Crossed eyes. Gnarled hands. Drooling lips. A life confined to a wheelchair. A mirror image of me.

In sweat-drenched clothes, our short-term mission team was acclimating to the humid Mexican air. We could have been spending our time getting sunburned on the beaches of L.A. (red, peeling skin wasn't a great alternative in my mind) or bonding on a backpacking trip along the Continental Divide (much better proposition!). Having "sacrificed" a week of vacation time — precious commodity to any college student — we prepared to reach out to the people of Monterrey with Christ's compassion.

After arriving at the mission base, debriefing, and training for a day and a half, our team set out for our first destination: the House of Mercy. Run by Catholic nuns, the House of Mercy was filled with orphaned children whose greatest thrill was being spun around a small courtyard in their wheelchairs.

But these kids weren't just family-less. Debilitated by cerebral palsy and wanting long-haul, expensive healthcare, they couldn't expectantly dream of one day improving their position in life. With little prospect of a better life and, to many, visited only by mission workers like us, these children embodied bleak helplessness.

So what were we supposed to do? Love them. Simply love.

I paired up with a young girl named Ana. As I spoke quietly to her while we strolled around the patio, her arms flailed toward an unreachable sky. When I touched her face with a furry dog hand puppet, her mouth strained to form a smile.

To capture the experience, I did what any American would do: I took pictures. As I snapped photos of the team racing these handicapped children round the courtyard, speaking (unintelligible words) to them with puppets, holding their hands, clapping and singing — tangibly extending Christ's compassion — I was struck: This was real ministry.

As I had prepared over the months prior to arriving in Mexico, my vision for our team was to lead dozens of people to a saving knowledge of Christ. That was ministry. But this outreach in the orphanage didn't promise a revival in Monterrey — these kids couldn't even speak, not to mention understand the Gospel message. Yet this stripped-down, bare-bones love simply for the sake of love was what Jesus was all about. That practical outreach was what He meant when He said:

I was hungry, and you gave Me something to eat; I was thirsty, and you gave Me drink; I was a stranger, and you invited Me in; naked, and you clothed Me; I was sick, and you visited Me; I was in prison, and you came to Me.... to the extent you did it to one of the these brothers of Mine, even the least of them, you did it to Me. (Matthew 25:35-36, 40, NASB)

That's the model of sharing love with those around us — we do it to those who deserve it least, to the untouchables and undesirables. Perhaps it's a sloppy roommate, a biased prof or a degrading cafeteria supervisor (who never appreciates your meticulous artistic rendition of Mona Lisa formed out of romaine, olives, and cherry tomatoes). It's those who've done nothing to deserve or merit your compassion who Jesus calls us to love.

Or maybe it's your old neighbor back home who never had a chance at college, an elderly widow alone in the nursing home or a child with cerebral palsy whose greatest contribution to society is a "burden." People who can't offer anything to you. People who won't help you succeed in life. People who won't aid you in sparking a revival in Monterrey. These are the people Christ commands us to love.

Heavy and convicting as this ministry philosophy is, Christ's unparalleled love yielded a greater revelation for me that day. It wasn't learning to care for suffering handicapped children. It was realizing that that's exactly what I am:

Hopeless, helpless, untalented — a spiritual invalid.

Instinctively, I view myself the opposite way. "God really got a great thing when He saved me." Or more subtly, "The Lord has graced me with some special gifts and talents that have really benefited the Kingdom."

What a conceit.

I lie in a desert, naked and sick, blind and crippled, powerless to rise and better my situation. I cling to the cactus of this world, convinced there is no superior way. I don't find love. No, Love travels, searches and calls to me. And when He finds me, I catch my first glimpse of beauty, grace and hope. I see Jesus.

Enraptured by His magnificence, yet caught in the sewer-pipe ideology of my world, I reason that I must give something to purchase my freedom. Such liberty at no cost would be too good to be true. But I have nothing to offer. "Don't aggravate my misery by dangling unattainable peace before my eyes!"

But that's just it. Jesus loves me not for what I offer. Not for the new program I can create to feed millions. Nor for the prettiest voice in the college chorale. Jesus loves me because it's His nature. He loves me simply because I am.

That's the beauty of the cross.

Not only can I offer Him nothing; my attempts to produce goodness are merely ugly imitations of the real. To the extent that I do anything on my own, I merely produce pitiful shortfalls. My greatest efforts are like old, worn-out filthy rags (see Isaiah 64:6). As Thomas Watson says, "Good works are not an usher to go before justification but a handmaid to follow it."¹

It's all too easy to forget that Christ died for us "while we were still sinners," not when we were holy (Romans 5:8). It's God's undeserved compassion toward us that transforms us. His power within us destroys sin's virus and recasts us as new creations who are led by His hand out of the desert into paradise.

This has ramifications for us after we're saved as well. Though we try, still we can't do anything on our own. Jesus explains that "apart from Me you can do nothing" (John 15:5). We must abide in Christ to experience the successful Christian life. When we lean on our own intellect and abilities, we navigate impassable waters. Only when we acknowledge we're finite, fallen and unable to accomplish even the simplest task apart from God and His grace will we be ready to experience the fullness of joy available in this life.

We are spiritual invalids — sinners saved by grace — who can walk in newness of life only through the blood of Jesus Christ.

Isn't that what enables us to love the unlovely, give grace to the undeserving, talk with those who can't think? Recognizing the intense compassion we've been given and admitting our own inability to accomplish anything good on our own, we can start loving others like we love ourselves. We're certainly no better than someone because of our skills and talents. Our value is based on our humanity, not our ability. Ultimately, "[w]e love, because He first loved us" (I John 4:19).

But perhaps the greatest lesson I learned from a short mission trip to transform the city at the foot of Saddleback Mountain was from a young girl whose mental capacity could never understand the truth she displayed to me. I, a drooling, cross-eyed spiritual cripple, am passionately loved by Jesus — not because of what I do, but simply because I exist.

Long my imprisoned spirit lay
Fast bound in sin and nature's night;
Thine eye diffused a quick'ning ray,
I woke, the dungeon flamed with light;
My chains fell off, my heart was free;
I rose, went forth and followed Thee.

Amazing love! How can it be,
That Thou, my God, shouldst die for me?

NOTES

¹ Hughes, Jack. Expository Preaching with Word Pictures. Christian Focus Publications, 2001, p. 288.