Guides to the Kingdom - Christianity Today

St. Francis of Assisi, it is said, found the sight and smell of lepers repulsive. Normally, he could spot them from afar and give them a wide berth. Yet on one occasion, Francis came upon a roadside leper and something entirely different occurred.

Compassion rose from within and Francis felt compelled to get off his horse, offer the leper alms, and embrace the wretched soul—sores, smells and all—even giving him a holy kiss!

Climbing back into his saddle, Francis turned to bid the leper adieu, only to discover he was alone in an empty field. In that moment, he awoke to the conviction that he had encountered Christ himself in leprous disguise. His heart and ministry were altered forever. Francis became a channel of God’s love to the poor and the diseased, for in and among them, he had seen the kingdom and the face of God.

Fast-forward to the present. I’m not so interested in asking, “Who are the lepers of today?” This is already well-traveled territory.

My interest is more challenging. I’d suggest that those we often regard as insignificant are not to be regarded as mere target groups of Christian charity, but rather, our as mentors in the kingdom. They are guides to understanding God.

The Bible suggests that the marginalized—those the world regards as “the least of these” (in Jesus’ words)—hold the keys to spiritual doors of God’s kingdom that are inaccessible apart from their unlikely aid. To use Isaiah’s imagery (57:14-15), the “lowly” remove boulders and obstacles that would otherwise block our way to Mount Zion.

We often imagine that by attending to “the least” (literally, “little ones”), we were doing them a favor. But when we discern the presence of Christ in them, an undercover visitation of God, we realize the least are real mentors with spiritual keys.

The biblical foundation for this begins with God’s promise to reveal himself uniquely to and among the least and lowly. It climaxes in the revelation that whatever we do or neglect to do to Jesus’ little ones (namely, the poor, naked, hungry, thirsty, sick, the stranger [literally, “the immigrant”], and the inmate, et al), we are doing or neglecting to do to Jesus (Mt. 25:31ff). In this text, Jesus creates two theological quandaries:

First, Jesus seems to make acts of service the deciding criteria for judgment day, seemingly disregarding the gospel of salvation by grace through faith alone. Was Jesus really identifying good works as the true test of who enters the kingdom and who does not? We ought to wrestle with this question rather than simply using Ephesians 2:8-9 to trump the very words of Christ.

I would suggest that in Matthew 25, Christ transcends later faith-versus-works doctrinal debates with his own perspective of a “love-righteousness” that is the inevitable fruit of following him (thus pre-integrating the writings of Paul and James).

Second, in what kind of the “least of these” do we encounter Jesus? Are they specifically the Christian poor, the innocent prisoner, or the believing stranger? Might we see Jesus even in the “unbeliever”? Are we talking about recognizing the residual imago dei in everyone, regardless of their faith in Christ? Or does Christ mean more than that when he says, “Whenever you did these things to them, you did it to me”?

As I’ve pursued this second question, my understanding is that Jesus is saying: “You do not see me in others because they become Christians, but because I became human. When I came in the flesh, I identified with every man, woman, and child on the planet, but especially with those who know nakedness, homelessness, poverty, imprisonment, and torture. You see me in them when you remember that I literally became a peasant, a refugee, a prisoner. I live with the least, the lost, and the lowly; through them, you will meet me and come to know me, my heart, and my ways.”

After more than pocket change

A friend of mine, Ray Loewen, learned this firsthand. A successful car salesman in rural Manitoba, he was asking the Lord, “Is this all there is? Is this really my destiny? Please show me my mission in life.”

One night Ray visited a worship service in inner- city Winnipeg, an hour from his home. To get in, he had to cross over a sidewalk where glue-sniffers, pushers, prostitutes, and the homeless were loitering in the extreme cold of mid-winter. Once inside, Ray enjoyed a warm and wonderful evening of worship.

As Ray exited the building, he came face-to-face with a couple rushing down the sidewalk. The woman ran on, but the man halted abruptly in front of him. He was a horrendous sight: matted hair, deeply carved lines in his pocked face, eyes red and glazed, icicles of drool hanging from his mangled beard. He reeked of alcohol and glue. With slurred speech he demanded, “Hey buddy . . . got any change?”

Ray started fumbled through his pockets. The fellow repeated his request more aggressively, obviously agitated by the delay. Ray, increasingly nervous, continued to rifle through his coat.

Quite suddenly, the man’s eyes cleared and in fully lucid tones, he said, “Raymond, you know who I am. Hurry up and give me some change.”

Immediately, Ray was swept into a vivid vision of Matthew 25. Jesus spoke from his throne, “Raymond. I even used your name. Did you recognize me?”

Pulling out of the vision, I can tell you this: Ray found some change! But the issue wasn’t just an image of Jesus asking for pocket change; this was God’s way of getting Ray’s attention and directing him to an ongoing relationship. After that, Ray found his mission: to serve Jesus through a lifestyle of ministry to “the least of these.”

In addition to selling cars, Ray was so motivated by this experience that he began his own missions and relief organization called “Build a Village.” He leads teams to Central America and the Middle East where they rebuild villages that were destroyed through natural disasters or through acts of war. Ray indeed met Jesus and now continues to meet him as he “rebuilds cities and restores homes that were devastated” (Is. 58:12).

Where God’s glory rests

My own convictions about meeting Jesus in “the least” were not so much an individual encounter as they were discovered in the context of my faith-community, Fresh Wind Christian Fellowship. When we initially planted the church nearly ten years ago, a visiting prophet of solid integrity declared that God had laid a foundation of compassion in us (based in Is. 58:6-12) “upon which he would erect four pillars.” Once these pillars were established, “they would become a resting place for his glory.”

Brian West (as team-leader) and I (his trusty sidekick) surmised quickly that this prophetic word must be referring to us and two others—a theory that God quickly showed us was an erroneous interpretation. Over the next year, as the leadership team listened together in prayer, God progressively revealed our four pillars to be (1) people with disabilities, (2) little children, (3) “prodigals coming home” (e.g. people in recovery from addictions) and (4) the poor. All of these qualify as the “least of these” in terms of physical, social, or economic stature/status.

The Lord stressed that these folks were not our target groups …HE is. Our goal is to reach out to and welcome the Trinity and that when we do, God will bring his friends. Conversely, to welcome them is to welcome Him; we would never need to beg Him to come.

God also clarified that we might not like some of His friends; they might even scare us. But He brings them in order to disciple us in God’s kingdom values:

The disabled model for us the essence of God’s heart. They are unconcerned with trivialities such as one’s schooling, accomplishments, or giftedness. They restore us to what is central, loving God and each other. Whether they struggle with autism, Downs Syndrome, or epilepsy, they communicate repeatedly God’s core questions, “Do you love me? Can I love you?” That is their bottom line. That is Jesus’ bottom line.
The children are those to whom Jesus points when he says, “Unless you become like them, you will never even enter the kingdom.” We try to become like them in their implicit trust, their assumption of bold access to the Father, and their openhearted prayers. They remind us that laughter and joy and play are the sounds of heaven.
The prodigals remind us that we need fresh mercy every morning and that it is available. They set us free from the pseudo- and self-righteousness of perfectionism, calling us again and again to take part in Christ’s open banquet because we need it, not because we’ve arrived. They protect us from the futile heresy of making ourselves worthy of something that only the grace of God can open to us.
The poor have been chosen by God to be rich in faith. With Jesus, they teach us to pray, “Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors.” Their dependence on God for this month’s rent or tomorrow’s groceries teaches us to be a sharing family and to rely on the Father’s provision as they do. Their unabashed testimony is that God is good.

As these pillars began to gather and become family, I confess that it has been both messy and glorious (see sidebar). But God has shown us that what might seem like disruptions during the service (sounds of the disabled vocalizing; toddlers meandering onto the stage; the smells of someone coming off a binge or filling adult diapers) might be opportunities for his kingdom to break in.

On many occasions while preaching, I have found myself competing with some commotion or another, and I’m tempted to be frustrated by the distraction and then I’ve felt God asking me, “What if YOU are the distraction? What if what I’m doing is NOT your words in the microphone right now?”

You see, when we stop mid-sermon to pray for a little brother who is having an epileptic seizure or a broken sister who is weeping at our communion table, or a child who wants to sing “Jesus loves me” through the microphone, what do you suppose touches people’s hearts and remains in their memories years later? Is it my eloquent words and lofty ideas? Very rarely. More important still, if God is our target group, according to Matthew 25, what will most touch his heart and get his attention?

But to speak selfishly for a moment, what’s in it for me is that miracle when I know, in the moment, that I am having an encounter with the living Christ through one of our pillars. I watch and wait for it. I posture myself for it. But, like Francis, usually God’s appearances are a surprise.

I met Jesus in Mexico through the orphans who gathered to lay hands on me for a healing in my neck. I felt him in the 11-year-old Haitian boy with the pure white shirt and bright smile who rubbed my back while I watched in terror as corrupt soldiers bound and beat a relief-worker with clubs. I experienced his power overwhelm me when Kathy, a woman with one eye, no hips, and a childlike mind took my hand and prayed, “Come, Jesus.”

He’s served me communion through a man crippled by arthritis and an addict just coming off his latest crack crash. Jesus has anointed me with oil and power through a three-year-old native girl who had just been adopted. And he has stroked my head and held me close with the hands of many a disabled man or woman.

I’ve heard him preach and sing and testify through seven-year-old Nadine who has joined our regular teaching rotation.

When we make space for the least, we make space for Jesus. It’s as simple and as difficult as that. This includes advocating and acting to create space for least to belong and be safe, but more so, to be Jesus to us and among us.

Brad Jersak is a teacher at Fresh Wind Christian Fellowship in Abbotsford, BC. He is author of Kissing the Leper: Seeing Jesus in the Least of These.

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Trading My Sorrows

I was a guest speaker in Edmonton, Alberta, preparing to preach on “Seeing Jesus in Others” when Meghan became the living illustration.

As we sang worship songs, Meghan marched spontaneously to the front and began dancing. Perhaps eight years old, she used the full width of the stage to twirl ballerina-like from left to right. Then she performed an exuberant and formal goose-step back to the left. This was followed by an over-the-top headbanger kind of dance, flinging her locks round and round like a living windmill.

She seemed completely oblivious to the crowd, entirely in her own secret world. I’m not sure the congregation knew what to do with this. For my part, I was totally captivated.

One thing I’ve learned about autism is that sometimes you can enter that secret world by mimicking the child (or adult as the case may be), so that is what I did. What a sight as suddenly the guest teacher and the little girl repeated the odd anti-choreography together — now twirling, now marching, now thrashing. Scoff, but as King David once said, having danced with absolute abandon, “I will become even more undignified than this!” (2 Sam. 6:21-22).

Sure enough, little Meghan connected. She made that elusive eye-contact with me, and we were locked in.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t long before this out-of-shape preacher was huffing and puffing. I took a breather, doubled over as the music continued. Meghan came up, grabbed my head, and pulled it close enough that our foreheads were touching. Looking me in the eye, she proclaimed enthusiastically, “You’ve been to Scotland.” And then she “went off” as they say, “Hi Scot! Scot-Man! Scot, Scot, Scot. You’ve been to Scotland.”

I was stunned. What Meghan did not know was that I had indeed just returned from Scotland. So recently, in fact, that I was still recovering from jet lag.Now she had my attention! But of course, off she returned to her private world of dance.

Then she came skipping back to me, this time miming some disturbing sign language in rhythm with the music. She would point directly at me with her index finger. Then she would slowly draw the index finger across her throat in a dramatic slitting action, then pointing again. It felt like she was predicting my demise, and the accuracy of her first revelation made me hesitant to dismiss her too quickly.

Meghan’s grandmother saw what was happening and scurried over to rescue me. “Let me take her away. She’s autistic.”

“Don’t you dare!” I shouted over the music. “This means something. I need to know what she’s trying to say.”

Then, the Lord spoke to my heart in a tone that sounded like, “How dull are you? Don’t you get it?” What he actually said was, “You’re singing it!”

As Meghan continued to gesture, I awoke to the fact that I was singing along without thinking about the lyrics:

I’m trading my sorrows I’m trading my shame I’m laying them down for the joy of the Lord I’m trading my sickness I’m trading my pain I’m laying them down for the joy of the Lord.

I noticed that Meghan was pointing at the words “sorrow” and “shame” and “sickness” and “pain” and then excising them with the cutting motion. Whether she was tuned into this or merely God’s simple vessel, I could see Jesus in her. I could truthfully feel weariness being laid down in exchange for joy, health, and refreshment.

Through my new friend Meghan, Christ restored my body, soul, and spirit. Imagine my delight to be able to point to that little girl and bring the good news to her church — a church that gives space for disabled children to dance before the Lord.

—Brad Jersak

Helmets On, It’s Worship Time!

An unlikely service fit for a king.

They possessed no marketable skills. They lacked any sense of fashion. The few who could move themselves moved too slowly to be considered efficient by any standard. They were profoundly retarded, or, to use Jesus’ terms, “the crippled, the lame, the blind” (Luke 14:13).

They came to our church in two yellow buses, each specially equipped to accommodate the passengers’ special equipment. More space was required for each participant’s caregiver, an uncommonly dedicated group of men and women from all walks of life.

This monthly worship service, appropriately titled A Joyful Noise, began some years ago at a church I was then serving when a visionary woman named Nancy Chalfant (“Nanky” to her friends) recognized a need few others were willing to address. She inspired and organized fellow parishioners from St. Stephen’s to establish A Joyful Noise, and it drew participants from all over Pittsburgh.

The service ran throughout the calendar school year. Most of the congregants were wheeled up the stone ramp, bundled from head-to-toe in a stunning array of mismatched plaids, stripes, and checks. Many wore helmets to protect themselves. Others were so physically crippled they barely fit into a standard wheelchair.

So much about this gathering made no earthly sense. Yet, when all were settled in their places and the organist lit into a rousing rendition of “This is the day that the Lord has made,” it all just worked, in a quirky and mysterious way.

At times it was organized chaos: loud, unpredictable, sweaty, and smelly. Mostly though, it was beautiful. These men and women, most with IQs ranging from 0 to 5, were special guests at the Lord’s banquet table.

The time for a sermon immediately followed the opening praise choruses, meaning the preacher took his place at the front just as the congregation peaked in exuberance. The air in the room felt electric.

Few things unnerve the inexperienced mainline preacher more than a congregation accustomed to yelping, hollering, and every so often, flat out screaming through the sermon. The standard homiletics class is simply not designed for this sort of pulpit experience.

It is, however, precisely in this environment that I internalized the deep truth in Isaiah 55:8-11 that “the Lord’s word will not return to him empty, but will accomplish what he desires and achieve the purposes for which he sent it.”

Every now and then, a caregiver would offer a word of encouragement, noting something meaningful in the homily or referencing a moving praise hymn, but for the most part, absolutely nothing came back from the congregation. In this context, expended energy was like rain falling on parched ground, immediately absorbed, leaving little evidence behind.

But this was a banquet, and the purpose at a banquet is not measured results, but rich fellowship between the Master and his guests. The preacher, organist, and lay volunteers all served the Master and his guests.

Special needs, special ops

We often overlook needs and opportunities right around us. Most churches have at least one member who is disabled and would welcome intentional care. Begin by getting to know people with disabilities in your area. They’ll teach you how to love them in ways they—and you—need most.

These needs include medical issues, finances, extended family issues, schooling, and long-term care. For example, an entire family system may be cracking under the chronic strain of living with a severe disability. The church’s greatest gift to a family in this situation may be as simple as arranging for respite care, allowing the parents to spend an evening alone together.

Congregations can conduct a walk-through of their facilities and worship services “in the shoes” of someone with a disability. Is the facility accessible and accommodating? Could a person who is deaf or blind meaningfully participate in your worship service? Are there ways you could provide care for a child with Down syndrome, for instance, or cerebral palsy, allowing the parents to attend worship together?

An often overlooked aspect of special needs ministry is the theological and psychological cost of caring for those who cannot care for themselves. An active support network for caregivers can be a lifeline for those continuously caring for others.

Special needs ministry is, in some sense, a return to the heart of the Christian faith. By extending ourselves to those who cannot repay kindness for kindness, the Christian soul expands.

In the world’s economy, A Joyful Noise didn’t produce much. However, to its participants, the service was the blessed fulfillment of Jesus’ exhortation to invite to the banquet “those who cannot repay you” (Luke 14:14).

—Tony Welty is associate rector of St. George’s Episcopal Church in Nashville, Tennessee.