’s the least challenging part of dyspraxia.
For me, one big part of my dyspraxia is that I struggle to pick up non-verbal signals, struggle to moderate the tone and volume of my voice, and find social situations difficult, draining and tiring. In the pandemic, that’s only been amplified by having to communicate via phone and video call, which takes away the few obvious non-verbal signs I have learnt to notice.
As the person I hurt this morning left the call this morning, I crumpled into a dyspraxic ‘melt down’ as emotions of guilt, remorse and frustration flooded over me. As those grew, I realised it was a dyspraxic meltdown, but contrary to helping me process, that realisation just amplified my frustration. You see, we expect children to “grow out of” this kind of reaction at a fairly young age, and many people regard this kind of response as immature and self-centred. So as well as the frustration at my mistake, and my failure to pick it up at first, I was then frustrated by the fact that I had, yet again, ‘given in’ to this kind of response. To be honest I’m still feeling quite fragile now.
I find dyspraxia much harder to offer “a sacrifice of thanksgiving” in the midst of than my clubbed feet. Partly, that’s because, like this morning, people I know and love are hurt as a consequence. I am not one to shy away from necessary conflict, but I hate situations like this morning where the conversation should have been calm and painless, and yet, because of my apparent social and pastoral ineptitude, I’ve caused pain completely unnecessarily. There are other reasons too, like society’s expectations and attitude, but this is probably the main one, and is the main social effect of dyspraxia that still triggers a dyspraxic meltdown.
As I tried to turn my attention to Christ in the midst of my meltdown, I found myself groping and grasping for something to give Him thanks for. I could, of course, have given thanks for who Christ is, His death and resurrection, and our reconciliation with God. I could have given thanks for the majesty of God, for His Creation and His character. These are all very important things to thank God for. But, there are times when we can offer these, less as a sacrifice, and more as a mask to cover up our hatred and loathing- of others or ourselves – rather than thanking God for the things that leave us feeling that way.
In the end, I thanked God for:
- My tender-heartedness which hates to cause pain to others, and so is torn up by a relatively minor incident.
- That, for all my failings, my dyspraxia means that I tend to make those mistakes innocently, rather than maliciously
- That I am reminded, even when I think I’ve “nailed it”, that I always, like every other Christian, daily rely on the grace of God.
repairerofwalls 