Often, from the altar, irritated, embarrassed, and pitying glances fell upon us—revealing how hard it is for people to welcome those who are different. Many priests have been unsettled by my community, by friends who talk, walk, and jump even during Mass. But none of them reacted the way Don Carlo did.
Don Carlo celebrates the noon Mass at a parish just outside Arcinazzo, next to the convent that hosted us during the Immaculate Conception holiday. The Sunday we took our places in his church pews, we were all strangely calm. The late night before and the bitter cold—we were waiting for snow—had drained us of energy. Only Massimiliano was restless, or rather, excited. At thirteen, you don't often get to spend a weekend away from home, without your parents, with older friends. His voice and laughter echoed through the church. His "enough with Mass," "no mom," "what next?" could be heard before the priest even entered, and the hard glare Don Carlo shot him while making the sign of the cross certainly didn't calm him down. It was clear from the start that Massimiliano would make no effort to control himself.
Don Carlo didn't deserve it—his stern tone, his impatient gestures only brought more frequent and bolder interruptions.
We had witnessed similar confrontations before. Usually the priest gave up showing his disapproval and simply ignored the disruption. Silence would follow. But Don Carlo, once he reached the sermon, announced in exasperation that if the disrespectful young man continued to disturb us, we would have to leave. Anger seized us, and our reaction was immediate. Emanuela, who had been calm and smiling until then, began to cry. Daniele let out his first shrieks of the morning.
Massimiliano kept talking, and of course no one moved. As Don Carlo rushed through a sermon no one was listening to anymore, my initial anger gave way to deep discouragement, then worry for the other parishioners—for the people sitting beside us. The condemnation in their hearts would have been far worse than anything the old priest of Arcinazzo could say. I feared they wouldn't understand, that they'd choose the easy path: if you disturb us, it's right that we ask you to leave. But I had underestimated them.
When I took the microphone from the pulpit—before the blessing and after Don Carlo's apologies for "such an undignified Mass"—they welcomed me with a knowing smile. I introduced our community and explained our simple truth: God's house is open to all, and there is no single way to visit it. They applauded. One woman spoke directly to Don Carlo: "That was a very dignified celebration." The warmth of the local people and the first snowflakes we saw as we left the church restored our joy.
But the happy ending hadn't arrived yet. The next morning, December 8th, we declined Don Carlo's offer ("certain individuals strip all dignity from the parish Mass; I'll celebrate only for you in the refectory") and went to the church in the center of town. We discovered that the Feast of the Immaculate is a major celebration in Arcinazzo. The service would be sung, and costumed men and women would animate it. The church was decorated with drapes and flowers everywhere, and it was packed. I spotted several of Don Carlo's parishioners and realized that Massimiliano's antics must be common knowledge by now.
Yet our noisy presence at this solemn occasion didn't seem to worry anyone. They welcomed us as honored guests, gave us seats in the front rows, with our wheelchairs clearly visible in the center aisle. We were very proud. We felt part of this small community in Ciociaria. During the Mass, the only voices heard were those of the children of Arcinazzo. Massi smiled slyly and, perhaps disappointing the curious who had skipped the day before, managed to keep a remarkable silence.
Silvia Gusmano, 2003