An Extraordinary Audience at St. Peter's
from "L'Avvenire," October 27, 1975
They presented the Pope with a golden book. Two thousand handicapped pilgrims wrote it—with help from their parents and friends from Faith and Light—crowding around Paul VI yesterday afternoon in the brilliantly lit basilica of St. Peter's. The book holds prayers and handwritten accounts in fine script, recorded on parchment pages. Each group had written down their own experiences of love and suffering, chosen as companions to those with disabilities; the prayers speak of faith and hope—a faith and hope that ring with joy, with hunger to live, with the desire to share with all the world the love that fills the heart of one for whom pain is a constant companion. To spend an afternoon in the midst of such a mass of handicapped people is an experience that troubles you and makes you think. Above all, it is a challenge. A challenge to our selfishness and our indifference in the face of those who suffer. When the Pope came down from his portable chair into the middle of this unusual group of pilgrims, there was a reaching out of hands. The Pope greeted them, bestowed caresses, gave blessings—but his face this time was tense. The reflection of all that suffering cast a shadow across his features.
In the Heart of God
from "L'Osservatore Romano," October 30, 1975
If the Sunday afternoon audience at St. Peter's was among the most beautiful, most moving of the Holy Year, it was chiefly because of the spirit of joy that all the groups expressed in unison—through their alleluias, their singing, sometimes their uncontrolled cries, expressions of that spark of intelligence, greater or lesser, that shines through their outwardly wounded personalities and is nurtured by the love of those close to them and their friends.
How many caresses we witnessed—endless caresses—given to these brothers hungry for affection, needing to feel protected and in truth deeply loved and helped in every way. Just before Paul VI appeared in St. Peter's, all the lights of the basilica suddenly blazed on: a wave of light, like the sun that a young handicapped boy had drawn one day, bursting victorious from behind the clouds to light the boat, the ark of the great community of Faith and Light, which became the symbol of the association. But the true light burned in their faces, in their eyes.
When the Pope took one of their small children into his lap, a voice spoke into the microphone: "In this moment all of us are presented to the Pope, and the Pope embraces all of us." The answer was a thunderous "Alleluia."
The emotion was for the others, for us watching, for the Pope caressing the misshapen but so expressive head of this small member of Christ's body who sat with him, and the others whom he managed to reach in a long pause. For them there was only joy.
One of their mottoes—"Smile: God loves you"—was given weight by the Pope's brief and moving words spoken in the basilica: "God loves you, Jesus loves you, we too love you!" The Pope said: "God dwells in your heart." A mother afterward remarked: "They understand it. They know—they are closer to God's heart than we are."
When the Pope left the audience, on his white cape was the symbol of the Ark—a sign of how deeply he held them in his heart, as he showed again the next day by sending a most tender letter "to our dear handicapped members of Faith and Light gathered in Rome, to their parents and friends," and on Tuesday evening, speaking affectionate words again from the window of his study to the pilgrimage assembled for the Vigil of Light.
Virgilio L., 1975
I Discovered Liturgy as Celebration!
from "Attualità" of Velletri
The pilgrimage of the handicapped, a chosen portion of God's people, seemed to me, for all the variety of encounters, a catechesis of goodness that prompted the Church—bishops, priests, and lay faithful present—to meditate on a new dimension of the Christian message: that of reality itself.
I felt simpler during the great concelebrations, especially at St. Paul's, so much so that I found joy in clapping my hands to the rhythm of the singing, united with many brothers and with all the bishops, filled with the same peace. I tasted fraternity singing the refrain "hands in hands" as we formed a gigantic chain that, starting from the altar, encircled the assembly.
When we exchanged the sign and kiss of peace with our sick brothers, I saw under a new light that affirmation of Jesus, read so many times: "Whatever you did for the least of my brothers, you did for me."
The Church itself seemed to me to become more humble and more authentic when, during the celebrations of fraternity, bishops and so many priests, caught up in the same joy, erased distinctions and took on the behavior of brothers to the least among us—leaping, clapping their hands, waving their arms and rejoicing. I could not help but compare this to certain formal ways we exchange signs of peace and joy in other celebrations, where there are gestures but no substance.
In those moments I glimpsed the beauty of the church of the Acts of the Apostles: humble, simple, and authentic, where all were united in love and joy.
For this reason the handicapped, who certainly have a mission to fulfill in the Church, went to Rome as humble disciples accompanied by friends and educators in the role of teachers. But in Rome something overturned.
The teachers felt themselves become disciples, because they learned more deeply the meaning of love, of help, and of prayer. The disciples, on the other hand, taught salutary lessons in humility, calling us back to the memory that "unless we become like children" we will never enter the kingdom of heaven.
It is one of the tricks the Spirit plays on those who believe, even in the Church, that their only role is to teach and not also to learn. For this reason it serves us all to remember that other saying of Jesus: "The last shall be first and the first shall be last."
Don Pietro B., 1975
From the Same Newspaper
Armed with bags of food, we made our way to the Flaminio stadium for the Feast of Friendship. Each group presented a folk performance, involving everyone present in songs and pantomime. Countless balloons in every color were distributed to the crowd, who sent them soaring skyward with cries of joy—up into the splendid blue sky Rome offered us. Each string carried behind it a wish, a prayer, a hope. Together they were the symbol of love.
Four Days of Pilgrimage
from "La Sesia," Vercelli, November 7, 1975
During those four days of pilgrimage, alongside the solemn moments, the Vercelli delegation tasted above all the joy—as shown by the words of some of the children's companions. Words that are a grave indictment of a society that marginalizes more and more those who most need affection: "If normal people realized that a look of pity and condescension amounts to a crime, while one of genuine sympathy is worth more than a thousand charitable handouts, perhaps they would behave differently."
And this different behavior is nothing other than acting with naturalness and in full accord with the handicapped, who need to feel useful and not pitied. Our changed behavior, following the example given by Faith and Light and made concrete in these four days of pilgrimage, will be the greatest recognition of their dignity as human beings.
A True Celebration of Joy
from "Giornale di Cuneo," 1975
When the group from Cuneo arrived in Rome—children with disabilities, their families, educators, and friends—the eternal city presented itself to our eyes as Holy Year pilgrims with all the traffic of the world's great metropolises. Indifference seemed the chief characteristic of those we encountered on the streets, on the trams, in the squares.
But this first impression was contradicted, for we could see how the indifference of some served only to heighten the freedom and naturalness of others, in a climate of mutual respect.
Sunday, October 26: St. Peter's Square. About six thousand people from the most distant parts of the world.
Each group carried a banner at whose foot gathered both the healthy and the suffering, yet all with joy on their faces. To the human eye it might appear a depressing assembly—a sum of physical or mental disabilities weighing upon those who were well. But that was not the reality, because it was not the healthy giving to the disabled, but the reverse. Through the joy that shone from their faces, through the serene conviction of feeling accepted for who they are—that was what moved us. This pilgrimage was for all who took part in it a joyful encounter, a celebration of joy itself.
Torches at St. Peter's
Tuesday, October 28
A thousand thousand fireflies
trembling with love,
rise into the sky
singing praise to the Lord.
Such tiny flames
that light up the face,
where now there blooms,
joy and a smile.
We have come together
with banners and flags
and our hearts
know no borders!
Now we feel
one another rejoicing...
We remain forever,
united and close.
In the starry vault
a voice rises...
Alleluia, alleluia,
Alleluia to the Cross!
Otello (a friend from Rome)