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Note from the editor:
Matt Lyles is a member of the Southern Connecticut Chapter of the NFBC.
In the below article, he describes how taking a small step can change
the perceptions of the world around us.
A rather trite statement in a Sunday school lesson somehow lodged itself
firmly in my psyche and still floats to the surface from time to time.
Speaking to a restless group of fourth grade children, the teacher solemnly
admonished us, "You, boys and girls, may be the only Jesus some people
ever see."
Growing up in America's Bible Belt South I understood the urgent nature
of this sacred trust. Any evangelical Christian would. My duty to God
committed me to a life of verbal and non-verbal witness to the life, death,
and resurrection of the Redeemer. That morning in Sunday school I heard
with dismay that I could be the only Jesus some people would ever see.
God help them!
Devout believers of all faiths can appreciate the truth implicit in my
Sunday school teacher's words. Each of us serves as an ambassador, as
a representative, of the deity and doctrines we revere. By identifying
as Christians, Jews, Muslims, etc., we accept a share in the responsibilities,
as well as the joys, involved. Similarly, members of the National Federation
of the Blind know that participation in the organized blind movement obligates
us to bear witness to the truths of the Federation gospel: that with proper
training and experience blindness may be reduced to the level of an inconvenience;
that blindness need not be the debilitating tragedy too many in society
believe it to be.
This morning as I prepared for church the Sunday school teacher's stern
admonition recurred to mind. It seemed irrelevant to the case at hand.
I was debating whether or not to attend an Episcopal church nearby; and
there, surely, a number of Christians could be relied upon to bear witness
to the Gospel, with or without me. Then I realized why the familiar line
had come into my thoughts, and my confused mind snapped into focus. "You
may be the only witness to the Federation gospel the people at that church
will ever meet."
My responsibility was clear. I could not avoid the discomfort and potential
embarrassment of visiting this particular church. My duty as a Federationist
obliged me to face the challenge, not excuse myself from the task of introducing
myself a dozen times and navigating an unfamiliar space and coping with
strangers' misconceptions concerning me as a blind person. My innate shyness
and preference for the known and comfortable was tempting me to shirk
my responsibility as a Federationist, and that simply would not do.
Soon after arriving and seating myself in an unoccupied pew I began to
understand the importance of my decision. A man who turned out to be a
deacon tapped me on the shoulder and whispered, "Sir, I'll bring
communion to you when the rest are finished. Just wait here."
I assured him there was no need for such special treatment. I would take
the Sacrament at the altar rail from the priest's own hands. That's the
custom for Episcopalians, blind or sighted. And for me personally there
are theological as well as liturgical reasons why I objected to the idea
of receiving communion in my seat and from a deacon's hands. I was able
bodied, fully capable and accustomed to joining the other worshippers
kneeling at the altar rail, where the priest passes along the row, dispensing
the consecrated bread and wine.
"Really sir, we always bring communion here in these cases."
The man was insistent, and I knew exactly what he meant. I, a blind man,
was disabled and thus a special case. Rather than risk seeing me fall
down the chancel steps on my way to or from communion - and what could
be more terrible than having a blind man trip and possibly sue the church
for injuries suffered! - to avoid such a calamity, the policy was pew
communion for the blind and other incapacitated persons.
I resolved to wait my turn and then take my place in line and show this
well-intentioned but mistaken fellow that negotiating a few steps to the
altar was no great hardship for a competent blind traveler. I would need
to act quickly at the proper time and join the line for communion before
the deacon could make good his promise and catch me unawares with the
Sacrament. I hate scenes. If confronted by a determined deacon before
I could establish my place in line, I would in that case simply remain
seated and take the elements from his hand, like any hospital invalid
or shut-in.
The time drew near, and I readied myself for action. After most of the
congregation had returned to their seats, I picked up my cane and stepped
into the aisle. I was afraid I had waited too long and made for the end
of the now dwindling line.
"Sir!" (It was that deacon again, sure enough.) "Sir, it's
not your turn yet. I'll let you know when to go."
It wasn't my intention to charge ahead of the rest before my time.
At least the man was now willing to cooperate. And shortly afterward he
tapped me on the shoulder again. It was time. I made my way up the aisle,
acutely conscious that my new friend was following at my heels. When I
reached the chancel he grabbed my arm to steady me - there was only one
carpeted step - but I pretended not to notice his unwanted assistance.
I had climbed the long flight of marble steps to the monumental altar
at the New York church of St. Thomas' Fifth Avenue with no one's hand
to steady me. The irony was not lost on me.
Later, as the organist began the postlude, I made my way along the side
aisle to the front of the church. I wanted to meet the organist and ask
if I could perhaps play the instrument sometime. "Excuse me, sir,
but did you mean to come to the front of the church?" Here was that
indefatigable deacon, as I live and breathe! Was he going to collar me
and turn me out of the church?
"Yes, I did come to the front on purpose. I expected the organ would
be here. But now I realize it's there in the balcony." I waved a
hand toward the rear gallery where I now perceived the organ to be. "I'd
like to meet the organist, you see. If I follow this side aisle back to
that door in the corner" (I had heard a number of people pass in
and out through the swinging door there.) "Will I find the balcony
steps?"
I expected a protest. "You can't go up there! What if you were to
fall ." But the man surprised me. "Take the center aisle instead.
Go across the narthex to the double doors. Those lead out to the courtyard.
The balcony steps are just to the left of those doors." And he turned
away without another word.
"Well, well!" I thought to myself. "Could it be he's convinced
already and by such a simple act as going to communion?" Apparently
so. The other people I met seemed equally unconcerned by the presence
of a blind man in their midst. "Come again! So glad to have you with
us . Are you new in town" Etc., etc.
"Well," I later thought during my walk home, "did I only
imagine that deacon's anxiety? Was I merely reacting out of paranoia?
Or did I change a few people's minds by coming to church here and insisting
on taking communion like all the rest?"
I may never know. The fact remains that scores of worshippers saw a blind
person participating fully and capably in the public liturgy. Any number
of them may have blind relatives or neighbors. Many of the very people
who knelt near me at the communion rail may develop blindness later in
life. And if my simple example can give them strength and increase their
courage later, then any amount of kindly interference by any number of
officious deacons is well worth the trouble.
Sometimes the public needs to see, not only the blind accomplishing extraordinary
things, but calmly living out the normal activities of daily life. We
may be the only blind persons many will ever meet. May our witness reflect
the Federation ideal; we must change what it means to be blind.
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