Words of liberation spoken by a theologian at a conference invite us to reconsider, following Jesus, our stance toward innocent suffering.
I was driving to Montecatini for a study seminar on "the family with a suffering child," organized by Bice (Bureau International Catholique de l'Enfance). The highway stretched ahead of me, and I tried to imagine what awaited. The anonymous suffering child of the seminar had a face and a name for me: two blue eyes, a head of blonde curls, two years of hopes lived day by day between joy and anguish. Samuel. Our community had welcomed him at birth, and we had been given the gift of sharing his journey until the day of his death a few months ago.
Fear of hearing again those speeches so correct in form, yet so little lived in substance
The presence of Samuel in every cell of my body stirred more fear than anticipation. Fear of hearing once more those speeches—the kind our Church itself can make—correct in their words but hollow in their lived truth. Fear of platitudes. Fear, above all, of hearing God described as one who collects installments of suffering in exchange for salvation. And at the seminar, in part, that is what happened.But something else occurred too. In twenty minutes, a theologian named Pierangelo Sequeri swept away my doubts and my fears.
"We must speak with precision about what we say to parents of a disabled child. Too many Christians lack precision when they hand over the birth of a handicapped child with the phrase: 'Everything is grace, even this is grace!' No! That is not true! Perhaps after twenty years of continuous spiritual practice one might arrive at that. But it is not the starting point. We forget far too easily that the cross is our shame, not only our salvation! And we are capable, with statements like these, of crucifying the innocent to save our notion of sacred law. Shame on us."
We are capable, with statements like these, of crucifying the innocent to save our notion of sacred law
It is a sudden rupture that overturns my theological poverty. It is an argument that grabs hold of you and flows clean and true, and above all, it reaches me—reaches the emptiness left by Samuel, reaches the meaning I need to give to his life, his handicap, and his death.Sequeri continues: "We must see the beauty of redemption in the gesture of Jesus when he says: if you seek Jesus, it is I, these have nothing to do with it. If human beings reject Jesus who loves them and are so wicked that they crucify an innocent one, then I, Jesus, decide that they will harm one person only—me. No one else must be harmed. Only I, Jesus."
I can say only this: I do not know where handicap comes from or why. I can only cling to the Gospel
These words are light cutting through shadow. And Sequeri presses on: "We must learn the principle of sparing blood, we have yet to discover it. It is not the suffering that exists in the world that redeems us, but the cross of Jesus. Only his."As if to remove all doubt about any supposed fault of parents, Sequeri cites the Gospel of John and suggests something that, from my own experience, escapes many churchmen: "Before the man born blind, the apostles ask: who sinned? And what is Jesus's reaction? He is indignant! He rebukes them: 'Be quiet!' And then, he who is Jesus, performs the miracle. But if you are not Jesus and cannot perform miracles, there is still something you can do: be quiet!"
Then his voice changes register, drops at least two octaves, signaling a crucial point.
I hear the echo of those phrases—so predictable, so wasted—that were offered at Samuel's death: "a little angel has stopped suffering... we knew it would come... the Lord knows..." Words that took nothing away from our pain. "Be quiet!" It was masterful.Then his voice changes register, drops at least two octaves, signaling a crucial point.
"I want to tell you my objection as a theologian about the current way we question suffering in the world. For years I tried to speak about it, to write about it. I no longer want to. I have a conscientious objection. Troubled by a mother who could no longer bear being told that her son's handicap was a grace, when it was simply a wound, I felt that a theologian is only a theologian and that what he knows he can take only from the Gospel. So I can say only this: Madam, I do not know where handicap comes from or why it comes. I can only cling to the Gospel. I can only look to Jesus because I believe his words: 'Whoever sees me sees the Father.' I look at Jesus among the children. I watch what he does. I see him taking them in his arms, kissing them, embracing them. And this attitude of Jesus guides me. When I see a child in these conditions, here is the attitude I am shown. Jesus looks at him with *that* look. I try to pay attention to what he does, what he says to parents, what he does with children. That is my measure. I try to do everything that someone who cannot perform miracles can do. And in this way I invite the other person to calm their anxiety by sharing my ignorance."
Not certainties, not theories, but the ability to sense the vastness of suffering—suffering from the child's handicap, from the gaze of society
I agree with Sequeri: this is concrete help, and it is the attitude that anyone offering to accompany another should have. Not certainties. Not theories. But the ability to sense the vastness of suffering caused by the child's handicap, by the social gaze such a situation brings, by the weight of guilt a parent carries when thinking that this child has ruined their life.I returned home with deep gratitude toward Pier Angelo Sequeri, a man of God capable of admitting his ignorance before evil—a healthy ignorance that does not crucify us with the nails of our manufactured "graces." I felt that a whole new perspective was opening before me.
- Manuela Bartesaghi, 1999
