Learning to See

“On the contrary, those parts of the body that seem to be weaker are indispensable.”
1 Corinthians 12:22

Via TJC

Several years ago, my wife was taking a class that required her to attend a church from a different culture. At the time, we lived in the Washington, D.C., area, so our options were almost endless. We could have visited a church that differed from ours racially, ethnically, linguistically, or denominationally. But my wife wanted to stretch herself even further.

One Sunday morning she handed me the church’s address, and I plugged it into the GPS. About thirty minutes later we pulled into the parking lot of an older church building. It wasn’t flashy. There weren’t many cars parked outside, though there was a small church bus with the congregation’s name painted on the side.

We tried the front door. Locked. We tried another entrance. Also locked.

We looked at each other and asked, “Do we have the service time right? Today is Sunday…right?” Eventually we walked around to the back of the building and found a door propped open. As we stepped inside, something immediately felt different. There was no music. No greeters. No sounds that were familiar to our Sunday morning service experience. We began walking a little more cautiously, wondering if perhaps the church had closed and we were unintentionally trespassing.

Then we opened a set of double doors and walked directly into the front of the sanctuary…

If you’ve ever accidentally entered through the wrong doors during a worship service, you know the feeling. Every eye usually turns toward you as if to ask, Why didn’t you use the back entrance like everyone else?

But that didn’t happen.

Not because everyone was praying. Not because it was a quiet moment. The worship service was fully underway.

The congregation was predominantly deaf and blind.

And it was beautiful.

The songs were being signed rather than sung. There were no instruments, which explained the silence we had noticed. The “greeters” weren’t standing at the doors; they were sitting beside individuals, helping communicate through sign language and tactile signing, gently pressing words and songs into another person’s hands and arms. (It reminded me of the childhood game where someone traces letters into your palm and you try to guess the message.)

As I stood there, I realized something remarkable.

Even though I couldn’t understand everything happening in front of me, I understood exactly what was happening around me…and within me. It reminded me of Pentecost.

After the service we stayed for the fellowship meal and spoke with one of the church leaders, a former professor at Gallaudet University in Washington, D.C. As she shared the church’s story, something else dawned on me.

Although I belong to a racial minority, for perhaps the first time in my life I found myself in the majority culture—and not because of my ethnicity. It was because I could see and hear.

Nothing in that environment was designed around me.

I suddenly became aware of habits I had never noticed before. I talk with my hands—not in sign language, just expressive gestures. People watched my hands, but they weren’t communicating what I thought they were. I also realized I often rest my hand on my chin while talking, unknowingly covering my mouth. Anyone reading my lips immediately lost access to my words.

So I adjusted. I apologized when I needed to. I asked for grace.

Most importantly, I leaned into my discomfort with curiosity instead of retreating from it. And somewhere in that discomfort, I experienced the overwhelming love of Christ.

Disability Awareness Month reminds us to make our communities more accessible, and that is important. But the gospel invites us even further. It invites us to become learners.

Paul writes that the parts of the body that seem weaker are indispensable. He doesn’t merely say we should make room for one another. He says we actually need one another. Every member of Christ’s body reveals something about Him that the rest of us cannot fully see on our own.

That Sunday I thought I was visiting a church unlike my own. Instead, I discovered something about the Church itself.

For a few hours, the world was not arranged around me. I had to slow down, adjust, ask for grace, and become a student rather than an expert.

In doing so, I caught a glimpse of the Kingdom.

Perhaps that’s what belonging looks like—not asking others to become more like us, but allowing God to enlarge our hearts until we can better see Christ through one another.

Daily Battle Order:

Today, pay attention to the environments you naturally move through. Whom were they designed for? Whom might they unintentionally exclude? Ask God to help you notice those who may feel unseen or out of place, and look for one simple way to help someone experience a greater sense of belonging.

Prayer: “Lord, open my eyes to see others the way You see them, and make me someone who helps others know they belong.”