This is the story of James, a man of thirty who lives in an Arca community. He has been with us for eighteen years, totally dependent on others for care. He cannot speak. He does not smile. His inner life remains a mystery to us, locked away in silence.
His presence among us—especially during prayer and the Eucharist—might seem utterly foreign to what we experience together. And yet, everyone who accompanies James, particularly at Mass, testifies to something remarkable. Slowly, quietly, a question began to take shape, growing more urgent with time: Should James participate in the sacraments?
James was baptized. He is a member of Christ, and we are all members of the same body together. Our daily life with him expresses, as fully as it can, this profound and mysterious solidarity in Love. So why should James be excluded from the Eucharistic table—that very sacrament which constitutes us as the body of Christ?
We returned again and again to Romans 12 and 1 Corinthians 12. They remind us that the body is made of different members, many of them different; that the weakest members are necessary; that the less noble members are treated with the greatest care. "God has so arranged the body, giving the greater honor to the inferior member, that there may be no discord in the body, but that the members may have the same care for one another" (1 Cor. 12:24-25). The suffering or joy of one member becomes the suffering or joy of the entire body. What light!
God has so arranged the body, giving the greater honor to the inferior member, that there may be no discord in the body, but that the members may have the same care for one another.
(1 Cor. 12:24-25)
We had to work through something difficult: the appearance that James was completely unmoved by sacramental language, with no visible progress in him. The question kept returning: "But what will communion add to his life?" The answer, we admit, does not come from our limited theological reflection or pastoral wisdom. It rests in the mystery of God, who works in secret within the human heart.
God has kept for himself "knowledge of the heart," we often say at Arca, remembering a thought dear to Father Thomas. God's action is all the deeper and more hidden when it meets someone too weak and unable to grasp it with their own mind. Is this not why the Church baptizes newborns? Is it not the same trust in God's power—working deep within the human heart—that moves the Church to celebrate the Sacrament of Penance, the anointing of the sick, even for someone who has apparently lost consciousness?
We cannot doubt, then, the measureless work of Love that Jesus places in the heart of someone small, someone poor like James, through the sacrament itself.
What we asked instead was: "What might James's communion mean for our community?" The answers were luminous, especially from those who live beside James day after day. One said: "When I bathe James, a song comes to mind: God has placed his body in our hands. The mystery of James draws me closer to the mystery of the Eucharist." Another: "Our communion of life calls us to a higher communion—the sacramental one—and I notice James is always calmer at Mass."
We came to see that for these weaker members, we must supply the same substitute faith and love that parents provide when they baptize their children.
Because James cannot give even the smallest sign of his desire or refusal to receive communion, we dare to believe that it is Jesus who desires this union.
Have we not fallen into the habit of thinking that desire comes from us? "I desire, and so I go to receive communion." But should that "I" not be Jesus himself? Is he not the one who comes to meet us first? This is what we learn from James. Renewed in our participation in the Eucharist, we feel a deeper love for him.
* * *
We celebrated our brother's first communion by giving him a drop of the "blood of Christ," since he could not hold a piece of the Host. And we celebrated this wonderful gratuitousness of Love—God's own initiative, offering himself to James. We thanked God in a new way for showing us the mystery of this Body we form together, called to become the Eucharistic Body.
We considered whether Confirmation made sense for James. We saw no greater difficulty than for four other members who communicate in very limited ways.
We could not doubt the immeasurable work of Love that Jesus places, through the sacrament, in the heart of someone small, someone poor like James.
These brothers and sisters are among the poor. God knows the faithfulness of their prayer and their love. They are our friends. We believe they are God's privileged ones, given to us so that we might grow with them in a covenant of Love illuminated by the Beatitudes. This love, lived together, is part of the mystery of the Church and builds up the Church. For this reason, we asked our Bishop to anoint them with holy oil and confirm them as members of the Church.
None of these candidates for confirmation wrote a personal letter, as is customary in parishes. None professed their faith in words or committed themselves to responsibilities in the Church. We—the whole community, together with them, as one Body whose members are diverse and many—professed our faith and asked the Bishop for "confirmation" to live our vocation. That day, our entire community opened ourselves more fully to the gift of the Spirit, preparing ourselves for the confirmation of our smallest members.
M. Prunier, 1996 - Shadows and Light no. 110
(Priest companion of the community from 1979 to 1993)