"If I said what I really think..." You would have had to see Pope Francis's face to fill in those dots. He was visibly angry—furious, even—at priests who turn away people with disabilities. On June 11, 2016, speaking to those genuinely working to overcome "misunderstandings, rejection, and discrimination" in parishes toward the most vulnerable, he held nothing back. Starting with children. And yes, the Pope said plainly, some priests hide behind excuses: "I'm just not trained" or, worse, "They won't understand anyway!" That priest needs to "convert himself!" Francis said bluntly. What would the Pope tell a priest who refuses to welcome everyone—including people with intellectual disabilities? "Close the church door, please! It's all or nothing. The problem isn't them. It's you."
Clear words. And he meant them. There is no public gathering, no audience, no Mass where Pope Francis fails to give people with disabilities "the place of honor." He welcomes them with embraces and, above all, with a genuine willingness to listen. That same June 11, 2016, in the Paul VI Hall, a small group of girls with Down syndrome—yes, all girls—decided to go give the Pope a kiss. During his speech, no less. Francis didn't erect any protocol barriers. He simply set aside his prepared text, smiled, and welcomed each one of them with a big hug and a kiss. "Come here, come here," he said to the first girl. "Look at this courageous one. She's not afraid. She takes a risk. She knows that difference is a treasure. She takes a risk and has taught us a lesson. No one will ever discriminate against her. She knows how to stand up for herself!"
Words and gestures that say more than hours of debate. It's no wonder, then, that some of Pope Francis's most powerful "teaching moments" come through his personal encounters with children with Down syndrome and others. Just like that day in the Paul VI Hall. It's hardly coincidence that such scenes keep happening, spontaneously. On October 13 recently, in the solemn Clementina Hall of the apostolic palace in the Vatican, Gemma—with the unstoppable force of her four years and a passion for performance—decided her place was right next to the Pope. The monsignor in charge of the Pontifical Household picked her up, smiling, and gave her his seat. And there she sat for the entire meeting, joking and chattering with her friend, the Pope. Nothing could be simpler. Nothing more natural.
A few days later, it was the same with Benedetta. She wanted to tell Francis personally that she was about to receive Confirmation. Benedetta had already met the Pope before—she'd been part of that "courageous little group" in the Paul VI Hall—and she knew perfectly well she would be welcomed. And heard. Like a good friend, she told the Pope about her worry over a small cut above his eyebrow and on his left cheekbone. On the popemobile in Cartagena, Colombia, he'd hurt himself on the vehicle's glass covering while trying to wave to a child. Benedetta had seen him on television with a bandage and was genuinely concerned. So much so that she kept asking whether his friend's wound had finally healed. When she saw him again, she made sure to ask him directly. "All better!" the Pope reassured her, then embraced her, laughing, when he heard Benedetta's answer: "But are you absolutely positively sure?" That's what friends do, isn't it?
So here is the heart of these particular "teaching moments" from Pope Francis—offered and proposed to all of us through the help of his "friends" Gemma and Benedetta: learn to welcome and listen to everyone, without exception, knowing that "difference is always a treasure."
Giampaolo Mattei, 2018
