Father Henri Bissonier is well known to our readers and initiated specialized catechesis in France.
About thirty years ago, at our catechetical center in Paris, we organized a study meeting on catechesis for children now called "autistic." I had the audacity to invite not just our regular catechists, but one of the most celebrated child psychiatrists of the time. I knew he was also a devout Christian. When he arrived, the illustrious professor declared to us in his "professorial" manner: "We must distinguish very carefully between children who show psychotic symptoms and those who are truly autistic. The first group may benefit from some religious education. For the second group, it is impossible."
He continued: "I am working with a boy who falls into that second category—there is simply nothing to be done regarding his religious awakening." And he described "the case" in question.
When he finished, one of our catechists spoke up timidly: "Forgive me, professor, but I think I know this boy." She gave a few details that perfectly identified the child and added: "I have been working with him in catechesis for two years, and this is what we have done together." What followed was a gripping account of this boy's religious journey. The "great master" listened with intense attention. When her story ended, my admiration for him grew even stronger—he turned to me and exclaimed: "This meeting is absolutely fascinating! When you hold another one, please invite me again!"
A Hidden World
In his humility as a true scientist, the great teacher recognized that in that moment he had discovered what experience had already revealed to all of us engaged in catechesis with autistic young people: that they can receive—especially in the religious sphere—far more than appears on the surface. When the veil lifts, even for a single instant, where nothing seemed to be happening, an inner world comes into view, whose existence we had not suspected.
They can receive, especially in the religious sphere, far more than appears
Sometimes it is only a word or a gesture. But how much these things say to those of us who refuse to make snap judgments and remain open to all that can unfold in mystery!
Proof of this comes from Birger Sellin, an autistic man who, after seventeen years of selective mutism, revealed the richness of his inner life through the "facilitated communication" method. One day he taught us and made known to us the depths of his inner world, his "imprisoned soul," to the great astonishment of those who knew him. In the book he wrote, we found at least twenty religious references. They were short passages, sometimes reduced to just a few words.
How we wished we could know more! Certain words expressed a pain, an unease that asked us for an answer. They told us that for Birger the religious dimension was crucial and that in the depths of himself he was questioning his relationship with God.
Never Give Up
It is no small task to teach the faith to an autistic young person. Often you may have the impression that nothing is happening. After more than forty-five years of trying to speak to autistic young people about the existence of a God of Love, we could have been tempted to give up. But we never did. When we had to pause temporarily, we always intended to resume as soon as possible. Sometimes a young person could not sit still or disturbed the group with cries, or their aggression endangered those around them. In such cases, we would begin individual catechesis, or if necessary, we would enlarge our team to meet the challenges more effectively and care for each person. But we never thought that our efforts were useless or misguided. What joy we felt when we realized that these autistic young people sensed—even if only in hidden ways—that all this concerned them and made them happy! Let me offer a small example.
An Adolescent Who "Does Not Speak"
Giovanna is fourteen years old. At the special school where she lives, she is considered a typical autistic. They had described her as someone who does not speak, does not make eye contact, and disturbs the group by wandering around and humming wordlessly—harmoniously, but eventually irritating. We were uncertain about admitting her to our catechesis group. They said she was intrusive and showed no signs of being able to benefit from religious formation. In the end we admitted her, and she proved to be far less difficult than we feared. All that was needed was to adapt to her behavior (sometimes she clung to us, sometimes she rejected us) and to watch her when she was not "attached" to someone, so she would not run away. But she seemed so happy when she was with us that our real challenge became gently convincing her to leave after our meetings.
One morning we had chosen this theme: "Jesus reveals to us the love of God, our Father." One of our catechists played us the song "Father, I am your child." Then various activities began. As we were leaving, imagine my surprise when, as I was walking Giovanna to the door, I heard her singing—almost under her breath but distinctly, not just the melody but the words—the hymn we had begun with: "Father, I am your child! I have a thousand proofs of your love."
I left more convinced than ever that autistic young people have much to teach us about the mysteries of God.
- Henri Bissonier, 1996
Ombre e Luci n. 113