The Eucharist holds a central place in Faith and Light gatherings. It takes on quite different forms depending on the circumstances. I remember masses celebrated at the great assemblies in Rome, Lourdes, or Assisi. Or outdoor masses on makeshift altars, each person having brought a stone. Masses in a chapel or parish hall with small groups. Masses at the bedside of a friend unable to move.
The occasions vary, but the event we celebrate is always one. Each time, the Eucharist calls us to "offer the sacrifice of the whole Church for the glory of God and the salvation of the world".
At Faith and Light gatherings, the Eucharist brings together people made fragile by mental handicap, their parents, their friends, for a prayer that excludes no one. Around the Lord's table, barriers fall away. We become a single family where each person is welcomed and loved as they are. These are not "masses for the handicapped." Looking at Jesus, we discover that our first handicap is our inability to love and to be loved.
What place do we make in our assemblies for people whose intelligence has been affected? Is the liturgical welcome formula at the start of the celebration something more than a mere formula? I remember a day when the communion procession came forward. When it was Jean's turn, and I offered him the Body of Christ, he threw his arms around my neck: "Hello Louis." Just moments before, I had rushed into church and passed him without greeting him.
There's no point saying "silence" if there's some noise in the church, or turning away if there's some restlessness. Each person prays in their own way, with their own gestures and words. What matters is being together, gathered by the Word of God.
The handicapped person has a right to the full Gospel. More than once, the day's Gospel seemed difficult to me, and I was tempted to skip a page, perhaps another author. But it was really Sabina, Chicca, Maurizio, and so many others who helped me see clearly: "you will be persecuted because of my name".
After the Gospel reading, the priest does not say "we understand," but rather "we acclaim the word of God." What good is understanding the Word if it does not transform our life into praise? The spontaneous outburst of joy, the atmosphere of intense communion, the simplicity that gives Faith and Light masses their distinctive character nourish our hope and remind us that since Easter morning, hatred no longer has the final word.
In celebrating the Eucharist, we proclaim Jesus's victory over death and affirm that all suffering, united with his, carries within it a seed of resurrection.
"Take and eat of it, all of you." The meeting of our wounded brothers and sisters with Jesus, the Bread of Life, lets us glimpse God's reckless love for each of us, especially for the smallest among us. We often ask ourselves whether a handicapped person can or cannot receive Jesus—readily answering on their behalf when they cannot speak for themselves. But we think too little about Jesus's desire to give himself to them.
I still hear the voice of that father who, at the end of the mass in which I had given the Lord to his little Sylvie, said to me: "Thank you for not turning my daughter away." How far we have come since then! That day, had I diminished the Eucharist, or proclaimed Jesus Christ?
Louis Sankalè, 1979
Priest