Kakistocrat

Jean Vanier, who has devoted his life to servicing the disabled and making a place for them in society, identifies five potential attitudes or stages that a person might feel when coming into contact with those with intellectual disabilities.

1. One might react with fear and view the disabled person as ‘abnormal,’ a designation which, in the past, has motivated some to reject such people by attempting to get rid of them.

2. One might recognize in the disabled "pitiful little fellows whom we should take care of in big institutions," which has been the response in past generations.

3. One might seek to get to know the disabled, understanding their needs, and responding to them with competence, which integrated schools have attempted to do.

4. One might be full of wonderment and thanksgiving for those disabled, attitudes which allow for the transformation not simply of the disabled person, but of the person coming into contact with them.

5. Finally, one might see the face of God in those disabled.

Pope John Paul had a deep love for Vanier and even once claimed that the work of Vanier had "grown to become a dynamic and providential sign of the civilization of love." Not exactly a small praise, and more recently, Vanier has shared his thoughts about the late Pope. Vanier cites an occasion in 1987 (long before the Pope became sick—a detail important to Vanier), where he shared a breakfast with the Pope. Vanier began to describe to the Pope how a disabled boy named Eric, who was both blind and deaf, had come to transform those who lived around him. Vanier described how Eric was a healing presence. Vanier notes how later one of the Pope’s aides informed him that the Pope had not understood what Vanier had meant by this. "It’s after he became sick that a deep bond arose between us," Vanier notes "when he understood how someone ‘made little’ by a severe handicap could transform others."

Vanier recounts an experience with John Paul II, shortly before the late Pope died:

I remember I was standing in front of the Popemobile giving the meditation on the mystery of Jesus proclaiming the Kingdom of God. I was just two metres away from him, looking into his eyes. I said aloud, ‘Our Pope is poor. He’s fragile, but he is the glory of God. God manifests himself in him.’ And we continued to look at one another. It was an exceptionally moving moment. Afterwards he gave me the rosary he’d been using and which I carry with me every day.

Many of the Pope’s own critics (and he had no shortage of them by the end of his reign) came to grudgingly admire the way he carried himself with dignity right unto his death. Further, if God’s face can be seen in those who suffer, how one treats that person can certainly alter, and certainly God can be seen to be at work in both the person who attempts to develop an authentic relationship with a person with disabilities, and also in the life of the person disadvantaged.

I would not hesitate to defend the potential for transformation that occurs in developing authentic relationships with those who suffer. I remember a particular student I once worked with who I developed a rapport with (I suppose that is the standoffish way of saying ‘friendship’), who was confined to a wheelchair, couldn’t speak, had little movement, and operated academically at what I would consider a Grade 3 level. During a conversation one lunch she asked me why God had put her in a wheelchair (we could communicate by typing small words, and while the process was slow, it was still communication). Not having a clue how to answer this, I stalled a little, and upon seeing a student walk into the classroom, and also that the lunch break had almost come to an end, I saw my way out of the awkward conversation saying ‘Let’s talk about it Monday,’ hoping that she would forget. She didn’t and I was forced to tell her that I hadn’t a clue as to why she was in a wheelchair. When I asked her why she thought she was in a wheelchair, she quickly responded that her condition was ‘a gift.’ This seemed to me unexplainable, as to be prevented from moving, speaking or doing anything independently struck me more as a curse than a gift. However, she explained that she made people better, and what she meant by that (and not in an arrogant way either) was that she brought out the best in people. I had thought that myself about her (that the goodness which radiated from her did in fact transform those around her, and make them better people) but i never expected her to see herself as operating in such a role. It struck me that the wisdom found in this tiny person (although I do not think that her condition had anything to do with God, though her attitude I suspect did) could never allow any other person to choose that which would see such people rejected, gotten rid of, or institutionalized (which is a form of alleviating responsibility I suspect).

K.