Anyone who reads the Gospel sees a God who wants all to be saved—a Father who not only goes searching for the lost sheep, but leaves the door of his fold open to anyone who wishes to find rest there. We priests, together with our parish communities, bear an awesome responsibility: not to betray God's hopes or the hopes of those who cross that threshold seeking to experience and taste the sweetness of his home.
For three years, our parish community has lived this mystery of welcoming a young man, a resident at an A.C.L.I. group home.
Pasquale walked into church without a sound and waited for us to notice him.
He carried the weight of terrible suffering—violence endured in childhood, and later in a psychiatric hospital. He was not outwardly appealing. He had lost teeth. His face bore sharp, geometric lines. His speech was often hard to understand, limited and halting.
Once we looked past these deceptive first impressions, Pasquale revealed himself as someone radiating an enormous hunger for tenderness and love. A few moments tell the story.
After morning Mass, the sacristan and I usually had coffee at a café. One day we decided to invite him. His joy was so great that he bounded toward us, deliberately bumping his head against a lamppost, and burst into indescribable expressions of delight.
From that point on, Pasquale gradually found welcome in the neighborhood. Where once he had been mocked and caricatured, he became the young man who awakened in others the need for gratuity and genuine human connection.
We priests, together with our parish communities, bear an awesome responsibility: not to betray God's hopes
We priests, together with our parish communities, bear an awesome responsibility: not to betray God's hopes
He found his role in the parish almost at once: he felt called to be an altar server. Within weeks, he had learned the movements and gestures of serving Mass so thoroughly that he considered himself an expert. His faithfulness meant he never missed a single Eucharist, and sometimes he insisted on monopolizing the role among his fellow servers.
The choir boys, the catechism children, the elderly women who had initially objected—soon the whole community noticed him. And without falling into hollow pity, they welcomed him as he was, with all his limitations, and responded to those open hands of his reaching out to forge the only alliances that can truly satisfy the deep longings of the human heart.
Pasquale won everyone's heart during the prayers of the faithful, when he would ask for prayers for his relatives or speak in simple, direct words that came from the depths: "Let us pray. Lord, hear us. Amen."
His integration into parish life resembles a plant that came back into bloom under the warmth of acceptance and love, which he returned through countless meaningful moments.
One evening from the balcony of his home, across from the church, he dared to scold some tourists who, careless of the public gardens, had lain down on ornamental plants. Unforgettable was the sight of a Moroccan man who came to me seeking help to find work. In a moment of despair, thinking of his homeland and his house, he came near to tears. With intuition, Pasquale stepped in to console him with words like "Children cry." It was an encouraging invitation to hope, despite all the evidence against him.
More than once, without being asked, Pasquale kept me company before the Blessed Sacrament. His simple faith was nourished by the prayer of the community around him. His experience of God turns on this network of bonds he had woven. For Pasquale, God is "the Friend"—because he had known him as the Good Samaritan, bent over him to heal the wounds that others, throughout his life, had inflicted.
And now, looking back on Pasquale's story, I see how much good a parish community can do for these small ones when it refuses to label them, but welcomes them with their limits, shares in their struggles and their wounds, and dares to challenge a lazy and indifferent world—awakening in hearts that goodness and dignity that make us truly human.
And from the other side, these small ones are a gift from God to the community. Pasquale demanded a place in God's House. He won the affection of all—not because he was handsome, but because he showed his need to find roots through genuine and authentic bonds of friendship.
He has given, and continues to give, testimony to God's faithfulness through the small things of each day. Through his presence, a "Fede e Luce" community was born in our parish.
As pastor, I thank the Lord for letting me meet Pasquale on my path as a priest. He is a sign of God's love, which rebuilds the Church through the humility of human means and the greatness of his grace.
Don Vito Palmisano and the parish community of S. Maria Amalfitana, Monopoli (Bari), 1988
