Sabina is a girl with severe handicaps—both physical and mental, from birth. She is blind, walks with assistance, doesn't speak, and appears not to understand language. But she responds to love and physical touch.
Because of her friendship with her parish priest, Don Tonino of the Church of the Protomartirs—a bond that deepened over time—Sabina was confirmed in her parish alongside eighty-five other young people her age. She receives the Eucharist regularly and is absolved of her sins every Easter season.
A few weeks ago, my husband and I brought Sabina to Sunday mass at the Church of Saint Sylvia. Celebrating alongside the parish priest was a French priest, one of the founders of Faith and Light.
At the moment of the sign of peace, this priest came down from the altar, singled out Sabina from everyone present, and embraced her.
Some people, surprised, turned their heads with curiosity to see who this important person was, chosen from among so many. Others were not surprised. A small group of Faith and Light friends were there—people who know Sabina well and, in general, know disabled people. Many parishioners had grown accustomed to the presence of disabled people every Sunday in the Church of Saint Sylvia. The parish hosts one of Rome's oldest Faith and Light groups, thanks in large part to Don Antonino. Unfortunately, not every church has the same openness.
I want to tell you now of another episode, which happened less than two years ago in a church a hundred kilometers south of Rome. We were on vacation at the seaside. We were walking in the garden in front of the church, waiting for the priest to arrive. We intended to ask him beforehand whether Sabina could receive communion by wine, given her difficulty swallowing. At that moment, Sabina was behaving beautifully (though that's not always the case): arm in arm with her father. When the priest arrived, we approached him. He took one look at Sabina and said: "She doesn't come in."
After a moment of shock and silence, the friend accompanying us stammered: "But, Father, the child goes to mass every Sunday." The priest replied: "It's not obligatory for her." The silence that followed made the priest feel he needed to explain further. So he added: "Her presence might disturb the people here."
How do you explain the complete difference in behavior between two priests of roughly the same age, with similar training, both servants of the same faith, separated by so little distance and time? Can it be the Church's inconsistency in its teaching? Or the steady witness and work of a Faith and Light group present in one parish but not the other?
Perhaps people are still not accustomed to the presence of those with mental handicaps and don't know how to behave toward them.
Many Christians don't offer a smile or a gesture of friendship to a disabled person, yet it costs so little.
Some parents are afraid to bring their children to church; perhaps they've had bad experiences and consequently have drifted away from the Church.
We parents are not to blame if our children are handicapped. It's not our fault if our children disturb others. We must bear being disturbed, night and day, every day, for years.
Still, we face a decision: Do we bring our children to church or not?
If the handicap is such that the child understands when he or she is rejected, is it right for us to keep bringing them into situations where they are rejected, adding yet more suffering to what they already endure? Or should we keep them in a protected environment, at home?
And if the disabled person lacks the capacity to understand that they've been insulted, the parents understand all too well.
So disabled people and their parents risk losing their faith. And the Church risks losing something essential. A priest once told me: "The body of Christ will not be whole as long as there are those who are excluded." If the disabled person is part of the body of Christ, he or she represents its most wounded part. That deserves consideration.
The body of Christ will not be whole as long as there are those who are excluded
The body of Christ will not be whole as long as there are those who are excludedAll Christians—whether friends or parents of a disabled child—who courageously bring that child to church and ask for the sacraments on their behalf, whether alone or with the help of a group, are paving the way for others.
If the handicap is physical or sensory, the problems to solve are fundamentally different.
If the handicap is mental, the problem becomes complex. It's hard to teach a child with intellectual disability not to laugh, or clap hands, or chatter during mass. Some will say they have no right to receive the sacraments because they lack understanding. Let's be clear about this. Jesus invites us, whether or not we fully grasp the meaning of that invitation. Some will understand or believe better than others, certainly. But did Jesus sacrifice himself only for theologians and healthy people without problems?
It all remains a great mystery, an act of faith. Our disabled friends have been invited. Perhaps we must accompany them, if they cannot walk or see or speak. But they too have been invited.
During his earthly life, Jesus never refused help to those who asked for it. Sometimes it wasn't the injured person who asked, but their friends who asked on their behalf. I think of the paralyzed man who was carried—I imagine with great difficulty—by his friends, who were even willing to break through the roof of a house to bring him near Jesus. Jesus not only healed the man; he forgave his sins, though the man had not specifically asked for forgiveness. The disabled man either could not ask or did not understand the value of what he was asking for.
What his friends did was simply bring him near to Jesus. Jesus did the rest. That man was especially fortunate: fortunate to have such good friends. Are we all willing to offer that kind of friendship?
-by Olga Gammarelli, 1984
When the Priest Came Down from the Altar
This was the first time a priest, at a Sunday parish mass, has come down from the altar to offer the sign of peace to a profoundly disabled child. This gesture of reverence and humility has an incalculable value for parents who are always anxious about bringing a severely disabled child to church.
The anxiety a child can cause with her strange behaviors, the sounds she makes—apparently senseless, made at the worst possible moment—doesn't come from the child herself, but from the eyes of those around her. Eyes of surprise, embarrassment, pity, discomfort. These looks pierce like needles into the parents' skin. Yet one gesture like this priest's gesture can repay the insults and pain received over years.
-by Francesco Gammarelli, 1984