I want to say something today to people who are handicapped: "It's true—you have suffered greatly. Your heart and your body have been wounded. But I wish these words from Isaiah were spoken directly to you. They are words that God speaks to each of us, whether we are strong or weak: 'I love you. You are precious in my eyes.' Perhaps you have suffered terribly. Perhaps you have learned that many people on the street look at you with scorn. But I want to tell you something: 'You matter, and God is close to you.'"
Let me tell you a beautiful short story. A boy like Aurelia made his First Communion. He was twelve years old, and the Mass was lovely, with beautiful songs. His mother and uncle were there. The uncle said to his sister—the boy's mother—and the boy was close enough to hear: "The ceremony was very beautiful. Too bad he didn't understand any of it." The boy heard, turned to his mother, and said: "Don't be upset, Mom. Jesus loves me as I am." He had understood.
We must ask God to free us from discouragement. Perhaps the deepest meaning of Fede e Luce, our entire organization, our exchange groups, our meetings—perhaps it all exists so we can say to Aurelia and so many others like her: "It matters enormously that you live. You have something to give to each of us. We need you."
A few years ago, our community welcomed Antonio, and I want to tell you about him. He is twenty-six years old, but very fragile. His lungs function poorly, and he must always wear an oxygen mask. He cannot walk or speak, and he cannot use his hands. He is completely dependent.
Antonio lives in one of our homes in France with six other disabled people and six caregivers.
If you come visit us and approach him and say "Antonio!"—Antonio will look at you, and his face will break into the most beautiful smile. His eyes will begin to shine.
The fragility of his body does not express the power of tenderness that flows from him. In Antonio there is no anger, no rage, no depression. In this young man there is something luminous.
It is true that Antonio is not generous in the usual sense. He cannot do much. He has nothing material to give. He cannot even speak. But he has a quality of love that is truly particular. He does not have the love of generosity—he cannot do things for others. But he has the love of trust, and the love of trust is very special. To be able to say "I trust you"—that is a gift of the heart, a gift of the soul. Perhaps many of us have the love of generosity. We do many things for others. Antonio possesses a different kind of love: the love of trust, the gift of his heart.
If you visit Antonio and speak with his caregivers and ask them, "How do you live here?"—you know what they will tell you? "Living with Antonio has transformed me. My whole life has been transformed. I came from a world full of competition, where I always had to be first, always had to win in sports, always had to climb higher. In my studies I had to prove my worth constantly. I came from a world full of conflict. I was forced to build defenses inside myself to protect me. Antonio breaks down these protections. He draws me into a world of tenderness, a world of real relationship. He accepts me, and I accept him. I am discovering that I have the right to be myself, because Antonio accepts me as I am. I don't need to prove anything to him. I don't need to show him I'm smart or capable.
In my studies I had to prove my worth constantly. I came from a world full of conflict. I was forced to build defenses inside myself to protect me.
Antonio simply accepts me, and I accept him. And I am discovering the Gospel. It is as if Antonio is inviting me to enter the kingdom of Jesus, which is the kingdom of Love. I am discovering an essential phrase of Jesus. At one point he takes a child in his arms and says: 'Whoever welcomes one of these little ones welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes the one who sent me.'"
Don't you find those words of Jesus extraordinary? If they are true, they will change us. His extraordinary word means this: to touch Antonio is to touch Jesus. We stand before something remarkable—something that could transform everything in our lives. Antonio has within him the power to change people. He has accepted himself in an extraordinary way. Sometimes I struggle to accept myself, but Antonio is a teacher. In this, he shows me a path.
People with disabilities have a message for us.
Let me tell you the story of Renato.
Renato doesn't like to work. Instead of staying at our Center where he was supposed to work, he would go out on the highway and hitch rides. He's a handsome young man. A car stops, the driver rolls down the window, and Renato shoves his whole torso through the opening and shouts in the driver's ear: "Give me a cigarette!" The driver frantically searches for cigarettes, looks for money to buy them, anything—just to get this awkward body out of his car so he can drive away as fast as possible. I think Renato made more money hitchhiking than he did in our workshop. We convinced him to go to another community where the highway was farther away.
One day Renato and some friends went to a monastery. They were reflecting on Scripture, and the passage was from the third chapter of Revelation. Jesus is speaking: "I stand at the door and knock. If you hear my voice and open the door, I will come in and eat with you, and you with me." Jesus knocks on the door of our hearts. As they were reading this text, Renato raised his hand and said: "I know what we'll eat when Jesus knocks on my door." And he described the whole menu—pasta and everything.
Everyone laughed. Then, when the laughter stopped, Renato said: "And Jesus will say something to me."
"What will he say?"
"He will take me in his arms and say: you are my beloved son."
Isn't that an extraordinary definition of prayer? "Jesus will take me in his arms and say: you are my beloved son, you are my beloved daughter."
(Text not reviewed by the author)