Working at the Synod, Called by Pope Francis
Dear Brothers and Sisters of the Faith and Light community, more than a month has passed since my meeting with Pope Francis. I've had time to sit with the joy and privilege of delivering to him—on behalf of all the people with disabilities who worked with me on the text—our proposals for improving the inclusion of disabled people in the Church during the synod. I want to share with you the feelings this experience has left me with.
Pope Francis involved us all indiscriminately "from the bottom up" and showed genuine interest in each of our individual, concrete lives. He asked us to "speak our minds without filters" about the urgent need to improve the life of the Church. This made us feel welcomed and joyful: men and women actively taking part in building and caring for the communities we belong to. Last summer, we mobilized and connected virtually to begin this journey of communal growth. Thirty-five people from every continent answered Pope Francis's call without hesitation—his request that we help him make God's house more united and universal. Then, on September 20, 21, and 22 (2022), I had the chance to meet four of these people in person. Listening to their stories was deeply enriching. I won't hide from you that becoming aware of how long and difficult the road still is toward overcoming prejudice against those of us living with disability was, at times, quite painful.
I've always felt fairly well integrated into the Christian community, thank God. Only occasionally have I encountered an excess of pitying language—a kind of condescension about the fact that I use a wheelchair and can't walk on my own. I don't deny that my own temperament has sometimes been uncertain and may not have made it easy for others to approach me with full spontaneity. But certainly, a more natural approach from society—one less focused on emphasizing the "difference" of our difficulties—would help us greatly. It would give us more strength to accept our limits and embrace them without feeling out of place, as sometimes happens. A shift in approach would benefit people without disabilities too. We need to educate toward this.
Beyond this recommendation, which I believe is essential, I can testify that I've always felt included in parish activities. Unfortunately, there is the serious and widespread problem of architectural barriers—this too must be said—but my friends have never turned away from finding solutions that work for me. They've never excluded me. I think especially of my youth in the church near my home, with the homeless brothers and sisters at Termini Station, and of the Sant'Egidio community, of which I've been part since 2017. I'm particularly grateful to them. With this community, I've come to understand friendship more deeply, overcoming my own reservations toward people with disabilities different from mine. I've learned by experience that we all have gifts to offer. No one is worth less.
In large part thanks to them, over these difficult two years, I've managed to lift myself from moments of real despair. How? By helping and caring for others. Slowly, I'm learning that we're one big family. Beyond biological motherhood or adoption, there's a wider sense of parenthood and kinship. We can be, in some way, "mothers" and "fathers," "brothers" and "sisters" to all humanity. In everyone we meet Jesus, the friend of the poor and the abandoned.
Yet while my experience has been largely positive, the same is not true for everyone. There are brothers and sisters with cognitive difficulties who are still denied the sacraments. It's deeply disheartening to see that it depends on the mindset of whichever priest happens to be there—that the will to avoid unjust discrimination is not always, and not everywhere, present. Still, seeds of hope and change are already visible and tangible. During those three intense days, I had the fortune to meet Claire-Marie, a remarkable woman consecrated to religious life with Down syndrome. She's 37, lives in Lourdes, and travels the world bringing her testimony to schools—her message of faith and love for life, spent alongside the "last," the poor, the rejected and discriminated against. Then there's Justin, an Australian priest who, despite being almost totally blind from birth, has broken through the mental barriers around him and lived out his vocation as a man married to God, becoming a priest and specializing in canon law. He does this precisely to promote a theology that doesn't exclude disabled people but sees them as fully human subjects, children of God like everyone else, called to participate and contribute in society and in the Church. People who can care for others too and don't have to be exclusively on the receiving end of help. Grasping this is crucial for moving beyond a purely charitable logic that doesn't make us with disabilities the protagonists of our own lives.
Pope Francis himself didn't hide his strong unease and embarrassment at the stubborn behavior of certain Church leaders who isolate disabled faithful. For me, it was moving to thank him for involving us directly in building a more inclusive Church. Our meeting happened on September 21, 2022, after the audience in St. Peter's Square. His humility almost moved me to tears—not because I think the Pope can't or shouldn't be humble, but because it was beautiful to hear him say: "It is I who thank you, and I ask you to pray for me." That's beautiful. Because in that simple exclamation lies his entire message, which he repeats daily and often: "We are all in the same boat, all equally and tenderly loved by God. No one is left out. We are the Church… all together." To know that someone truly believes this gives comfort and reassurance, despite everything.
In conclusion: I don't think real change of perspective—one free from bias, prejudice, and discrimination toward God's varied people—is possible unless we start first by actually knowing the unique and diverse stories of people (which we must treasure as gifts), rather than engaging in purely abstract talk divorced from the reality we live in. Walk well with God.
Giulia Cirillo (Rome)
Are You There?
We wanted to know if it's possible to participate in a Faith and Light summer camp. I was part of the Santa Melania community in Rome. The community no longer meets, but even though we've gone our separate ways, some of us have been friends for 30 years and keep in touch. For now I'm not interested in joining another community, but I would really love to go to a camp.
Silvia Pontesilli (Rome)
True Friends
I'm Paola, mother of Giovanni, Ernesto, and Ludovico Grossi. I'm a grandmother, though I don't have much time with them except on weekends. I took up activities at a center suited to my age—I'm 81 now. My life has changed since I joined the Girasole senior center. I'm active; people say I'm a little songbird. I sing in the choir with other members and do gentle fitness online. When I get home, I look forward to catering every day. I just want to add one thing: Giovanni weighs on my heart—not for health reasons, but because he needs something to fill his life. He needs true friends.
Paola Pisenti (Rome)
It All Revolves Around Them
One Saturday in November, about sixty of us from Faith and Light groups gathered outside the National Theatre in Milan to see the musical Sister Act. We were euphoric, happy, thrilled at the chance to get out and spend a carefree few hours together. We came from Cesano Boscone, Rho, Gratosoglio, Milano, and Carugate. Everything revolves around our young people with disabilities, and there's so much to consider. Wheelchair accessibility and routes, managing transportation—some can use public transit, but friends pitch in to make sure everyone is looked after. It's certainly a lot of organizing work, but then comes the real reward: everyone having fun, doing things we love. Music lifts us up. It's life, adrenaline. Now and then we need music to recharge and renew ourselves. Every gathering becomes a celebration and a chance for new friendships. We welcome everyone with open arms.
Flora Atlante (Milan)
Renewing Our Communities
On Sunday, October 16, the Faith and Light community of San Pietro in Avenza lived a moment of renewal: the election of the new leadership team and a new coordinator. Guided by Lucia Casella's experience and Egiziana Cenderelli, the vice-coordinator of Kimata, all community members introduced themselves again, sharing their faith journey and their experience in Faith and Light. The choice fell on our dear friend Tiziana, who has been with us for nearly twenty years. She accepted her role with joy, with the usual anxiety and agitation, but also with a desire to try and commit to caring for everyone. We thanked the Lord and Mary for the gift of this renewal, which will bring fresh energy to our community's journey. Special thanks went to Antonella, our outgoing coordinator, who for more than ten years guided and cared for the community like a family, helping it grow and growing with it.
Silvia Tamberi (Avenza)
On My 63rd Birthday
I received so many birthday wishes—on WhatsApp, on Facebook, really so many. I felt cherished. In the afternoon three friends came to visit. The first arrived around 3 p.m. with nougat (and a lovely chat), and the other two at 4:20. The timing wasn't random—I was born at 4:30—and then, the finishing touch, a video call from Flora and other friends right at 4:30. My joy was overwhelming. We took photos to remember, then my party began. We blew out the candles and ate cake and talked a bit. Then around 6:30 they left. But it wasn't over. That evening, Paolo Lucchi and Nives posted a link in the games group saying they needed to explain some important things. We all logged on—there were so many of us, and we were ready to hear what it was about. And then—the meeting was a surprise for me! So many friends giving me a magical evening. I told them a bit about my story. You know, even now I feel moved, surrounded by friends. The Faith and Light family is proof of great love, where everyone gathers and gives you the strength to smile and the desire to be together. Because of that gathering, I had a wonderful birthday.
Nora Buccheri (Milan)
To the Honorable Minister for Disabilities
I'm the parent of a 66-year-old daughter who has been 100% disabled since birth. Among many problems, there's one that keeps me awake at night: every day I have to collect receipts for all household expenses and then submit them to the guardian judge through an endless and complicated procedure. At my age—I'm 88—and my wife's age—she's 84—this task has become genuinely difficult and exhausting. My greatest wish would be not to have to do this procedure, or at least to simplify it and cut through the red tape.
Agostino Papagni (Rome)