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OUTSIDE EDGE (2): Holy Ground |
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First published in the Baptist Times - OUTSIDE EDGE column - 10/12/09
My first job after graduation was in residential social work with disabled people, including three young married couples.
I was helping one of the wives get dressed when she told me, ‘Before we got married my GP said it wasn’t possible for me to have sex because of my disability, but I wouldn’t accept it, so we kept trying. It wasn’t easy - but we did it!’
‘Fantastic!’ I said, only slightly embarrassed.
‘The only thing is,’ she continued, ‘that Carl’s disability has got worse and I can’t move my arms and legs so he has to do that for me, and then he’s too tired. So - we’ve been watching you work and Carl thinks I could ask you … would you help us?’
I must have looked appalled, because she said quickly, ‘You don’t have to stay - in fact, don’t! Just arrange me in the right position then leave. Think about it and let me know?’
I was 20, shy, qualified by convent and university for some kind of employment - but not this! But the long-term staff at the unit were a bit dour and the new carers were school-leavers who tended to get drunk and have water fights. I wasn’t ideal but if I said no the alternative for this young newlywed couple was enforced celibacy.
I saw Dawn at teatime. ‘Okay.’
She beamed. ‘Tonight?’
Carl was surly with embarrassment, Dawn was serenely confident, and I was shaking with nerves.
‘Move her right arm up,’ Carl instructed. ‘Bend her left knee towards the window. Bit more. Now get out!’
‘Light on or off?’
‘Off.’
I sped out of the room but a few steps down the corridor I was suddenly assailed by joy. I found I was tiptoeing, not for fear of disturbing them but because it felt, unaccountably, like walking on holy ground.
A later job was as a caseworker for a Jewish charity. There weren’t enough Jewish applicants so they took me.
The other social workers taught me what they considered the essentials of Jewish culture, a smattering of Yiddish slang and ‘the Jewish art of complaining,’ laughing hysterically as I bemoaned the long schlep across town, the meshugganas at the housing office, and the fact I had nothing to wear except my old schmutter.
A few clients commented favourably on their ‘nice new Yiddisher girl.’
‘But you won’t get past Mrs Bernstein,’ my colleagues warned. ‘She’s frum - very religious. She might not let you in.’
She inspected me on the doorstep. ‘You’re not Jewish.’
‘No.’
‘You understand a kosher home?’
‘No. I’m trying to learn.’
‘You’ve come to the right place.’
I had. She brought me in and showed me her kitchen, with its two separate areas and duplicate sets of utensils, one for meat and one for milk foods, and plied me with tea and cake. Then she showed me the bedroom, how the beds had to face in a certain direction. Then her clothes and the sheitls - wigs - worn to cover her hair.
I left feeling humbled at being invited into private territory. Holy ground.
Jesus, in his early days of public ministry, looked round and saw Andrew and friend shadowing him: ‘Rabbi, where do you live?’
And he said, ‘Phone my office for a 45-minute appointment next week.’
Or maybe he said, ‘Come and see,’ and took the huge risk of inviting them into his home, his private life, his friendship, ministry and daily intimacy. What a massive investment of trust in clumsy uninitiated strangers who were not ideal, didn’t fit the disciple job description, were shaky, unqualified and might turn out to be Judas.
Lord, help me take the risk of trusting the people you send, letting them walk on my ‘holy ground’ territory, the way that Dawn and Carl, Mrs Bernstein and Jesus Christ have trusted me.
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