![]() Vanier offers several pieces of evidence for his claim: he points out how two adult sisters living with their adult brother made for an unconventionally shaped household, economically speaking, in the ancient world. Jean Vanier, in his commentary on John’s Gospel, makes the intriguing suggestion that Lazarus had a developmental disability. It was - providentially - the chosen Gospel text. Would the preacher ignore Warren’s disability and thereby imitate how so many in the world have chosen and will continue to treat this boy? Or would he over-sentimentalize Warren’s life, ignore the very concrete sacrifices required to care for someone with disabilities, and thereby make good news ring hollow? In short, would Warren’s disability, and by extension this boy’s presence, be treated as gift or an unwanted distraction in this assembly? Would we get to the other side of this liturgy and feel like resurrection hope included this young boy?įirst, Lazarus became involved. It was also going to be about this young boy’s future. ![]() And it felt to me like the whole room shared in my moment of terrifying realization: this sermon - and really, this funeral as a whole - would now not only be about Warren’s past. While I stepped into the pulpit, the boy’s mother retrieved him from playing in the aisle, kindly trying to persuade him to stay still. I could tell the poignancy of this boy’s presence was not lost on the few who were gathered for this occasion. My suspicion is that these moments bring fear to the preacher because they are the moments when we realize that we are about to learn, in real time, whether we are telling the truth. It’s the moment that you realize your throwaway anecdote is actually named Ron and he’s sitting on the aisle in the third row to the right, or while saying “I wonder if you’ve ever felt betrayed” that your eyes meet the tears of the divorcée who apparently has decided to return to church for the first time in six months. I suspect all preachers are familiar with the moment when, like wine exposed to the air, you realize your written words have taken on a different chemical makeup now that they are exposed to the bodies in the pews. But at this particular funeral, it sent a lightning bolt of fear through my spine, because the only three things I knew about Warren, the man we were gathered to bury, was that he was 74, he loved cars, and he too had a developmental disability. On any other day, this would have been nothing out of the ordinary. ![]() ![]() He was maybe 7, and he had Down syndrome. When I stepped into the pulpit, I noticed a young boy in the first row sitting with his mother. This essay first appeared in the April 22 issue of The Living Church. ![]()
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