The Selfie that Changed My Life

The real reason I stopped taking seminary classes.

Seminary had been a high priority in my life.

This is why, when planning a work trip overseas, I did my best to schedule it for after I’d finish two quarters of Greek classes. I couldn’t let anything interrupt such an important course of study and risk blowing my grades.

Did I mention how important seminary—and grades—were to me?

After six months of trying to learn yet another new language (in my forties, no less) I slogged through a grueling, three-hour Greek final exam on a Monday night last March. By Friday morning, I was on a plane bound for Vietnam.

The purpose of my trip was to document stories of people with disabilities who received wheelchairs from the nonprofit I work for.

It would be my first time on the field, and I was traveling alone. I knew that my boss would always kneel on the ground when speaking with people who use wheelchairs, in order to meet them eye-to-eye and not loom over them, so I resolved to do the same.

Throughout my trip, I would remember to kneel when speaking with someone in a wheelchair.

I knelt on dusty floors. I knelt on dirt roads. I knelt on damp surfaces.

I knelt so much that a local official jokingly asked how many pairs of pants I wore the knees out of during my week there.

Then one day, I visited a home for adults with disabilities, and as I was taking pictures of a young woman who was using one of our wheelchairs, I noticed another young woman, who turned out to be her sister, confined to her bed due to brittle bone disease, stealing glances at us.

I could tell from the look on her face that she was feeling left out, so I made a mental note to go talk to her after I was done taking pictures.

The mood in the dim, musty room was tense. There were about a dozen people in attendance, including government officials, the staff of the home, other residents, and the young women’s mother, all waiting for me to finish my intrusion/impromptu photo shoot.

I tried to be quick about taking photos, but still wanted to make time to talk to the young woman who was stuck in bed.

As we were wrapping up, I asked my translator if I could take her picture, too, even though she wasn’t in one of our wheelchairs. When the translator asked her, she acted coy about it, but soon, she was posing for the camera, laughing, and joking with us. She was delightfully sassy.

She soon asked me to take a selfie with her and her sister.

Happy to oblige, I went behind her bed and knelt down behind them.

When my knee touched the ground, it felt wet. I couldn’t see what was on the dark floor beneath her bed, but the smell of urine hung in the air, suspended by humidity.

And when my knee hit the ground, something pierced the heaviness in the room, dissipating it in a flash. It was more than just tension being broken by our antics.

Something spiritual was happening in our midst.

In that moment, as I knelt in a puddle while posing for a selfie, it struck me that no one in that room cared that I could read biblical Greek.

No one cared about my education.

No one cared that I used to be a pastor or a missionary.  

I didn’t even care about these things anymore.

All that mattered was that I did what I could to try to brighten someone’s day.

A flood of Scripture verses rushed to mind:

• But knowledge puffs up while love builds up. (1 Cor. 8:1 NIV)
• Do not merely listen to the word, and so deceive yourselves. Do what it says. (James 1:22)
• Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world. (James 1:27)

It wasn’t lost on me that kneeling is associated with worship—in fact, the Greek word proskuneo, usually translated “to worship,” can mean “to do reverence or homage by prostration”—that is, to fall on one’s knees in an act of worship.

And as I knelt for that selfie, another idol of mine fell in the presence of God and shattered on the ground.

Seminary was the last vestige of my identity in ministry, and I was desperately trying to cleave to it.

If my pastor’s and missionary’s hats were being ripped out of my grasp, at least I still had my seminary student ID card. I clenched it in my fist, tucking it close to my heart, guarding it against any threats.

I was clinging to seminary as though it were a life jacket when it was more like an anchor, threatening to drag me into the depths. Not only were my studies eating away at my time with my family, they were eating away at our finances.

Shortly before leaving on this trip, I was going to register for my next class, but one look at our bank statement and it was clear that we could no longer afford for me to continue, at least not for a while. (I used to be on a scholarship, but lost it when I left full-time ministry.)

I knew I had to take a break from my studies, but I really didn’t want to. It would take this experience in Vietnam to help me let it all go.

After returning home, I dropped the class and have been on a break from seminary ever since. It was a tough decision. I still like to study. I still like getting good grades.

But what does it all matter if I don’t have love?

If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing.

(1 Cor. 13:2 NIV)