Years ago, I adopted a philosophy of human value. It is the philosophy of the “Mosaic,” and you may have heard it: All people fit together like pieces of a mosaic, one complementing another with our unique talents. (This is, of course, loosely backed by some Pauline verse about gifts and spirits, as well as the High School Musical series in general.) Our skills match up in such a way that we fit together as a human family and create something more beautiful than the sum of our parts. When we struggle with our own value, we are merely forgetting that we contribute just a small part to the larger symphony before our Creator, who shines through us like a stained glass window or something. It is a fun little philosophy.

This summer, I had the distinct displeasure of witnessing my Mosaic shattered before my eyes. I was working for eight weeks in a service program to which I had applied last fall, work that consisted of assisting teachers in elementary school classrooms for children with a wide range of special needs and disabilities. Having rehearsed in the application my many qualifications for this role, I felt quite certain that this program was the slot in the mosaic where I as a unique shard would be at home. I was anticipating the peace that comes from abilities put to good use, and was keen on the sense of value and fulfillment the experience would bring me.

Thus, it was with an overwhelming sense of failure that I came to admit, after about two weeks, that I was not comfortable where I was. The days were long and largely the same, Monday through Friday, like I had stepped into my own Groundhog Day. Every day I saw the same people, sang the same songs, did the same greetings, conducted the same sensory activities, ate lunch, and did it all again. I could hardly tell one day from the next. I felt trapped at a still point in the turning world, and I was adding about zero value to the situation. This was, of course, not a feeling that I wished to have; in fact, I resented myself for it. After all, I was face-to-face daily with individuals for whom progress, as I understood it, was out of the question. Sure, there were higher functioning kids that I could imagine coming to the point of contributing to society in some way; it was the others that haunted me. These were the children confined to wheelchairs, unable to speak. What abilities did they offer the Mosaic? Who among us relied on them? What could I do for them that would make any difference? I would immediately feel dirty for having these thoughts, but my shame could not block them. I knew on an instinctual level that these souls had worth, but I also knew that my worth was tied to my contributions. I could not help but doubt all of it.

Prayer was difficult in that state. A verse from the psalms was my one spiritual possession: “My sacrifice, O God, is a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart you, O God, will not despise.” Indeed, all I was and all I had to give was a broken spirit, a displaced shard. Supposedly this is the most pleasing in the sight of God, but I have always understood that ironically. It did not (and, frankly, doesn’t) make sense to me that God should delight in my moments of nothingness, when I have nothing to offer. I tend to create God in my own image, and I delight when I contribute.

I desperately needed to re-learn delight in order to make it through my experience in the elementary school, and so I placed myself beneath the tutelage of a fourth grader named Massimo, who lives in a wheelchair, has almost no control over his limbs, and cannot keep himself from smiling. More curious to me than his bottomless joy was the fact that he does not speak apart from the names of his family and friends. He never asked for objects or to be moved from place to place; he only asked for people. He would call to his friends in the class by name, not needing something from them but merely hoping to see them. If one of the other students responded with a hug or a kiss, his grin just widened.

As I studied his mannerisms, I realized that he knows how to delight in a person, and just a person. He does it effortlessly. He does not care about my ridiculous Mosaic or anyone’s place in it; in fact, he overcomes it and shatters it. He is a witness, both in his existence and in his treatment of his friends, of the deep value that lies in a human life not tied up in accomplishment. While I busy myself creating mental structures to affirm my own value, God’s love, like Massimo’s, reacts to something more fundamental than my abilities, something like my very being. God and Massimo have a courage that I often despair of ever knowing: the ability to look upon mere human existence, naked of external merit, and declare, “It is very good.” Perhaps this is something we would all do well to practice, lest we rise too far above ourselves to remember the value we have always had.

Simon Brake is a junior PLS and theology major. He divides his extracurricular time between singing, distributing mail, and generalized book-hoarding. He is chronically unreachable, but you could always try sbrake@nd.edu.