What if the most important theological voices in your faith community are the ones you haven’t been listening to?

I’ll never forget sitting in that church seminar, listening to a disability rights advocate unpack stories of biblical figures who lived with disabilities. Moses had a speech impediment. Jacob walked with a limp after wrestling with the Divine. Paul had his “thorn in the flesh.”

These weren’t side notes. These were central to their stories, to their encounters with God.

And yet, I’d heard hundreds of sermons without anyone naming this reality.

When Faith Meets Lived Experience

Here’s what shifted for me: disability theology isn’t about adding accommodations to existing church structures. It’s about fundamentally reimagining what it means to be made in God’s image.

I had coffee with a friend who uses a wheelchair a few months after that seminar. She told me something I’ll never forget: “My faith isn’t strong despite my disability. My disability has taught me things about God I never would have understood otherwise.”

That’s the heart of disability theology. It challenges our obsession with perfection and wholeness as prerequisites for spiritual completeness. It asks us to consider: What if our vulnerabilities aren’t barriers to the Divine, but pathways toward deeper connection?

The Elephant in the Sanctuary

Let’s talk about the awkwardness.

I’ve watched it happen—someone with a visible disability walks into a church gathering and suddenly everyone’s eyes are everywhere except on that person. Uncomfortable glances. Hesitant conversations. Physical distance masquerading as respect.

This discomfort isn’t neutral. It’s a barrier. And it’s on us to dismantle it.

The stigma around disability in faith communities runs deep. It shows up in our language (“blessed with good health”), our theology (“God will heal you if you have enough faith”), and our architecture (steps everywhere, accessible seating as an afterthought).

But here’s what I’ve learned: education and honest conversation are stigma kryptonite.

Creating Space for Real Talk

Last year, our church started hosting disability awareness workshops. Not lectures—conversations. We created space for people with disabilities to share their actual experiences of church, faith, and community.

One participant shared how their mental health journey had complicated their relationship with God. The vulnerability in that room was sacred. People asked questions they’d been afraid to ask. Others shared their own struggles.

That’s when change happens—when we stop tiptoeing around disability and start having honest conversations about it.

What would it look like if your faith community made space for these conversations?

When Leaders Lead with Courage

Faith leaders have tremendous power to either reinforce barriers or tear them down.

I watched our pastor share about their own anxiety during a sermon. You could feel the shift in the room—permission to be human, to struggle, to bring our whole selves to faith. Several people approached me afterward saying they’d been considering therapy but felt ashamed. That sermon changed things.

But leadership goes beyond personal vulnerability. It’s about systemic advocacy.

When our leadership team discussed accessibility improvements, our pastor said something that stuck with me: “This isn’t about checking compliance boxes. This is about theological integrity. If we say all are welcome, our space needs to reflect that reality.”

That’s the work. Not just ramps and hearing loops (though yes, absolutely those), but a culture that centers the voices and experiences of people with disabilities.

The Gifts You’re Missing

Every person with a disability brings unique perspectives and gifts to faith communities. Full stop.

We hosted a talent showcase last spring. People sang, painted, shared poetry, performed sign language interpretations of worship songs. The joy in that space was electric. And it reminded everyone present: we all have something to contribute.

My deaf friend has taught me more about presence and non-verbal communication than any book. Her insights have made me a more attentive listener, a more thoughtful friend, a more engaged community member.

When we embrace diversity—really embrace it—we don’t just “include” people with disabilities. We become richer, more complete, and more reflective of the kindom God is inviting us into.

Who in your community has gifts you haven’t created space to receive?

Beyond the Ramp: True Accessibility

Yes, install the ramp. Add the hearing loop. Provide large-print bulletins and ASL interpretation.

But don’t stop there.

When we added sign language interpretation to our services, something unexpected happened. Hearing members started learning sign. Kids got engaged in new ways. The entire community became more attuned to different forms of communication.

Accessibility isn’t about minimum compliance. It’s about maximum participation.

And it’s not just physical. It’s also about creating emotional and spiritual space where people with disabilities feel genuinely valued, not just accommodated.

One of our members told me they finally felt “seen” when we stopped asking people to stand during worship and instead said “let us prepare to worship together.” Such a small language shift. Such a profound impact.

Words Matter (Like, Really Matter)

I used to say “the disabled” without thinking twice. Then I learned better.

Person-first language centers humanity before diagnosis. “People with disabilities” instead of “disabled people.” “Person who uses a wheelchair” instead of “wheelchair-bound.”

These aren’t just semantics. Language shapes how we think, and how we think shapes how we act.

I made this shift in a church meeting once, talking about accessibility needs. It sparked an entirely different conversation—one that centered people rather than problems.

The same goes for ableist metaphors we use without thinking. “Blind to the truth.” “Deaf to God’s call.” “Falling on deaf ears.”

There are better ways to say what we mean. Ways that don’t use disability as a metaphor for deficit.

Building Bridges That Last

One of the best decisions our church made was partnering with local disability advocacy organizations.

We co-hosted an accessibility awareness event that brought together people from all over our community. Advocates shared their experiences. We listened. We learned. We built relationships that have transformed both our congregation and our advocacy partners.

These partnerships matter because they keep us accountable. They ensure we’re not just performing inclusion but actually doing the work.

And they amplify voices that deserve platforms.

A panel discussion we hosted last year featured advocates navigating both faith and disability. Their stories were powerful reminders that allyship isn’t optional—it’s central to living out our values.

Your Next Right Step

If disability theology is new to you, welcome. You’re in the right place.

If you’re a person with a disability tired of fighting for basic inclusion in faith spaces, I see you. You deserve better. Your presence and perspective are gifts, not burdens.

If you’re a faith leader wondering where to start, begin with listening. Create space for people with disabilities to share their experiences without trying to fix or minimize them.

Start noticing your language. Audit your space for accessibility. Build relationships with disability advocacy organizations in your area.

And maybe most importantly: recognize that this isn’t about charity or accommodation. This is about theological integrity.

What if the most complete picture of God’s image includes—requires—the diverse embodiments and experiences of people with disabilities?

That’s not a radical question. That’s just faithful theology.

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Want to go deeper? Check out my resource guide on creating accessible faith communities (link in bio). And if you’re already doing this work in your community, I’d love to hear about it—drop a comment or send me a message.