Since November 2015, I have been pastor of San Rocco and Madonna Bianca, two parishes on the outskirts of Trento. At the time, Gabriele was just over seven years old: small, lightning-quick, drawn to every open door, every gap—as if the sole purpose of any passage was to dash through it without hesitation. At first, I knew him mainly through his older sister Giada, who came to parish activities and Sunday mass with her family, sitting in the front pew. Gabriele has Down syndrome and isn't one for many words, but he found a way to make his desire known—a desire to belong: While we were slow to understand, he essentially shouted it—through gesture and glance—*Hey, I'm here too! Isn't there anything for me to do? Everyone else takes part. Why don't I have a place?* So I decided to make Gabriele an altar server.
Today my "lead altar server" moves with confidence through the liturgy in both churches, often catching the small mishaps that sometimes occur. When he serves at mass, after the Confiteor, he recites the opening of the Kyrie, which everyone then responds to. He introduces the Gospel proclamation and stands with me at the ambo through the end of my homily. He leads the opening words of the Creed. He offers two petitions from the faithful. He serves at the altar. He rings the bells at the elevation—and when there are no bells, he makes the sound with his voice. He goes with the extraordinary minister to bring the Blessed Sacrament and then accompanies it back for reposition. He holds the cloth during Communion distribution, though with somewhat less enthusiasm. He introduces the intercession to Saint Rocco. He greets the assembly after the final blessing. All of this took time to work out—time to discover what his role could be, to help him learn the rhythm of the liturgy. I tried to understand what he wanted to do, and whenever it was possible, we made it happen.
At San Rocco and Madonna Bianca, Gabriele moves with confidence through the liturgy, often catching the small mishaps that sometimes occur
At San Rocco and Madonna Bianca, Gabriele moves with confidence through the liturgy, often catching the small mishaps that sometimes occur
One of the first times, at Communion, after the extraordinary ministers had received, I turned to continue distributing to the assembly. To my surprise, Gabriele was already making his way down the aisle with the Eucharist. He wanted to distribute too. That wasn't quite right, so I kept him beside me instead: I offered the Eucharist, and he offered a passage from Scripture chosen for the liturgical season. Bread and Word given together—a way of drawing him ever deeper into the eucharistic celebration.
There was an attempt at resistance from those who couldn't see Gabriele's presence as an opportunity to live out the true meaning of community and family. For my part, I would not have turned back, and I explained why in a homily.
The Lord truly calls each of us to share in the priceless gift of his friendship. Everyone has something to offer to a celebration that is not merely endured but truly lived and shared. If we are not afraid to be ourselves, we have nothing to fear. The Holy Spirit blows where he will, and those who follow him—who dare to move with him—discover their own humanity and heart inhabited by God.
