Photo by Ben White on Unsplash

Read Time: 4 minutes

by AJ Canterbury

During my final semester in college, I was taking a senior seminar psychology class. Our major project was to co-present a paper for a research competition. Most of our class periods were spent pouring over research articles to fit into our final projects. Our small class chatted amongst each other as we worked.

At this point in our education, everyone knew each other, for we had taken our prerequisites together. Anh was a nontraditional, middle-aged student and had not been with us in any other classes. She was a misfit, but it wasn’t just because of her unfamiliarity or her age. Her comments, best described as quirky, bordered between the occasionally lucid and the downright absurd.

No one knew how to handle Anh. Perhaps she was just a plant by the psychology department to observe how we handled eccentric and odd folk. 

As we were circled up taking notes from the papers we had read, Anh took the opportunity to ask about my diagnosis. Assuming the role of a chart nurse, she wanted to know: was there a family history? Could it have been caused by geographic or dietary factors? What were my symptoms leading up to the diagnosis? Could there be a cure?

Anh wanted to know all the details and she boldly pursued them. I answered them with all the patience and kindness I could muster. Her questions exposed a sincere curiosity, not an intrusive, ill-intentioned heart. She was just rather forward and unabashedly awkward.

Anh sat back in her chair quietly after I had satisfactorily answered her questions. I assumed the conversation was over, but her brain was not done thinking. As if jolted by electricity, she leaned across her desk with all the confidence that she had figured everything out.

“I know why God gave you your disability,” she told me. Her tone was low, rushed, and a bit scary to be honest. She spoke as if some invisible spirits had whispered the answer to her.

The only things I knew about Anh was that she was born in Vietnam and claimed to be Buddhist. I braced myself for what might come next.

“He gave it to humble you. You are far too handsome and smart. Everyone loves you, and you’re funny and kind. That’s the problem. You are too perfect. God had to give you a disability so that you had something wrong that you.”

I laughed in response, assuming she was joking. But her eyes chided and demanded to be taken seriously.

“I’m serious,” Anh said, “you had to be an imperfect human like the rest of us. He could not leave you without a flaw.”

Although Anh had successfully flattered my out-of-control ego, my maturing spiritual knowledge discerned her assessment to be utter nonsense.

I was (am) funny on occasion. People tend to like being around me and I’m told I am kind. Because I like to read and am otherwise pretty nerdy, the general consensus is I am way smarter than I actually am. And as for too handsome…let’s just say, Chris Evans I am not. So, Anh was already being too generous with her descriptions.

But even if I did possess all those qualities to their absolute limit, I would still be lacking. Those qualities are not the litmus test for perfection. 

In Anh’s defense, she was only recounting the lie that the world believes makes individuals the most impressive. Attractiveness, intelligence, a sharp mind, well respected, and good health construct the traits of successful world-changers. We have all been duped by that lie. I know I have.

But the assumption that if your basket is too full of those traits, the universe will demand that you sacrifice one of them to maintain balance smells of paganism. And suggesting God gave me a disability to keep me in check so I did not become too powerful, like he was threatened by me, is absolutely preposterous and not a biblical principle at all.

I weighed her claim and ruled it false then and still hold to that opinion today. But Anh inadvertently touched on a biblical truth I did not immediately recognize. God had given me the disability, and although it was not to keep me imperfect, it was meant to open and direct my eyes.

[The world recounts] the lie that the world believes makes individuals the most impressive: attractiveness, intelligence, a sharp mind, well respected, and good health.

The power of humility

Living under the diagnosis of Friedreich’s Ataxia for the last 20 years, I continually face the fragility of my mortal body. I just cannot depend on it. When my coordination fails me, I am unable to make my body more flexible. When I battle to recover from an illness or injury, I realize my body is not as durable as I wish it to be. When I try my best but just cannot complete a task, I find my body hasn’t the capacity to keep me independent.

I corral these realities inside of me and soldier on, but they ultimately gather enough strength to break free of their confines and materialize in my reactions and attitudes. I get so easily rocked by disappointment, and I grumble about how much I have been cheated. My circumstances reveal a very discontented heart. 

I place a high value on being self-sufficient, of conquering life through my own grit and gumption. My default setting is a belief that the strength of a man is in his own ability to carry himself forward; if I work hard enough then I will prove myself worthy. This fleshly assumption is wildly unbiblical (forgive me for not taking time to unpack that now), and it exposes that my heart/mind is just as undependable as my mortal body.

King Nebuchadnezzar shared my presupposition. In Daniel 4:28-37, we read he was a great king of Babylon, a conquering kingdom that had seized Israel and brought them under captivity. Nebuchadnezzar had brought order out of his nation’s cut-throat mindset and established a great empire.

God chose to make Babylon great, in reality. God had raised up Nebuchadnezzar to conquer and rule over Israel; the king owed God the glory for all he had. He had expressed this to Nebuchadnezzar, but on the day he took a rooftop walk to admire his city, all Nebuchadnezzar could do was boast in his accomplishments. He ignored the words and warnings, and God struck him down for his arrogance.

Madness consumed Nebuchadnezzar’s heart with his mind becoming like that of a wild beast. He roamed around on all fours, feasting on grass. At the end of his punishment, Nebuchadnezzar lifted his eyes to heaven, cried out for mercy, and God restored him. The pagan king recognized that “those who walk in pride [God] is able to humble” (Daniel 4:37).

I place a high value on being self-sufficient… My default setting is a belief that the strength of a man is in his own ability to carry himself forward. A wildly unbiblical idea.

Humility serves humanity in honoring their creator, for “God opposes the proud but gives grace to the humble” (James 4:6). Without humility we cannot receive God’s grace, and grace is how we are saved and justified before a holy God (Luke 18:14-15). If we want to be led by the spirit and taught how to live, we must be humble, “He leads the humble in what is right and teaches the humble his way” (Psalm 25:9).

God’s intervention to make me humble

The human heart wants to collect its desires like the dragon, Smaug, from The Hobbit and hoard them in a cave while boasting over them. It relishes in its pride and loves playing king. The human heart does not wish to humble itself; it treasures exalting itself.

Our human feats often distract us from the reality that we are broken people, spiritually dead, and Jesus’ atonement is our only remedy.

I recognize this bent in my own heart. I find I am consumed with thoughts of self, and nothing gratifies me more than boasting in my perceived accomplishments. Satisfied to be the center of the universe, I am not inclined to seek humility.

What would have been my story if I had not been born with a disability? Would I have been humble enough to seek God? If I had gone my entire life successful in tackling obstacles, obtaining victories, and overcoming odds all the while believing I had done it on my own, I fear I would have never paused to give him consideration.

I would have resembled the pagan king. Like Nebuchadnezzar, I would have been happy to stroll along the palace walls exalting in all I had done. And just like Nebuchadnezzar, God would need to intervene to open my eyes. It was the grace of humility that gave my heart the ability to want him.

Did God give me Friedreich’s Ataxia in order to humble me? I cannot say for certain; I do not know the mind of God. But without a doubt I can say, the disease has humbled me.

The disability daily drives me to the feet of Jesus with nothing but my brokenness and desperation, and from that position my enlightened eyes see their need for a Savior. Every day Jesus shelters me and revives my heart. Where once I was satisfied in boasting in self, now I want to see him glorified.

I came across this quote, and the change of perspective highlights how gaining Christ increases the beauty of knowing him and decreases the stock placed in physical ability. Pastor Josh McPherson made this comment reflecting on his daughter’s diagnosis of Spina Bifida. “…Tragedy is not your daughter growing up with two legs that don’t work. Tragedy is your daughter growing up with two legs that work and walking away from [God] in her heart. Tragedy is her growing up with two legs that work and finding her identity in how fast those legs carry her around the track, rather than finding her identity in [the one] who carried her sins on his shoulders.”

Our human feats often distract us from the reality that we are broken people, spiritually dead, and Jesus’ atonement is our only remedy. Tragedy would be boasting in hollow stuff and never being aware of your greatest need. If I cannot see that and God crushes me to capture my heart, then that’s intense love, not punishment.

God has changed my disposition. Through my disability, I have been found by Jesus and my heart and will belong to him. If it took the Friedreich’s Ataxia to humble me so I could see him, then I am left with only gratitude.

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