blog first published on February 21, 2018
Bethany Lutheran Church was on the corner of a busy city street in North Bergan, New Jersey. It was the place where my parents were married, all three of their children baptized, and where I had my Affirmation of Baptism. The building was stone and stucco, resembled an old Spanish Mission. To get inside, you had to go through iron gates and then either go up a wide flight of stairs into the main sanctuary or go down narrow stairs to the basement fellowship hall. It was not handicap accessible. At the time of the building’s construction mid-century, such considerations were not in the imagination of the architect or the pocketbook of the congregation. Perhaps neither was aware of Jesus’ fondness for the disabled or their need for the healing word of God.
Mr. and Mrs. Johnson knew of such things. Their son was born with cerebral palsy. Using every ounce of their strength, they carried Herbie through a world that did not consider his special needs. It was a struggle that only intensified as they aged.
Though I don’t know for certain, on the day of my baptism, the Johnsons were most likely present to witness the foundation faith event of my life. The knowledge that they didn’t miss worship informs my guess. In fact, for many years, they lived in the old parsonage building next to the church. Each Sunday, Herbie was wheeled from his home to Bethany’s steep steps. Mr. Johnson carried his son up the stone barrier. At the top, Herbie settled back into his wheelchair.
The only place inside the church that could accommodate a wheelchair was in the back corner behind the baptismal font. There Herbie stayed throughout the entire worship time. He didn’t move. During communion, the pastor and his assistant would bring communion back to him. In retrospect, I think that the reason he didn’t move had to do with the narrowness of the side aisles and the unmovable wooden pews. It was a beautifully designed sanctuary - just not all that friendly for folks with mobility needs like Herbie.
After church each Sunday, my Dad would take my brother and I over to visit with Herbie. Dad would talk to him and could interpret Herbie’s speech enough to converse. Though I was unable to do the same, I do remember Herbie’s excitement and smile when we stopped by his chair. I also recall that my Dad had us boys shake Herbie’s hand that was bent back at a unseemly angle by the palsy. Strange the things that you remember from childhood, but I remember those handshakes. They were a contradiction in themselves. When Herbie extended his hand it came at you in a stiff and unbending manner. His whole body contorted to accomplish this gesture. Holding his hand, however, was filled with a warmth that connected with an expanding smile. Instead of being rigid, Herbie's smile was of the welcoming kind. His whole face got in the effort. There were no pretensions about it - Herbie was genuinely glad to see us. Behind the baptismal font, love was given and received in the simplest of ways between a middle-aged man in a wheelchair and a little boy.
Decades later, I recall how these encounters in Bethany’s back corner touched the heart of my young faith. In a setting that did not accommodate, my Dad taught me an important lesson about community and inclusion. Shake Herbie’s hand and say good morning. Be present and available - don’t walk by without stopping. Take the time and share your heart.