About thirty years ago, at our catechetical center in Paris, we organized a study meeting on religious education for children who are now called "autistic." I had the boldness to invite, alongside our regular catechists, one of the most celebrated child psychiatrists of that era. I knew he was also a devout Christian. When he arrived, the illustrious professor declared in a rather "professorial" manner: "One must distinguish very carefully between children who show psychotic symptoms and those who are truly autistic. The former may benefit from some religious education. For the latter, it is impossible."
He continued: "I am currently working with a boy who belongs precisely to that group for whom there is nothing to be done in terms of religious awakening." And he described the "case" in question.
When he finished, a catechist spoke up timidly: "Forgive me, professor, but I think I know this boy…" She offered some details that made it possible to identify the child perfectly, then added: "I have been following him in catechesis for two years, and here is what we have done together." What followed was a compelling account of this religious journey. The "great authority" listened with extreme attention… When the story ended, my admiration for him only grew—because he turned to me and exclaimed: "But this meeting is absolutely fascinating! Whenever you hold another one, please invite me again!"
A Hidden World
In his humility as a true scientist, the great master recognized that he had discovered in that moment what experience had revealed to all of us engaged in catechesis with young autistic people: that they can receive—especially in religious matters—far more than what appears on the surface. When the veil lifts, even for just an instant, where nothing seemed to be happening, an inner world comes into view, one whose existence we had never suspected. Sometimes it is only a word or a gesture, but how much these speak to those of us who refuse to make judgments beforehand and remain open to all that can unfold in mystery!
One powerful example among many is what Birger SellinAn autistic person who, after seventeen years of selective mutism, revealed the richness of his inner life through the approach of "facilitated communication." Birger Sellin: "A Prisoner of Myself" (Boringhieri Editions, 1995) taught us and made known about his inner world, his "imprisoned soul," to the great surprise of those who knew him. In the book he wrote, we found at least twenty references to religious matters. They were brief passages, sometimes just a few words.
How we wished to know more! Certain passages expressed a pain, an anxiety that asked us for an answer. They told us that for Birger, the religious dimension was important and that in the depths of himself he was wrestling with his relationship with God.
Never Give Up
Certainly, teaching the faith to a young autistic person is no small task. Often you may have the impression that nothing is happening. After more than forty-five years of attempting to speak about the existence of a God of Love to young autistic people, we could have been tempted to give up… We never did. When we occasionally had to pause for a time, we did so with the intention to resume our efforts as soon as possible. For instance, when a young autistic person could not sit still or was disturbing the group with shouting, or when his aggression posed a danger to those around him. In such cases we began individual catechesis, or, when necessary, we enlarged our team to better address the difficulties and care for each person properly. But we never believed that all effort was futile or inappropriate. What joy we felt in discovering that these young autistic people sensed, even if almost in secret, that all of this concerned them and made them happy! Let me offer a small example.
A Girl Who "Doesn't Speak"
Giovanna is fourteen years old. In the special school where she lives, she is considered a "typical" autistic. They had described her to us, noting that she does not speak, does not look people in the face, and disturbs the group by wandering about and humming wordlessly—a harmony that, in time, became tiresome. We were uncertain whether to accept her in our catechesis group because 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 far less difficult than we feared. We simply had to adapt to her behavior (sometimes she clung to us, sometimes she rejected us) and keep watch so that when she was not "attached" to someone, she would not run away. But she looked so happy when she was with us that another problem arose: gently convincing her to leave after our meetings. One morning we had chosen as our theme: "Jesus reveals to us the love of God, our Father." One of the catechists played us the hymn "Father, I am your child…" and 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 of the very hymn with which we had begun the meeting: "Father, I am your child! A thousand proofs of your love…" I left more convinced than ever that young autistic people have much to teach us about the mysteries of God.
(1) An autistic person who, after seventeen years of selective mutism, revealed the richness of his inner life through the approach of "facilitated communication." Birger Sellin: "A Prisoner of Myself" (Boringhieri Editions, 1995).
– Henri Bissonier, 1996 (Ombres et Lumière no. 113)