Rome, April 28–30, 2025: the Jubilee for people with disabilities unfolded on weekdays, unlike most other jubilee events. The timing seemed impractical from the start: difficult days for anyone who works or attends a day program; unique, in its way, alongside jubilees for priests, seminarians, bishops, and the Eastern Churches. Disability as a sacred order? Curious, that.
Still, when Peter calls, you answer. So thousands came—400 from Faith and Light communities worldwide—from every corner of Italy and beyond, their hearts ready. The jubilee itself held the promise of encountering people from everywhere, a pull felt keenly by Larysa and her son Igor from Naples, and by Egiziana from Carrara, who wrote: "I met friends I hadn't seen in years, from other communities all over the world. This mingling of real, solid realities filled the air with empathy."
The schedule wove between moments of prayer and occasions to meet. The passage through the Holy Door happened in groups at St. Paul Outside the Walls, during the Eucharist. Young people from several Roman communities acted out the Gospel in pantomime—a demanding passage from John, the night Nicodemus came to Jesus with his questions and received his answers. The dialogue was so complex that six months before, it seemed impossible to give flesh and bone to it. But with help from Fr. Francesco and Sr. Mira, Nicodemus became a friend, and his questions became everyone's questions—at least for those who could see the performance unfold.
A small note. The death of Pope Francis upended the schedule and forced changes, sometimes at the last hour. All of it understandable. Yet in that beautiful basilica, only those in the first rows of the nave and side aisles could actually see what happened at the altar. The acoustics needed work too: fortunately, the Mani Bianche choir described through gesture the liturgical songs (not all singable for everyone, to be honest) performed by St. Paul's choir.
Is a dedicated event for disability really necessary? Why not let everyone find their own jubilee among the others—among families, young people, movements? Perhaps to make visible what still struggles to be seen?
Is a dedicated event for disability really necessary? Why not let everyone find their own jubilee among the others—among families, young people, movements? Perhaps to make visible what still struggles to be seen?
The basilica and its staff did offer one unscheduled gift: the chance to help with the collection. Could the same have happened at St. Peter's? Was it right to take up an offering at that moment? A small thing, perhaps, even ordinary—yet for once, we could offer concrete help in the Church in full normalcy. "My son Igor was thrilled," Larysa said. "For me too it was a great joy: to see him welcomed, greeting people and drawing smiles in return."
The next day, in St. Peter's Square, Msgr. Fisichella, who had celebrated at St. Paul the day before, offered a catechesis in memory of the author of the Salve Regina: "Let us revive the hope within us, a flame that lights us all. The presence of the fragile person, who for so long remained in shadow, matters in the heart of the Church." Egiziana reflected: "The word 'shadow' made me think of the long journey Faith and Light has taken, how many isolated families have found in our communities the light of friendship, of sharing, of hope and joy." It was a pity that the catechesis and the testimonies that followed—from a couple of parents in Milan, young people from a Roman parish, and a representative from an Indian association presented by a bishop from Kerala—were not translated (even the on-screen subtitles were single-language), leaving many unable to understand them.
After leaving the square and visiting the association stands in Piazza Pia, the day continued with a festival in the gardens of Castel Sant'Angelo. Hospitality there had its highs and lows: an excellent picnic was offered and distributed quickly, but eaten sitting on the ground on gravel—uncomfortable for many. Chairs had been set up for the afternoon performance and couldn't be moved. Not everyone with a disability uses a wheelchair. The performance became a chance for associations to meet, for media interviews, for stories and photographs, embraces and rest—or a quick trip around Rome.
The Jubilee might have ended there, but for Faith and Light groups from outside Rome, there was one more day to say goodbye to participants who had come from Hong Kong, Honduras, Lebanon, and Italy. Or to exchange, like Igor and Stefano, a greeting "face to face, unforgettable," as Larysa described it, beyond words. A meeting that included prayer in the parish of St. Polycarp: keywords like fatigue, fear, peace, and hope were offered at the altar as a sign of trust, "in the certainty," Egiziana wrote, "that the Lord will receive them, overcoming fatigue and fear and bringing peace and hope to the heart of every person."
At the end of what for many Christians is a once-in-a-lifetime chance to seek reconciliation by passing through the Holy Door and choosing Jesus as the way forward, one question lingers: Is a dedicated event for disability really necessary? Why not let everyone find their own jubilee among the others—among families, young people, movements? Perhaps to make visible what still struggles to be seen? The hope is that one day such distinctions won't be needed. Because, as Larysa reminds us in a beloved song, "I want to have a million friends, so I can sing much louder still!"