Cristina is a 33-year-old woman with Down syndrome who has become a nun. La Repubblica reported her story on August 3rd. One sentence stopped me cold: "What everyone, even the most skeptical, ends up appreciating in her is the balance and trust she manages to instill in those who suffer." That is no small thing for a nun—and we who carry the standard number of chromosomes should aspire to do the same. Cristina's gift is not hers alone. Many like her possess it, too. Though we have rushed to label them as "mentally retarded," they carry a capacity we lack: the ability, often without knowing it, to be bearers of peace.
I find myself often thinking, when I sit near one of them and am moved by their kindness, of the first Beatitude Jesus proclaimed: "Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven."
I have returned to this verse many times. The learned offer their interpretations. But I prefer to consecrate it to our friends who so often unsettle us with their gift for radiating peace.
Free as they are from the hollow conventions we pride ourselves on, they can ask a stranger: "Why are you sad? What happened to you?"—leaving them stunned by such unexpected insight. They know how to sit in silence, close beside someone who is suffering. They do not resort to words of comfort, which are so often hollow. Instead, with a winning smile, they invite us to do the same—perhaps because of a comparison that arises naturally: the invitation comes from you, who could complain of your condition, and yet you do not.
They can stop a senseless quarrel—with nothing but a look full of tenderness and trust. They cannot bear raised voices, insults. Sometimes they cry genuinely for what they are forced to see and hear. They ask, insistently, that it stop. That we make peace.
They know nothing of money, titles, power. For those who know them well, there is sometimes a certain awkwardness when they greet—the way small children do—with a cheerful "Hi!" the important person who approaches them with that slightly saccharine tone. "What's your name?" And the bishop who is asked cannot help but answer: "Francis!"
I remember Marco, a young man at a center that was visited by an important woman who was there to evaluate the pedagogy and rehabilitation methods. She walked through the rooms without stopping, smiling in a practiced way, tossing superficial greetings right and left. After her inspection was complete, she headed for the door. Marco followed me and muttered: "Lady smile but heart not good."
They have a capacity to penetrate to the heart of those around them that we simply do not possess. The labels we are accustomed to slapping on others prevent us from going straight to the heart the way they can.
Some will see in all this a sentimentality toward them. Others will call it a glossing over of their retardation and real difficulties.
To understand this genuine gift that lives in so many of them, I turn to Jean Vanier, who was called by them to become an advocate and prophet of the hidden potential of the intellectually disabled.
"It was their trust in me that restored my trust in myself and in my intuitions, and awakened in me a sense of responsibility."
"Living with them, little by little, I entered a new vision of the world. Through them I truly began to understand that the path of modern society quickly stifles our capacity for compassion and communion, while it develops aggression, competition, ambition, and stokes our desire for money, comfort, and power."
"Though in some respects they are less capable, the intellectually disabled are often blessed with a simple, loving, and trusting heart. They point us toward the path of love rather than power. Their cry is not so much a request for admiration as for a simple and faithful relationship."
May our hearts commit to walking in their footsteps.
Mariangela Bertolini, 2006