“Ableism” is a word commonly used when discussing how discrimination and prejudice have created structural barriers in society for persons with disabilities. In this article, I’m not going to focus on the problem of discrimination ableism is used to identify. Rather, I want to focus on the word “ableism” itself. I want to explore how using the word fuels a certain mentality that is not helpful in serving the needs of our brothers and sisters who continue to search for a place of welcome and belonging in our parishes and society.
Words have power, and “ableism” is certainly a powerful word. It came into common usage out of an academic discipline that sees the dynamics of society rooted in a desire for power and dominance—what the movement calls “hegemony.” While it has migrated out of academia into common usage, “ableism” hasn’t lost the insinuations of its original meaning. Many who use it are unaware of its origin, but in using it they project an alliance with the theory and beliefs it was originally adopted to convey.
“Ableism” first gained prominence in the 1980s in college and university disability studies departments, where it was used to represent social beliefs and practices that devalued individuals with disabilities. So, what’s wrong with that? one might ask. Isn’t the word helpful as a way of describing a problem painfully realized in the daily lives of many living with disabilities? Of course, common terms are necessary for conversation—and marginalization is a problem— but language communicates beliefs and attitudes. The problem with “ableism” is what the name conveys: an attitude and methodology of social change not found in the language of the Gospel.
“Ableism” joins the contemporary pantheon of accusatory labels that categorize people into groups that can then be targeted and scorned.
Disability studies emerged from the broader interdisciplinary field of critical studies, which traces its roots to the Frankfurt School in early twentieth-century Germany. Scholars such as Theodor Adorno, Max Horkheimer, and Herbert Marcuse developed critical theory as a framework for analyzing power structures, ideology, and the oppression of marginalized groups in society. Their work has influenced various academic disciplines, including critical race studies, critical legal studies, gender studies, queer studies, fat studies, and others.
What may be evident in this family tree of disciplines is the focus it places on group identity. Individual persons are assumed into a group identified by certain distinguishing traits, and that identity may overlap with others—what critical theorists call “intersectionality.” Those intersecting traits, theorists claim, contribute to multiple forms of oppression. These theorists often highlight that dominant groups maintain their power and privilege by marginalizing the “oppressed,” who face systemic barriers to inclusion in society. Thus, we have claims of systemic racism, systemic sexism, systemic ableism, etc., or claims of prejudices deeply rooted in the fabric of a hegemonic society. Again, “hegemony” refers to political dominance of one group over another. The Italian Marxist philosopher Antonio Gramsci believed cultural hegemony was how a ruling class maintained its power and control over others; cultural dominance ensured its worldview remained secure and forced consent of its subordinates.
The disciplines that make up critical studies, then, have their origin in a Marxist dialectic that identifies conflict between social groups in order to break the dominance of the ruling class and drive change. Its tactic is to amplify conflict and exploit it, with the goal of destroying existing systems in order to replace them with something else.
To provide an example, disability scholar Dan Goodley wrote in the foreword to Contours of Ableism by fellow disability scholar Fiona Kumari Campbell that “Campbell not only takes to task ableism, she grabs it kicking and screaming from its perch aboard the good ship Empire and tears it apart.” (See this quote referenced in the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy here.)
At its most benign, critical disability theory provides a lens that scholars and activists use to challenge social norms claimed to devalue disability. The word “ableism,” however, is a term of condemnation and strikes at a broad target. Just as everyone isn’t racist, everyone is not ableist. There is an inherent injustice in such broad assumptions, and there is an inherent danger in adopting language and methodology that assumes intent.
So, what about my claim that ableism isn’t Christian? Accepting that the word has its origins in critical theory, I would remind readers the central theme in critical theory is power. The Gospel doesn’t speak of power as a goal of sanctity or ministry. We acknowledge, instead, that only God is omnipotent, and we submit ourselves to him willingly out of love—never out of force or coercion. At the end of Jesus’ forty-day fast in the desert, Satan came to him and offered him all the kingdoms of the world. Jesus rejected him and in doing so taught us that we shouldn’t seek earthly dominion—power—but only God (Matt. 4:8–10). The desire for power is rooted in the capital sin of greed, and pride is its driving force.
Critical theory’s dialectic between oppressor and oppressed is derived from and intrinsic to the work of Karl Marx. As mentioned regarding Goodley’s foreword to Campbell’s book, “ableism” has a clear meaning in the methodology of critical theory. It is rooted in Marx’s idea of how conflict should be exploited to bring about social change—in Goodley’s words, to “grab [ableism] kicking and screaming from its perch aboard the good ship Empire and tear it apart.”
Jesus taught a message of care for the poor and vulnerable in stark contrast to a surrounding empire obsessed with raw power. He eschewed the insurrectionists who wanted to use violence and rhetoric to bring about change. Instead, his goal was to change hearts, and his methodology was to preach a doctrine of love that prioritized concern for the poor: “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. . . . Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth. . . . Blessed are peacemakers, for they shall see God” (Matt. 5:3–10). This was his message. His teaching was not an incitement to seize power and tear the empire apart.
Christians don’t resolve social problems by exploiting conflict. We follow the example of Jesus, who taught us to be salt and light, not kerosene and a blowtorch. “Ableism” does not express a Christian attitude toward accepting persons with disabilities and how we can bring about real social change through the transformation of hearts.
Finally, “ableism” joins the contemporary pantheon of accusatory labels that categorize people into groups that can then be targeted and scorned. “Ableist” joins sexist, racist, homophobic, trans-phobic, ageist, heterosexist, and others—most of these generated by critical studies scholars/activists in university social science departments.
Jesus prayed for unity in his Body, the Church. Using labels like “ableism” may seem handy, and it’s true that the problem of exclusion of people with disabilities is concerning. But using a term that suggests a political agenda whose strategy is to divide reinforces the harmful Marxist dialectic in conversations about disability. “Divide and conquer” is an ancient but effective tactic still used today: It is used to create disunity in society.
Unity is our true strength, and as long as Christ is the source of our unity, the Body of Christ remains focused on healing our cultural ailments by following his way of love.