In the midst of our singing, a family comes in and sits down front. Three ladies of differing ages, none of whom were moving too easily (one with a walker) and a pre-teen boy in a wheelchair. I assumed the three ladies were his mother, grandmother, and aunt (or maybe mother's friend).
We celebrate the Lord's Supper by going to tables in the back of the sanctuary, and I had gone and was returning to my seat when I saw this family make their way to the back. The mother and her sister/friend were carrying the boy -- apparently, it would have been too difficult for them to manuever the wheelchair to the tables and back to their seats.
And I thought: what a beautiful picture of the church. I am broken, wounded, unable to make it to the table of the Lord on my own. I need to be carried. And I've had the good fortune to be carried by other broken, wounded people:
- My 2nd grade Sunday School who taught me to keep all four legs of my chair on the floor, but also about Jesus and His love for me.
- My youth leaders who forced me into going places I never would have chosen to go on my own.
- My mentors in bible college and seminary who challenged my thinking and helped me develop a more mature love for Christ.
- My family that won't put up with my self-justifying garbage but challenge me to make right choices.
I didn't make it to the cross on my own. Not by a long shot.
2nd Image: As I was driving back home, I got stuck behind a Hummer going 5 mph slower than the speed limit. As I was screaming Christianized profanities in my head, I noticed that the driver had one of those handicap parking signs people hang from their rearview mirrors. I thought: someone is really overcompensating for his handicap.
Here's the thought: we can either accept our own brokenness, and the brokenness of the people around us -- carrying each other to the only place where we can find healing -- or we can cover up our brokenness with stuff (like a $50,000 vehicle you could invade Canada with -- okay, bad example).
