When my husband takes my wheelchair out of the car and unfolds it by the passenger door in the parish parking lot, I feel eyes on me. Luckily, my parish has accessible curbs, a ramp, and automatic doors so I am able to enter the sanctuary independently. We usually arrive with most other parishioners because I am slow-moving in the morning. As a result, I can feel some pressure to get to where I need to be, and I can feel elbows lightly tapping my head as I navigate. There is no comfortable spot for me to pull up to, so I choose to transfer from my chair to the pew with my seat cushion. The 90-degree angle of the wooden pew does me no favors, and I quickly sink into myself as the Mass begins.
Throughout the liturgy, I stay seated and begin to feel some social anxiety. My participation is limited, and as I see others sit, stand, kneel, sing, and recite prayers, I feel more like an observer than a participant at Mass. I become distracted by my pain, as does my family. When I meet my husband’s eyes, I can see him reading my body and energy levels. I know I only need to give a nod and we will leave, but I do not want to leave. I want to pray. I want to hear the Word of God. I want to receive the Eucharist. I want to stay.
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Sunday Mass, the sacraments, and praying within the sanctuary of the church have been cornerstones of my expression of faith as a life-long Catholic. However, when I was diagnosed with a disease called Myasthenia Gravis, my ability to be physically present within church buildings was impacted.
My faith is an essential component of my overall wellness, but at times my suffering caused deep desolation. Losing control of my body and trying treatment after treatment with no success left me not only fatigued, but with feelings of hopelessness. It is very challenging to describe how my disease works, and although people have the best intentions, chronic illness creates a distance between who people know you as and who you are to yourself now that you have a life-threatening illness. However, suffering and isolation have never had the last word. I have found new understandings of God’s love through those who care for me, and found new purpose in writing and reflecting on my experiences.
Many do not realize what a physical sacrifice it is to attend Mass with a disability. Oftentimes, we call to mind disabilities we can see or easily perceive, but do not take into account non-visible or less-visible disabilities, such as autoimmune diseases, Type 1 Diabetes, and mental illness, to name a few. Those with less-visible disabilities, like myself, are also likely to mask symptoms in public so as not to draw attention. There are a wide variety of niche symptoms within every disability that the general public would never know, yet they are everyday realities of disease management.
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I am not alone in this experience. Chronic illness is life-changing and isolating. We need support from our faith communities, but are often unable to get pastoral presence because parishes rely on people showing up to physical buildings associated with the parish. This is inherently ableist and exclusionary. As a young person, I am not in the pews on Sunday not because I have fallen away from the Church. On the contrary, I have a rich spiritual life but lack a safe, comfortable place where I can be sacramentally nourished.
To begin making sense of these feelings, I posed questions to myself and my God. Is it irreverent to be physically comfortable at Mass? Would it be perceived as inappropriate if I had a chair that provided a recline and cushions for support? I realized accommodations are not irreverent, but rather pastorally sensitive congruent with the tradition of Jesus’ ministry. In Scripture, we read many accounts of those struggling with illness. Two particular passages came to mind – the story of the woman with the hemorrhage (Luke 8:43-48) and the account of the paralyzed man who was lowered from the roof (Luke 5:17-26). If we look at these stories through a lens of disability, we see how the sick pursue Jesus.
The woman with the hemorrhage is an outcast. She has bled for 12 years and is therefore barred from worshiping alongside her community. She is alienated and “othered.” Despite being labeled as “unclean,” she dares to press into a crowd to touch the cloak of Jesus. Immediately, she is healed. Jesus stops the disciples because even he is unaware of who called forth his divinity. The male disciples claim he simply felt the crowd pressing in on him, but Jesus brings the whole event to a halt. The woman approaches Jesus to present her suffering to the man she knows can heal her. She is restored in part by her own courageousness, which is met by Jesus’ love and care for embodied suffering.
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Similarly, when the caregivers of the paralyzed man were unable to access Jesus by entering the home through the front door, they decided to create an accommodation that was shocking to onlookers. Scaling the house, they lowered the man from the roof to the feet of Jesus. They pushed aside obstacles and made a man who was invisible to society become visible to Jesus, and the paralyzed man stands up and walks.
If we look at these stories critically, we see how the sick find their path to Jesus. They have to overcome prejudices, stigma, and cultural laws to be healed. What miraculous stories of faith! Jesus uses the faith of the woman with the hemorrhage and the boldness of the paralyzed man to teach his able-bodied disciples the importance of inclusivity. He urges them to no longer be distracted by the ways of the world, which label the sick as different from the rest of the general population.
These reflections gave me clarity as I pose the question to our Church, “In what ways do we carry on Jesus’ ministry of accommodation today?” I have seen dioceses try to embrace this question. Some offer healing Masses that do an excellent job of inviting the sick to be in community, but these are typically less frequent and not robustly attended. From my experience, a healing Mass is there when and if you need it, but not a regular liturgical practice for an average parishioner. Sensory Masses, however, are on the rise in the U.S. These Masses offer soft lighting and music, shorter liturgies, and accommodations for neurodiverse parishioners. The addition of livestream Masses has undoubtedly connected many with the Mass. Personally, I struggle with feeling connected to the liturgy watching from home. It feels forced, and I lose the sensory nature of the liturgy which I love. While helpful, these parish offerings are considered “special” and often set apart from the “regular” Sunday Mass schedule.
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With this same discerning heart of Jesus and reverence for the role of the liturgy in the Catholic tradition, I invite parishes to reflect on their own practices and likewise engage those with disabilities to learn from their experiences. Parish councils are an excellent space to explore questions of accommodation and accessibility with parishioners who face physical discomfort in the pews. I have no doubt we can create a new precedent that champions Jesus’ own inclusive healing ministry within the walls of our churches, everywhere.
Questions for reflection:
- Think about your own Church building. How might you suggest the parish improve accessibility for worshippers?
- Does your parish or diocese offer healing Masses or sensory Masses? If so, attend one and share the Mass time with a friend who may be interested. If not, how might you encourage your parish or diocese to offer one?
- Read Luke 5:17-26 (the story of the paralyzed man) or Luke 8:43-48 (the woman with the hemorrhage). Reflect on how Jesus encounters these people in their moment of need, and reflect on how the bystanders react to the care Christ extends to those in need.
