Instead of setting aside people with disabilities—as so often happens—we must give them first place in our churches, our neighborhoods, our workplaces. It is not simple. And yet, what did Jesus do? Open the Gospel of Luke, chapter 4. At his very first sermon, in the synagogue at Nazareth, he takes the floor and chooses a passage from the prophet Isaiah: "The Spirit of the Lord is upon me. He has anointed me and sent me to bring good news to the poor, to heal the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to prisoners and recovery of sight to the blind." When he finishes reading, he says: "Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing."
At once, Jesus goes toward the poor—to the outrage of the lawyers and religious leaders. We find him among all the outcasts of his time: the blind, the deaf and mute, the lame, the lepers—the truly poor of that age, the excluded. It is the messianic sign par excellence. And he adds: "Blessed are those who take no offense at me."
In the eyes of the world, this way of acting is plainly a scandal. For us, by contrast, those who wish to follow in Jesus' footsteps, it is a light. In all our parishes, families, and neighborhoods, following Jesus' example, we must give first place to the poor. But first place also in our hearts—so we treat them always with the respect and tenderness they have the right to expect, precisely because they are weak, fragile, and deeply sensitive. And because we Christians know that in them, we love Jesus himself. I promise you—because I have lived it—if we witness to them God's tenderness, we will be amazed at what we see!
I have witnessed in the "foyer" of the "Forestière," which for four years has welcomed people profoundly handicapped—those unable to walk or feed themselves—the miracles worked by love, by the tenderness of a glance, by gentle words, by the tenderness of touch.
I ask the Holy Spirit to open our hearts—all of us—to face a most delicate question. Jesus did not stop at going to the poor to witness his love. He lived with them, as one of them, sharing their life to the end. It is harder to do as Jesus did—to truly share life with them. To be witnesses of God's tenderness to them, we must not fear taking time to love them. To establish with the poor a bond of trust and true friendship takes time. Faithfulness belongs not to the relative but to the absolute, and faithfulness must be proven. Trust must be earned. Yet this faithfulness full of tenderness can come only from God. In him, tenderness and faithfulness are one. Since it is a gift from God, never stop asking him for it. If you cease to seek it at that double table where Jesus feeds his disciples—the table of his Word and the table of his Body—you will soon lose this gift. I say more: if you cease to contemplate the living presence of Jesus in his Word and in the Eucharist, you will soon cease to contemplate it in the poor. And your faithfulness in tenderness will soon end.
The Poor as Witnesses to God's Tenderness
Now I come to the part of my article that seems most paradoxical: if we place the poor at the center of our communities, if we try to be witnesses of God's tenderness to them, they will be that for us. And there will be this wonderful exchange, willed by God, that John Paul II insisted upon in his Easter message: because if they need us, we need them far more.
For myself, I could not begin to count the graces I have received since living among them. It is like a cure for "detoxification," a purification of the heart. They strip away our masks. We find ourselves for who we are, in truth. And if we come to accept our own limits instead of hiding them, we feel liberated!
It is a first lesson. And I assure you, it is enormous. But there is more.
Philip's Gestures
Here is an example: Philip has been deaf and mute from birth. He is mentally handicapped and slightly paralyzed. No intellectual communication with him is possible. He lives through his eyes—and through his heart.
It is September, time to tidy the kitchen after lunch. Everyone pitches in: sponges, dishcloths, tables to wipe, floors to sweep. Philip, who certainly never helped during his vacation at home, has slipped into the next room—what we grandly call the sitting room—and settled on the couch. Veronica, the community coordinator, goes to call him, but he refuses.
A struggle begins between them. Veronica loses. Christopher, an assistant, goes to help her. Together they manage to calm Philip. And there he is, facing a stack of dishes to put away. At least that much! It is the bare minimum if he wants to be part of the community. Philip, forced and angry, complies, but we all hear that he is furious. When he finishes with the dishes, he leaves, slamming the door violently. The atmosphere is heavy. How will this end?
We are gathered around the table for coffee, and no one feels like having any. Veronica says to me: "Father Stephen, before Philip leaves for work, I want to make peace with him. I'm going to find him." Just then we hear a noise. It is Philip, who with a sudden movement throws himself toward Monica. For a moment I am afraid. But Philip, opening his arms, embraces her. He comes toward me and does the same, and without another word, he goes to work. We are speechless.
In my long life as a priest, I have never witnessed a reconciliation like this: the wonder of the Holy Spirit in the heart of a man, in the heart of the poor.
Michael
I now live in a new L'Arche community, where I celebrate Mass every day at 6:30 p.m. Once a week, at 11:30 a.m., so that outsiders can attend.
From the very first time, Michael approaches me at the moment of Communion. An assistant holds him by the sleeve. Michael has not yet made his First Communion. After Mass he comes to find me in the sacristy. Through halting speech, he makes clear that he wants to receive Communion. I ask him to come see me.
He comes. I show him a book based on a film about Jesus. On the cover, the name of Jesus is written in large letters.
"Can you read this name?" No.
"It is Jesus. Have you heard of Jesus?" "No."
"And God? Have you heard of God?"
At these questions, Michael stares at me with his mouth open. For him it might as well be Chinese. I have to start from zero.
Does He Know Me? Does He Love Me?
So I begin by pointing to everything I see from the window: the sky, the clouds, the trees, the plants, the animals, the sun.
"You see, all these things did not make themselves. God made them. He is all-powerful. He is good. We call him the Good God. And he made all of this for us, and he knows us."
Does he know me? "Yes, of course he knows you. And he sees you always—when you work, he sees you. He knows what you think. He knows what is in your heart, and he loves you."
To establish with them a bond of trust and true friendship takes time
Does he love me?To establish with them a bond of trust and true friendship takes time
Gradually Michael's face grows thoughtful. He has stopped looking at me. His eyes, fixed on the window, gaze into the distance. He remains there, mouth open, while I slowly repeat the same small phrases. It seems he drinks them in literally. I am moved. He leaves like someone who has found a treasure.
Later, his work supervisor told me that Michael said to him in wonder: "Incredible! The Good God sees us, knows us, loves me."
What a welcome for God's Word in that poor heart!
The next day, Michael, who eats lunch with the community of outsiders, comes to find me again while I am finishing my meal. Clearly he is hungry for other things! We continue yesterday's conversation. The same simplicity, the same contemplation. On his part, the same attentiveness. At last, I feel I can say to him: "If God sees us, we cannot see him. He has no body, but we can speak to him. He listens, even without words, in the depths of our hearts. That is why we must close our eyes. Then we see nothing else. There is only him. Shall we try?" We close our eyes—mine and his. A long silence. A few words to God: "If you are here. You listen to us. You love us. Thank you." Michael is more radiant than ever.
Michael Seeks Me Out
When he leaves: "I will come back!"
Indeed, he does not need to be asked twice. He is the one who seeks me out.
"Michael, I am sure you wonder how we know all this about God."
Of course.
"You see, God sent his Son to tell us. And do you know how it happened? He did not arrive from heaven in all his greatness. His father wanted him to be born like us, from a mother."
As I speak, I wonder where I am going, whether he is following. He interrupts me: "Ah, now I understand what you mean. Now I understand." Over the course of several visits, I continue to speak of these things—the circumstances of that wonderful birth of Jesus in the stable at Bethlehem, how shepherds, the poor, were told first.
Treat them always with respect and tenderness... because they are weak, fragile, and deeply sensitive
Treat them always with respect and tenderness... because they are weak, fragile, and deeply sensitive
He listens in rapture. One day, before getting up to leave, he looks me in the eye and says: "You know, I understand everything. It is brilliant!"
Every week he comes regularly to Mass. He sits in the front row. You should see how he watches, how he listens. One day I read the Gospel of the Presentation in the Temple. Michael listens very well, and the next day I explain to him the verse that says "a sword will pierce your own soul too." Mary held the newborn in her arms, and here she is told that the child will be the source of great suffering for her.
I speak of the horror of crucifixion, of the mother standing there witnessing it all, of the body, of the lance and the sword piercing her heart. Michael listens eagerly.
"Is it too long for you, Michael? Too difficult?"
"No, no, I follow you well. Go on."
So I continue and speak of the Resurrection. "God brought his son out of the tomb. He made him live again! God always rewards those who are good. We will all be judged at the end of our lives. It is only right."
The Last Judgment impresses him deeply. But I go on: "You see, he is alive now beside the Father. He also listens to you, and you can pray to him. You just told me that every evening before you fall asleep, you pray to God and ask him to help you. You can also speak to Jesus, because he too is in heaven, and you can speak to his mother because she is in heaven with him too."
"... I Will Keep It!"
You should have seen his face as I spoke!
The emotion is strong. Michael's eyes almost fill with tears. I say to him: "Michael, now it is time to work. It is two o'clock. We must stop."
He gets up with visible reluctance. His face is still stirred by what he has just learned. He looks at me: "You know..." He wants to say something, searching for words more than ever. "Everything you said..."
He searches again, then suddenly, abruptly, he says to me loudly: "... I will keep it!" I am deeply moved myself, and I think of the words about Mary. The Gospel tells us that she too "kept" all these things in her heart.
I could never finish telling all that I lived with Michael during the four months of preparation for his First Communion. This was tied to the promise of resurrection. Michael had just recently lost a sister of twenty, and he grieves deeply. I show him a photograph of my father. "You see, Michael, this is my father. He is dead. He was good too. God will raise him up. I believe one day I will see him again." Michael answers: "Oh! I believe everything you tell me. But do not go to heaven too soon. I need you."
I have witnessed miracles worked by love, by the tenderness of a glance and a touch
I have witnessed miracles worked by love, by the tenderness of a glance and a touch
A Remarkable Catechesis
Michael was to make his First Communion at Christmas. For three days he came to find me again just before I finished lunch. "Let me finish eating, Michael, and then I'll come." When I went out, Michael was no longer there. I went up to my room without understanding. Three minutes later there was a knock on my door. It was Michael.
"Where were you, Michael?"
"In the chapel."
"In the chapel? Why?"
"I was asking Jesus to help me for my First Communion."
In fifty years of priesthood, I have never had a catechesis so remarkable—and it came from a boy who can neither read nor write, and who has great difficulty expressing himself.
Instead of setting aside people with disabilities ... we must give them first place among us
Instead of setting aside people with disabilities ... we must give them first place among us
I spoke, but it is clear the Holy Spirit was opening his heart to my words. I taught, but in faith it was he, this poor boy, who was my teacher.
It is exactly what Jesus said about the little ones. Even now the Father continues to hide his mysteries from the wise and the powerful of this world, and continues to reveal them every day to the little ones.
The poor are truly our teachers. Teachers in faith—and also teachers in love.
- Stephen Desmazières, from O&L no. 57, 1991
