Olga Burrows Gammarelli, an English woman who became Italian and mother to Sabina, who has severe disabilities, recounts in her characteristically pragmatic style a week of international training for community leaders. Ceili Horsburgh, a Scot, testifies to her family and community experience of ecumenism.
That's Not How You Do It!
Faith and Light leadership training course, Ilkley, GB — August 23–31, 1986
Nine days. Intense ones, heavy with spiritual content. About forty of us gathered from all over the world. Many came from Scotland and England because of the proximity, but others traveled from far away—Australia, America, the Philippines. From Italy, there was Anna and me.
Most of those present were already community leaders: group coordinators, priests. But some were newcomers, sent specifically to learn. There was plenty to learn, especially for those new to the work. Over nine days together we had lectures on the spirit of Faith and Light, but also practical instruction—different techniques on structure, the three moments of a gathering, the components of a group, the animation team, and so on.
Technically speaking, Anna and I didn't have much to learn. We'd both been group leaders for quite some time. There were new songs and games to pick up, more engaging methods for organizing prayer meetings. But the most brilliant thing we learned, in my view, was how to pass this knowledge on to others in a way that lets them enjoy the learning and actually remember what they've learned. Every technical talk was followed by a practical exercise—mime or something similar—that each participant had to do.
We were divided into working groups of eight. After each lecture, we'd break into our groups, dig deeper into what had been presented, and then—depending on the topic—we'd do our exercise.
Take the lecture on "the animation team." The organizers had prepared a skit showing exactly how not to run an animation team meeting. In this fake gathering, the actors acted out every possible mistake. Someone arriving late, someone still eating a sandwich, someone lost in thought about their own affairs. Then they started arguing and stormed out one by one, slamming the door. When it was over, we participants were asked to point out the problems and suggest improvements. We thought we were done—then Marie Vincente said: "Now your turn."
Our group had to act out the meeting done properly. I ended up playing the leader after we'd organized the "correct" version in ten minutes.
After the lecture on "how to elect a community leader," we had to put the system into practice by electing a leader in each of our groups. Every group had an outside observer; in mine it was Roland. We spent a lot of time gradually eliminating candidates. In the end, I was elected and had to serve as group leader for the rest of the course.
This idea of immediately putting what you've learned into practice—it was brilliant. For one thing, nobody falls asleep during the lecture. There's no room for boredom. Everyone is pushed to do their best so as not to look foolish. We were constantly stimulated. I never felt tired. I could have gone another nine days.
A course like this needs qualified people running it and demands serious preparation. The local group handled the organization, while the technical content had been worked out by the international team. That team included Marianne Abramson, Marie Vincente, and Roland—all members of the international council—along with Jean Vanier, David Wilson, and Marie Hélène, who rotated in.
Olga Gammarelli
«Faith and Light believes that the person who is vulnerable and handicapped can become a source of unity in society and in the church and also between churches and nations.»
(From the Faith and Light Charter — III, 5)
Two Yet One: Perhaps a Model
Testimony by Ceili Horsburgh at the international gathering in Santo Domingo, 1986
As I prepared these thoughts, I asked myself what might be worth sharing with you about how I live ecumenism. As I usually do when I talk about Faith and Light, I started with my own family.
I'm thirty-two, married with two children. I met my husband, Alan, eleven years ago. Alan is my rock, my anchor—at Faith and Light too. Without his help, I don't know if I'd be here with you now. When I met Alan for the first time, I encountered different Christian traditions. Alan isn't Catholic; he's Presbyterian. Like any couple who meet and sense they've found the right person, we began to talk about our future together. Looking back, I see that ecumenism has always had a place in my life. Living in the small town of Kelso where Catholics are a minority—perhaps 150 of us—my friends at school and at home came from different churches. I grew up surrounded by ecumenism. At school, all of us understood that when there were year-end services or special Christian celebrations, we'd have to separate and go to our own churches. But the rest of the time, we shared our religious feelings together in common prayer and assembly.
In my marriage, Alan and I try to live ecumenism every day. He understands my commitment to my faith, and together we work with our children not to build barriers around our different religions but to celebrate what is good and positive. Catholics and Presbyterians can share a life. At Faith and Light, sometimes sharing is difficult. We Catholics need to receive the Eucharist as our daily bread, and sometimes we struggle to understand why it matters so much not to have Mass, and we suffer with our Protestant brothers and sisters. The first time I felt this was when the Scottish Faith and Light communities celebrated together a service of the Church of Scotland. Walking into the church, we were met with a warm and friendly welcome. As always, it was wonderful to see friends from different places and to sing the Faith and Light songs together. When the service began, I had to pay closer attention than usual. A sense of witnessing something different began to settle in me, and I think I felt something like what our non-Catholic friends feel when they attend our Mass. The service was beautiful—many readings and gestures that brought us closer together. At the breaking of bread, we watched our friends participate in their communion, and what bound us all was the symbolic gesture of passing the cup to one another, drinking or abstaining. There was no sense of division in that moment, but rather an awareness of letting something of ourselves go and receiving a new sense of sharing.
In my role as coordinator of the Scottish Faith and Light communities, I often encounter issues that arise from different religious traditions. My marriage to Alan has helped me in many ways. I'm often asked how I can understand what it means to "share" or to be "divided."
Living together in difference
Living together in differenceHonestly, my union with Alan has given me the lived experience to help our communities share across their differences—especially when tensions arise between Catholics and non-Catholics.
Alan and I have learned to accept each other as we are, respecting each other's beliefs without trying to convert the other. I don't expect Alan to come to Mass with me, but I expect him to come along and pick me up afterward. On occasions that matter—for me or for the children—I know he'll kneel beside me to be with us in body and spirit. I don't want to change him. I love him because he's Alan, and that's all there is to it. I believe he loves me because I'm Ceili, not because I'm Catholic or someday might join his church. He accepts me as I am—with my passion for music, my religion, my ideals, my lively temperament. I accept him as he is—with his steady practicality, his religion, his passion for rugby. No matter how hard he tries to convince me that rugby is more beautiful than music, he never will. And I know he'll always prefer watching a rugby match to listening to Mozart. Yet we love each other, and neither of us will change or wants to change.
I think my family is like a small Faith and Light community
I think my family is like a small Faith and Light communityThis is normal for a married couple, at least after the first years. At the beginning you might think your husband or wife has many good qualities but that you can change what you don't like about them. But after years together, you understand that being close to each other matters far more than trying to change. My marriage is like ecumenism—living ecumenism: two yet one, one yet two. Perhaps a model for the churches.
And then there are the children.
What Alan and I are to ourselves and to each other doesn't matter as much as it once did, because we have two small ones to care for. The first is Anna, our adopted daughter, who needs the support and example of our love. Anything wrong between Alan and me would shake her—and it does shake her. When we have disagreements—and we do—they have to be resolved between us. We must show her one face, not two versions of the same truth. She needs to see one direction. And now even more, since we have our little David, a child with Down syndrome, abandoned by his parents two days after birth. He must be surrounded by a community of love; he needs this; he deserves this.
I think my family is like a small Faith and Light community. At the center is little David, our handicapped child. Beside him is his older sister, who carries a hidden handicap—she is adopted—and together, I as a Catholic and Alan as a Presbyterian, we must be for them a shield and a harbor of love. With us is Father McCann, who helped us so much to welcome little David and who is friend and support to all four of us. Together we must make a place for little David.
Perhaps at Faith and Light too we must take each other "for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do us part."
Ceili Horsburgh