When the Jubilee for people with disabilities and the sick was announced last June, I confess I was troubled by the pairing of disability and illness—two experiences that naturally overlap but that so many have taught me to distinguish. It felt like drawing a line, creating a separation between the normal, healthy, fortunate on one side and the unlucky sick and disabled on the other.
The purpose of this extraordinary Jubilee was to place Divine Mercy at the center of our Christian life—wherever we find ourselves—and to make us truly aware that we can entrust ourselves to God's hands, letting His light fall on our fragility and our daily failings. Perhaps everyone could have participated with their parish or community in an event that calls every baptized person to seek the Mercy we all need: the healthy, the disabled, the sick, members of a people of God that is truly whole only when no one who wishes to participate is left behind. Walking in a jubilee pilgrimage alongside those whose lives are genuinely difficult, who humbly ask for mercy, can give the right perspective for a more conscious Christian life. Yet without such care, many sick and disabled people might have stayed home. Holy Mother Church knows her children, and she took the right measures.
This great event—still necessary in our time and for our human perception—was organized with many purposes in mind, and it left us with important signs. It brought into the streets many who live with disability or illness, whether in their own bodies or in those of their loved ones. It allowed us to hear their testimonies. It showed them that the Church, despite so many remaining difficulties, stands with them and works to ensure that no one is excluded from the message of salvation the Gospel carries. It reminded us that those living with disability or illness too can benefit from a jubilee journey—a word that recalls not joy directly but the horn (jobel) with which ancient Israel proclaimed the Year of the Lord, when people were to live off the fruit of the land without working, slavery was abolished, and every social difference was erased. It allowed a sense of belonging, closeness, and mutual knowledge to emerge among the movements and associations that work daily in these realities. Those who organized it understood how to draw on the expertise of these associations to ensure that everyone found a form of welcome and celebration designed precisely to meet each person's needs.
And not least, there was the chance to encounter Pope Francis, more or less directly. To hear him remind us that "Human nature, wounded by sin, bears within itself the reality of limitation"—and that even though in today's world it seems that "what is imperfect must be hidden, because it threatens the happiness and peace of the privileged and challenges the dominant model," it seems "better to keep these people separate, perhaps in some gilded enclosure, or in the reserves of sentimentality and welfare, so they do not interrupt the rhythm of false well-being." But "the true meaning of life includes accepting suffering and limitation. The world does not become better because it is made up only of apparently perfect people, let alone artificially enhanced ones, but when human solidarity grows, when we accept each other, when we show respect. The true challenge is that of loving more."
I believe this challenge was lived in those jubilee days, and I hope many sensed it, even those not directly involved. In this issue, we recall the main moments of those days—days of a Jubilee shared by the sick, people with disabilities, their families, and friends who walked alongside them.
Cristina Tersigni, 2016