Who is my disabled God?
My god has no hands, so I must be hands for my God.
I must paint pictures, and write stories,
and build homes, and plant gardens,
and feed many hungry children.
My god has no feet, so I must be feet for my God.
I must visit the elders, and walk on beaches,
and dance to the music, and travel the world,
and march many times for justice.
My god has no voice, so I must be voice for my God.
I must speak the truth, and sing for joy,
and wail with the grief of the world’s sorrow,
and tell someone I love you.
My god has no ears, so I must be ears for my God,
I must listen for the child waking in the night,
and the cries of the weary and forgotten
and the many-noted sounds of the birds.
My god has no eyes, so I must be eyes for my God.
I must marvel at the sunset, and notice
a friend’s smile,
and read as many books as I can,
and name all the colors.
My god has no body at all,
so I must be body for my God.
And if I am the body of God,
and you are the body of God,
what should it matter
if one has feet and another hands?
What should it matter
if one has voice and another ears?
We can be hands and feet and
voice and ears for each other.
What matters is that we welcome
each body into the sanctuary: so that God
might come in as well.
– Spike Johnson.
From With or Without Candlelight: A Meditation Anthology, ed. Victoria Safford (a Unitarian Universalist publication)
[Image description: a lit, burnt-down candle burns on a candle holder.]