A young man lies in a hospital bed after a sports accident. He is conscious, in some outright pain because of the reconstruction of his jaw, and very uncomfortable because there is a tube down his throat. An co-worker walks in, greets him and begins to talk. She’s thrilled that he’s alive, and tells him that this is certainly because her whole church was praying for him. She rambles on about blessing and the value of life, and pretty soon expresses her satisfaction that his nurse is a Christian and in this hospital the nurse tells her they don’t ever perform abortions. Isn’t that a blessed thing that its a godly place? And isn’t he proud of the new laws in Texas that stop abortions? Why her priest said last Sunday . . . .
He’s heard this before. He closes his eyes and hopes she’ll think he’s asleep. And finally she leaves.
A few days later he’s released from the hospital and manages to drive over the local supermarket for groceries. His mouth is still wired shut so he’s buying milk and pre-made smoothies. He looks like hell and he knows it: black stitches visible on his face and jaw, ear wrapped in a bandage, forehead scabbed. After negotiating a payment the concerned but cheerful clerk reaches into her handbag and hands him a little book, While you are Healing, Prayers for God’s Beloved. She tells him that is is providential, because she picked it up at church just last Sunday and here God has brought him to her! Shoveling it into his pocket he hears as he walks away, “Have a blessed day!” He drops it in the trash bin outside the door.
Back at home he discovers the nearby neighbors have heard about his accident. And there on the front door as an expression of concern is homemade cake, and a card inviting him to worship at their church during Advent. He leaves it on the porch, too stiff to bend down and pick it up, and makes his way inside. Sanctuary. Until the phone rings. He grunts. An old classmate has heard what happened. He hasn’t seen him in years but read about it in the paper and wants him to know his whole men’s Bible Study is praying that God will heal him. The young man hangs up the phone and puts it on silent.
Then weary with the effort of putting away his new liquid diet he lays down on the sofa, and as he drifts into blissful sleep wonders why this anti-abortion, bless you, worship me, praying for you, pray to me, study my book God didn’t show up about 5 seconds before the broken bat hurled down the first base line and smashed into his face. Because God sure seems to be in his face now.
I am a Christian. I believe in freedom of speech, and freedom of expression, and freedom of religion. I also think that we Christians prey on the vulnerable with our religion when we don’t even realize we are doing it. Real dialogue doesn’t begin when the other person replies to our invitation or entreaty. It begins when we cease assuming that everyone shares our experience, and remember to be silent in the presence of those who have no voice.
(The above is, I might add, a true story. Details changed slightly.)
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