When I visit St. Thérèse of Lisieux Church in Cresskill, N.J., in April, people arrive early and families talk to each other. They notice that I am new and ask my name. That is new to me. After moving to New York, I attended Mass at many new churches, and I sometimes felt like a tourist, clumsily entering what felt like a parish-slash-museum where regulars would prefer to worship undisturbed by interlopers like me, thank you very much.
It is nothing like that here, at St. Thérèse’s special needs Mass. In this oblong sanctuary that screams of the 1970s, the parish feels fully alive.
About 15 to 20 families regularly attend the Mass, which is held on Sunday monthly at 1:30 p.m. As they trickle in, Patrick Glass, a 28-year-old man with Fragile X syndrome (a genetic condition that causes intellectual disability), dances to a ditty the choir accompanist plays for him. Near the start of the Mass, Patrick exclaims “New York City!” after singing “This Little Light of Mine” with members of the parish’s teen choir. Members of the congregation smile.
I watch as people with disabilities fulfill the roles of lectors and soloists and altar servers. At the end, all are invited to the altar at the end of Mass to sing “Rise and Shine (Arky Arky),” a nursery rhyme about Noah’s Ark with accompanying choreography. I join in the dance gestures from the pews with other smiling parishioners.
The Mass is followed by fellowship in the school next door. As I enter the packed hall, I see a spread of juice boxes, homemade cannolis and cookies provided by the special needs Mass’s hospitality committee, staffed by many parishioners who have no connection to the disability community except for their desire to support it.
Many families travel to St. Thérèse for the special needs Mass, including Patrick and his parents, Gerry and Lori Glass, who drive half an hour each way from Fort Lee, N.J. There is nothing like this at their home parish, Lori tells me. They said that they found a community at this Mass where their son could express himself through music.
Catholic worship is often focused on “talking, talking, talking,” Lori explains, which can be inaccessible for Patrick, whose verbal abilities are limited. “But here,” she says, “the music is so uplifting, and everyone can sing.”
I ask Patrick if he enjoys coming here. “Yes, ma’am,” he tells me, with a big thumbs-up.
“I don’t know who started it,” Gerry says of the special needs Mass. “Whoever they are, they’re a saint.”
That would be Samuel Citero, O.Carm., the pastor at St. Thérèse, who was inspired to organize the Mass after a pilgrimage to Lourdes in 2015. “It didn’t take a lot to convince our parish,” he said, thanks to its longstanding commitment to social concerns; since then, parishioners have consistently volunteered to support the Mass.
Unlike many U.S. parishes, Father Citero’s has seen growth in recent years, including a handful who joined St. Thérèse because of their welcoming stance toward people with disabilities. “We’re not trying to steal people’s parishioners, but we do what we do,” he says.
“They come from far away because they say they don’t feel comfortable in their churches,” says Sheri Minetti, the music minister at St. Thérèse.
“Some of them are refused sacraments, so we take on that responsibility,” Father Citero explains. Some people with disabilities are denied the Eucharist if the pastor believes they cannot “distinguish the body of Christ from ordinary food,” as instructed by the Pastoral Statement of U.S. Bishops on Persons With Disabilities, published in 1978. But many parishes lack catechesis for people with disabilities to begin to grasp the mystery of the Eucharist. (And few neurotypical adults face similar scrutiny about their understanding of transubstantiation.)
Maureen Millett tells me about her son, Bryant, whom she described as a multiply disabled man. She says their family faced refusals from local pastors many years ago when they asked if Bryant could make his first Communion when he was about 16, and they searched for a place where he would be accepted. Their search led the family to join St. Thérèse, where Bryant received his first Communion from Father Citero.
Bryant died in his sleep in November 2022 at age 36, but the family remain parishioners at St. Thérèse. They attend the special needs Mass each month with their entire family, including Bryant’s sister, Breanne, and her 11-year-old son, D.J., who was an altar server alongside a boy with Down syndrome at the Mass I visited. “Our hearts are still with these kids,” Ms. Millett says, pointing to the dog tags she and her husband, Geoffrey, wear with Bryant’s face and “forever in our hearts” etched into the silver metal.
Masses like the one at St. Thérèse offer safe spaces for people with disabilities to worship, where no one blinks an eye if they have an outburst or need to step out for a moment. They might also offer sensory adaptations. The Masses include people with disabilities among the liturgical ministers, which reminds the rest of the congregation that people with disabilities have abundant gifts to share with the church.
Beyond offering Masses for people with disabilities, the parish has the potential to be a place where people with intellectual and developmental disabilities, who often struggle to make friends in adulthood, can find a community that welcomes them, affirms their dignity, and makes space for them to offer their gifts and talents. Disability ministry thrives at the parish level because of the relational, individualized nature of such work. However, the local nature of the ministry sometimes restricts its growth, because a few organizations with limited resources shoulder the massive responsibility of providing centralized information about Catholics with intellectual and developmental disabilities in the United States.
Most dioceses do not have offices specifically designated for disability ministry. Instead, the responsibility often is shared among different offices, which can make it difficult for families and pastoral staff to find resources.
I spoke with ministers who offer programs that help facilitate catechesis, sacramental life and fellowship for people with disabilities to find out both where disability ministry is thriving today and what it might need to grow in the future. My investment in the topic is both professional and personal.
Why Is Disability Ministry Necessary?
My younger sister, Charlotte, is a 21-year-old with intellectual disabilities, and she enjoys going to church with our family. She will tell you that Jesus loves her, and she especially enjoys attending a Mass at our parish in Chicago for people with disabilities like the Mass at St. Thérèse, but she does not wish to receive the Eucharist regularly. She received her first Communion, but walking to the front of the church is extremely anxiety-inducing for Charlotte, so when my family attends Mass, she stays in the pew while the rest of our family go up to receive.
In 2020, Pope Francis made headlines by affirming “the right of all persons with disabilities to receive the sacraments, like all other members of the church.” Perhaps I was naïve, never having faced pushback from a pastor because my sister never tries to receive Communion, but I was shocked that even needed to be said.
But then I thought back to Charlotte’s experience growing up in the church. When she was confirmed alongside a few other eighth graders with disabilities, the experience was overwhelming to her, and she ran out of the sanctuary crying, my mother and I trailing closely behind. The bishop followed us, cornered her in the parish lobby and anointed her with the chrism as she bawled. Charlotte was hardly “properly and reasonably seek[ing]” confirmation that day, as the U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops’ guidelines instruct, but I don’t entirely blame the bishop either—I don’t think he knew what to do in that moment. After all, the church is not the only institution that has struggled to understand people with disabilities.
Catholic teaching has long affirmed the inalienable dignity of all people, regardless of ability, but the church’s ministry to people with disabilities is still developing. Lori Weider, the chair of the National Catholic Partnership on Disability’s Committee on Intellectual and Developmental Disabilities and the mother of two adults with disabilities, said, “Nationally, I feel like there’s been a lot of improvement in accepting and welcoming and including people with disabilities, but there’s still a lot of work to be done.”
The N.C.P.D. was founded in 1982 to carry out the mandate of the U.S. bishops’ pastoral statement from 1978. It focuses on educating and providing resources on disability ministry to parishes, dioceses, ministers and laypeople. The N.C.P.D. maintains a list of affiliate dioceses around the United States, including diocesan directors, providing a vital point of contact for many families. It has also advocated for expanded programming for the Catholic disability community, including Masses for people with disabilities like the one at St. Thérèse. N.C.P.D.’s main goal is to “move from inclusion to belonging,” ultimately aiming at “communion…where everyone is the same,” Ms. Weider said.
The N.C.P.D. has commissioned national surveys by the Center for Applied Research in the Apostolate to assess the needs of Catholics with disabilities; the latest one, “Disabilities in Parishes Across the United States,” was commissioned by the N.C.P.D. and Potomac Community Resources and was published in 2016. CARA and the N.C.P.D. are currently in the process of conducting a new one.
The 2016 report relied on responses from parish staff, so it reflects the staff’s ability to take the pulse of the disability community, and that can vary depending on the parish and the type of disability. The 2016 report found that pastors serving larger parishes are 33 percent more likely to be aware of a parishioner with an intellectual disability and 47 percent more likely to know of a parishioner with autism than pastors serving smaller parishes.
Still, these surveys have the potential to drive change in the church: One such survey, according to Charlene Katra, the executive director of the N.C.P.D, was the impetus for the publication of “Guidelines for the Celebration of the Sacraments With Persons with Disabilities.” The guidelines were first published by the U.S. bishops in 1995 and were updated in 2017.
Ms. Weider said that much of the responsibility to minister to people with disabilities falls to individual parishes, but parishes located in dioceses with offices for disabilities benefit greatly from the additional support. In the 2016 report, fewer than half of responding pastors (48 percent) said that they were aware of opportunities in their diocese for parish staff to access training to accommodate people with disabilities, and only 28 percent said staff had attended such trainings, whether they were offered by the archdiocese or another organization. But of those who attended, 83 percent said that the training was at least partly sponsored by the diocese or archdiocese.
Most efforts start locally, according to Anne Masters, the director of the Office for Pastoral Ministry With Persons With Disabilities of the Archdiocese of Newark. “If the pastor in particular isn’t on board, it isn’t going to get anywhere,” she said.
Dr. Masters’s work lately focuses on facilitating a “conversion of mindsets” in parish communities. She explained that including people with disabilities in the parish community demands greater “interpersonal identification” from parishioners, specifically from parish leaders.
Disability ministry relies on getting to know people by name, Dr. Masters said, and making changes based on what would be helpful to that individual and their spiritual development. She said she’s heard people say things like, “I’ve got this Down’s kid that needs to prepare for the Eucharist,” which identifies people by their diagnosis, and that can be dehumanizing. Even among people with the same diagnosis, the needs of people with disabilities vary widely. A broad look at “disability access”—without careful attention to each person with disabilities—may fail to meet these parishioners’ individual needs.
The 2016 N.C.P.D. report found, for instance, that 85 percent of pastors said their parish at least “somewhat” offers a way to include students with disabilities in its religious education program, with 58 percent responding “very much.” Only 16 percent said they use the same catechetical resources for all without accommodations. But because the data does not distinguish among types of disability, it is unclear how many of the accommodations that are provided are tailored to students with intellectual and developmental disabilities.
Pastoral Outreach to Parishioners
Mary Catherine Widger, S.L., has been involved in expanding access to catechesis for people with intellectual and developmental disabilities since 1976. She currently serves as the assistant director of special religious education for the developmentally disabled in the Archdiocese of Denver. She said that implementing a religious education program for a child with disabilities begins by “talk[ing] to the pastor, to be sure he is open to that.”
She explained that if the pastor is not the one making the request, it often comes from parents or even family friends, who might ask on behalf of the parents of a child with disabilities. “So many times, [parents] are a little hesitant to reach out, because they’ve been told ‘no’ so many times, and that just shouldn’t be happening in that area.” Sister Widger’s office uses the U.S. bishops’ “Guidelines for the Celebration of the Sacraments With Persons With Disabilities” to remind pastors and leaders of their responsibilities toward their parishioners with disabilities.
Once Sister Widger’s team makes sure the pastor is on board, the team and pastor connect with parish leaders who can help with outreach, “and that’s usually some of the good women who are holding the parish together anyway,” Sister Widger said. They then begin reaching out to families, which can take “quite a bit of time,” since some families do not know that their child has a right to catechesis and the sacraments.
“We just keep trying to find those people that need to be reached out to—the parents that are agonizing, not because they have this child, but because they can’t share what means the most to them, which is their faith,” she said.
Sister Widger explains to parents that an inability to thrive in a traditional classroom religious education setting does not mean a person is unable to receive the sacraments: “There’s a big difference between ‘I can go and sit in somebody’s class and just not get it because I don’t understand the language,’ and ‘I can receive the living God, my parents have loved me, I know what love is, and this is what’s happening in that sacrament and all the sacraments, actually.’”
The full scope of disability ministry includes ministry to—and in collaboration with—people with disabilities at all stages of their lives. “Participation in the full life of the church is not just about sacrament participation,” said Dr. Masters, but she said the calls her office receives reflect the fact that “child sacrament preparation is still our predominant focus as a church.” Therefore, creating models of religious education that empower people with disabilities to receive the living God and recognize God’s love has been a point of focus for leaders in disability ministry.
An Alternative Model of Religious Education
A special religious development program (the acronym is Spred) is one used to catechize people with disabilities. Spred programs operate in 19 dioceses in the United States, as well as 17 dioceses across Africa, Europe, Australia, North America and South America. Rather than emphasizing instruction in a classroom, Spred aims to cultivate authentic relationships in “communities made up of eight catechists and six ‘friends’ with intellectual and developmental disabilities,” said Joseph Quane, the executive director of the Spred program of the Archdiocese of Chicago.
The relational charism behind Spred comes from the Rev. Eucharist Paulhus, who brought the Spred method to Chicago from France with the Rev. Jean Mesny. The basic line of thought goes: “Our friends are educable in the faith because they can form relationships with people,” explained Mr. Quane. “If they can form relationships with people, they can form relationships with God.”
During a two-hour session, participants with disabilities begin by unwinding and settling into prayer through a creative activity. Then they move to the “sacred space” where catechists help participants to find God using a symbol for a particular theme. For example, a glass of water on a hot summer day might be used as a metaphor for spiritual renewal. Participants and catechists discuss the theme and read Scripture; then a message is delivered to each participant, one by one. Afterward, the group leaves the room and they share a light snack or meal, mirroring the Eucharistic feast we share at the Mass. Spred Masses and other programs engage participants in the broader life of the parish.
The Spred model has empowered many people with disabilities to receive the sacraments, including Molly Gallagher, a 15-year-old girl with Down syndrome from Palos Park, Ill., who is nonverbal. Her father, Michael Gallagher, the director of vicariate operations for the Archdiocese of Chicago (he also serves on the board of directors of Mamre Inc., which raises money for Spred), said that Molly was not able to join the religious education program at their parish. She received her first Communion “one-on-one” with the pastor, but after that, there was a “void” in her religious education that Spred filled. Molly celebrated her confirmation this April at St. Cyril and Methodius in Lemont, Ill., with other teenage Spred participants.
With a four-to-three volunteer-to-participant ratio, the Spred program in Chicago is volunteer-intensive, and different age cohorts are distributed across a network of parishes with Spred ministries. Despite varying abilities, participants find community with others who are going through similar life experiences.
At Spred, Mr. Gallagher said, Molly enjoys interacting with three other teenagers with disabilities. “It’s not just prayer, it’s also social,” he said, which helps Molly develop her relationship with church.
Because Molly is nonverbal, “communication is a little limited,” Mr. Gallagher explained, “but she’s always very happy to go to Spred. She’s happy when she comes out of Spred.” He expressed confidence that Molly now has a strong faith life, rooted in the community at Spred.
Mary Ann Galeher also spoke highly of Spred. She was once told that her daughter Mary Kate, who has autism, would “never achieve confirmation” because she struggled to learn in a traditional youth catechesis setting. Mary Ann said that some people made her feel she was making a mistake with her daugher’s religious life by pulling her out of catechesis. Now, Mary Ann calls those concerns “silly.” She connected with Mr. Quane, and Mary Kate was confirmed at age 21 with her Spred group at St. Barnabas in the Beverly neighborhood of Chicago.
Now Mary Kate is 30 and works as a transporter at a hospital in Evergreen Park, Ill. She speaks fondly of her time in Spred, and her faith remains a sustaining force in her life, even if her work schedule sometimes prevents her from attending Sunday Mass. When she has panic attacks at work, she said, “I kind of just say a bunch of Hail Marys and Our Fathers and then…[I] realize everything is going to be OK.”
Mary Ann said that her daughter’s experience partially inspired her to begin volunteering for St. Cajetan Parish’s Spred group one year ago as “something to get me involved in the parish besides registering there,” but it has also connected Mary Ann to other families in the parish with disabilities and deepened her faith. “When those kids came up to join us in a prayer circle, it just blew me away. I’ve never felt such happiness [in] walking with Christ than I did at that moment.”
Spred continues to grow because it retains its volunteers. Mr. Quane said that he began volunteering for Spred 15 years ago, and “for the most part, every volunteer has stayed” in his parish group. He said that the community fostered through the program is life-giving for both the disabled participants and the volunteers alike.
Richer Models
Bridget Brown, a 38-year-old woman with Down syndrome, is an advocate for inclusion for people with disabilities. She serves on the N.C.P.D. Committee on Intellectual and Developmental Disabilities, where she helps advise congregations on how they can better include their members with disabilities. She acknowledged the strides that have been made toward inclusion but argued that, as a church, “we have a long way to go.”
Inclusion can make a measurable difference—the 2016 N.C.P.D. report found that parishes where people with disabilities serve in ministerial roles or on parish committees are more likely to offer significant accommodations for parishioners with disabilities. Thomas Gaunt, S.J., a co-author of the report and the executive director of CARA, said that most parishes do not have “any deliberate intent to exclude,” but parishes that succeed at ministering to their parishioners with disabilities have a “positive intent to include.”
Ms. Brown expressed frustration that in her work as an advocate, she rarely sees people with disabilities included in discussions that directly pertain to their experience.
“I wish that at conferences…people with disabilities were there—people with lived experience,” Ms. Brown explained. “Most of the time it is just intellectuals talking about people with disabilities, but not inviting them to the table and listening to their stories.”
“Charity is different than justice,” Ms. Brown said. “Charity is giving someone money or food, but justice is sitting at the table with each other and sharing a meal.”
“People with disabilities are often lonely, isolated, marginalized and pushed aside,” Ms. Brown continued, and it takes intention to show them that they are welcome and have gifts to share with the community. She suggested that sensory-friendly Masses should be offered for the entire congregation in the main church, with people with disabilities serving as liturgical ministers, so the entire congregation can get to know its members with disabilities and grow in fellowship. She also said that activities outside of Mass—like Bible studies or dinner groups—can facilitate stronger relationships among parishioners of all abilities and build a tighter-knit community.
My sister has experienced the power of this connection, too. After my family joined Old St. Patrick’s Church (where Ms. Brown also attends Mass), we learned the parish hosts a monthly “special friends Mass,” where people with disabilities serve as lectors, gift bearers and music ministers.
I asked Charlotte about it when I returned for Christmas this year. She described it in characteristically curt terms: “I like it. Maureen is nice,” she said, referring to Maureen Barney, an Ignatian Volunteer Corps member who helps coordinate the special friends Mass.
While I was home, Charlotte received a card in the mail from Ms. Barney wishing her a Merry Christmas; inside was a Starbucks gift card. “I can get a pink drink!” she rejoiced. Throughout the day, Charlotte asked our family, “Don’t you love Maureen?” And though I had never met her, I had to say that yes, I do.
Ms. Barney began by sending cards for Christmas and participants’ birthdays, but during the pandemic, she started sending them more frequently, hoping to connect with the community outside of Mass. She’s kept at it.
“I send them something every week,” Ms. Barney said of the 15 or so special friends Mass participants, “a postcard, a letter, a gift.” My sister checks the mail every day; she cannot read, but she can scan for names, and when a letter comes in for her, it makes her feel cared for, special.
“Each of the participants makes the community, and without them, we would not have that sacramental life that we have,” Ms. Barney explained. She strives to remind each of them of their vital place in that community.
Each month’s special friends Mass also includes a service activity, like assembling hygiene bags for Chicago’s homeless population, so “the participants know they are being served, but they also have something to bring to others.” Thus, people with disabilities are reminded that they are not objects of charity; they have a part to play in the church’s work of bringing about justice in the city and the world.
In speaking to people at various dioceses and in programs like Spred, it is easier to see a way forward, to see a church in which there is a seat at the table for each of our friends, regardless of their abilities, surrounded by people ready to listen. I pray others share this vision.
