I recently listened to the second half of a podcast, where the host interviewed Amy Kenny, the author of My Body is Not a Prayer Request: Disability Justice in the Church. I just ordered the book, which I’m expecting to be really good.
Kenny is Protestant, so her theological outlook is different from mine, but I think she had a lot of really valuable things to say. Kenny reflects on this passage:
If your right eye causes you to sin, tear it out and throw it away. It is better for you to lose one of your members than to have your whole body thrown into Gehenna. And if your right hand causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it away. It is better for you to lose one of your members than to have your whole body go into Gehenna. (Mt. 5:29-30, NAB)
She says:
I think when I have heard this passage talked about, it is usually talked about in the context of, “Wow sin’s bad, huh,” and that’s really the end of it, and no one wants to talk about disability within the context of this passage. And what if what Jesus is saying is that disability is a way to encounter God, or a preventative remedy to sin, what if what Jesus is suggesting is that disability is a way to commune with the living God that non-disabled people don’t encounter, because that enhances temptation somehow.
And I of course am not advocating for a cut-it-off movement, but really just getting us to think about the ways we conflate disability with sin (1:05:23), and there are so many other possibilities of what Jesus might mean here. And to take your point, that there is this myth of independence and being able to do things by ourselves. And that is a myth that so many cling to, even if they recognize that it’s a myth and they can’t do it alone, so many clinging to their own bodymind and their own accolades and resume as being signifiers of their worth.
And within that framework, disabled people can’t keep up. (1:05:55) Because, my bodymind can’t do things that some people’s can. Some days I need help getting dressed. Many days I need help getting around. My husband helps me put my socks on sometimes. My worth can’t be tied up in my work or my resume or what I accomplish that day or my to-do list. I don’t have the luxury of living in that mythologcial world.
And I think that’s just one way that disabled people are prophetic, that we are able (1:06:24) to really show the Church what is true about all of humanity and the fragile condition that we live in in our bodyminds...that we have worth and we have dignity, just because we bear the image of the Creator of the universe, not because we’re really cool or we do great stuff or we have degrees. All of that’s wonderful, but that’s not where our worth comes from. It’s just inherent, because we are divine.
In my earlier piece on disability, I wrote:
Barnes would say that disabilities are not “bad differences,” but Catholic anthropology, as far as I understand it (which is not a whole lot) would say that body parts (and systems, etc.) have proper functions, and if a thing can't do what it's made to do, that’s bad. The immune system is made for fighting infections and diseases; the intestines are made for absorbing nutrients and sending waste on its way out; there is something wrong if these systems and organs and parts are not doing what they're made to do. (More here.)
I want to try to piece these things together. As I said before, I don’t have fully formed thoughts (or a really solid understanding of Catholic anthropology), but let’s see what happens.
The first thing I want to say is that we are not collections of body parts and systems. We are persons. I’ve often heard the phrase “collection of body parts” in the context of teaching teenagers about chastity and modesty — that boys should look at girls as persons, not collections of body parts; that girls should dress like persons, not collections of body parts. Regardless of whether that messaging is good or bad (or whether teenagers can actually understand it), that’s the context where I’ve usually heard the phrase. But there are plenty of other areas where we can treat others (or be treated) as collections of body parts. Medical professionals can be tempted to treat patients as collections of body parts and problems, especially during pregnancy or while working through chronic illness. Employers or anyone supervising or managing any kind of work can treat those under them as collections of abilities and potential. Even the wonderful old ladies at church can treat toddlers as a collection of adorable sounds and behaviors, not noticing if the child is feeling shy or doesn’t want to be held.
Our body is an integral part of our identity; we are not souls trapped inside bodies but rather embodied souls. It would be a terrible doctor who did not consider the body parts and problems that the patient presents as needing attention. But to treat a person as only a collection of body parts is objectifying and dehumanizing. As Pope John Paul II famously said:
We are not the sum of our weaknesses and failures; we are the sum of the Father’s love for us and our real capacity to become the image of his Son.
So let’s consider disabilities not in isolation but in a whole-person context. If my immune system is attacking my own body, instead of only attacking intruding viruses and bacteria, then there’s something wrong with my immune system. But my worth as a person cannot be calculated by scoring each body part and bodily system based on how well it functions, because my worth as a person does not come from the proper functioning of each individual part.
Let’s imagine that the home where Jesus were intact and known, and we could go visit it. It would be a huge pilgrimage site! People would pour in from all over the world, hoping the experience would bring them closer to Jesus. Now, imagine that one visitor came and criticized the dirt floor, because it wasn’t a beautiful mosaic like the Romans had at the time; criticized the windows for not having glass, criticized the lack of modern plumbing, and so on. Well, yes, the Roman floor mosaics are much more beautiful than a dirt floor; glass windows and modern plumbing are better than holes in the wall and not having plumbing. But if you’re thinking about these things, if you’re trying to measure the value of the house by calculating the proper functioning of each piece, you’re missing the point. The house has parts and functions, but it isn’t only a collection of parts and functions. We revere the floor not because it’s beautiful but because Jesus walked on it.
Likewise, we should revere people — ourselves and others — not because of functioning parts but because we bear the image of God, because our bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit.
Furthermore, the fact that Jesus’s childhood home was (I imagine) a poor hovel with, let’s say, a dirt floor and a leaky roof, made it better suited for its actual purpose. When God became man, he didn’t become a rich and powerful man — this was intentional. He became a poor man, a working man, a man who suffered with us. That was his plan; he wanted to become poor. Therefore, the grandest, most beautiful, most perfectly functioning structure would have been ill-suited to house the savior of the world during his incarnation. If we are only talking about floors, a beautiful floor is better than a dirt floor. But we are talking about a home with a particular purpose, to house God Incarnate in the way he wanted to be incarnate. That home does need some kind of floor, and in the context of the actual purpose of the home, a dirt floor is actually the better floor.
I can imagine a cute children’s movie wherein cartoon angels from the ’90s present God with different houses that he could live in during his time on earth. One angel works extraordinarily hard at making the grandest home, with beautiful mosaic floors and ahead-of-its-time electricity and plumbing. God compliments the angel’s hard work, saying, “This is beautiful, but you know I can’t live there. I want to rub shoulders with the poor, and I can’t do that if I’m living in a house like that.” It’s probably the comically bumbling angel who messes everything up whose house is ultimately chosen.
So we should look at our bodies, with whatever imperfections we have, as being perfectly suited to the purpose God has in mind for us. Our value does not begin when our bodies begin to function perfectly, if they ever do; it begins at the moment of our conception.
I think this reconciles several of the tensions I was feeling. You’re not better because you are able-bodied, or because you are disabled. Your body, as it is right now, is perfectly suited to your purpose, your vocation (which is not the same as anyone else’s). At the same time, we can recognize the value of modern medicine; if you can correct an imperfection — fix the leaky roof, in the analogy — it’s generally good to do that.
I say generally good because it is not always good. It’s important to keep in mind that a person is a person and to avoid a kind of tunnel vision focused on “fixing” a particular part, as if you were “taking” your body to the doctor like you take your car to the mechanic. (Modern medicine in general has this attitude, treating the body like a collection of parts, a thing to be fixed like a car needing new brakes; it is a rare medical professional who succeeds in seeing people.) You’re more than that part, and not just because you have other parts. You are more than all those parts because God dwells in you.
I have talked with a number of women who, like me, have had a long-term struggle with infertility, and it’s not uncommon to express a need to just take a break from medical treatment and to wonder if that’s okay. Yes! Yes, it is okay. Because you are a person, and your purpose and value are not contingent on the proper functioning of this particular bodily system. Your worth is not thwarted if you are never able to conceive; your worth is not delayed if you are eventually able to conceive. There is room to say I wish my body parts and systems worked properly and also the disabilities, diseases, injuries, etc. in my body are a valuable part of who I am and also I matter, and my worth is not contingent on the condition of my body.
Kenny has many valuable insights on her own purpose as a disabled person. Those insights may or may not apply to you. But remember this. If we looked into the childhood home of God himself and thought first about what needed to be improved or fixed, instead of first revering it as the dwelling of God and marveling at his purpose, we would be wrong. So too would we be wrong to look at a person — ourselves or another person, able-bodied or disabled — and first think about what “needs” to be improved or fixed. Our first reaction should be reverence for this person as one who bears the image of God.
Further thoughts on disability
This is the point you’ve needed to make. It’s all here! (At least until you think of something else)