By Anthony Selvanathan
Special to the Herald
In the Gospels, those afflicted with leprosy are not only ill; they are also outcasts, pushed to the edges of society and kept at a distance. They are often reduced to a condition rather than welcomed as people.
When Jesus encounters them, what is most striking is not only that he heals, but that he draws near. He touches. He looks. He restores not only health, but a sense of belonging.
Here in Hawaii, the story of Kalaupapa gives this gospel reality a particular weight. For generations, men, women and children afflicted with Hansen’s disease, also known as leprosy, were forcibly removed from their families and sent to live there. While most of those years now belong to history, a small number of patients still live there today, a quiet reminder that this story is not only about the past, but about lives that continue to be lived with dignity and resilience.
Their lives bear witness not only to physical hardship, but to a long and complex history in which fear and misunderstanding once kept people at a distance, and in which faith, care and community gradually worked to restore what had been broken.
St. Damien de Veuster and St. Marianne Cope crossed that distance. They did not see a diagnosis first. They saw faces, names, and sons and daughters of God. They chose to live among those whom others feared, to touch those whom society avoided, and to remain when it would have been easier to stay away.
Recently, the church has gently invited us to remember those who so often remain unseen.
On Jan. 22, the Day of Prayer for the Legal Protection of Unborn Children, we were asked to hold in prayer the smallest and most hidden among us, who cannot yet speak for themselves. On Jan. 23, we celebrated the feast of St. Marianne, whose Franciscan love made visible the dignity of those the world had cast aside. And on Jan. 25, World Leprosy Day called our attention once again to those who, because of illness and stigma, have been pushed to the margins.
Together, these days ask us to look again at whom we notice and whom we pass by.
If those afflicted with leprosy in the Gospels represent those pushed to the edges, the question quietly returns to us in our own time: Who are the ones we treat as outcasts today?
Perhaps it is the unhoused person living with mental illness, trying to survive in a makeshift shelter along the side of the road. Perhaps it is the immigrant who speaks little English and is finding his or her way in a new and unfamiliar place. Perhaps it is the single mother who is expecting a child and carrying both hope and the weight of judgment in her heart. Perhaps it is the young person who goes to school each day bearing the burden of constant bullying and isolation. Perhaps it is the family struggling to make ends meet, coming quietly to the parish food pantry in the hope of putting a meal on the table.
The situations differ, but the temptation is often the same. We protect ourselves from what makes us uncomfortable. We speak about people rather than with them. Without intending harm, we sometimes allow fear or uncertainty to decide how close we are willing to come.
The Gospel invites us to another way of seeing. Every person, without exception, is created in the image and likeness of God. This dignity is not earned and cannot be taken away. It is not diminished by illness, poverty, age, family history or social standing. Jesus draws near to the outcast because the image of God is never beyond his touch.
St. Damien and St. Marianne’s witness reminds us that the church is renewed in the same way, through the simple but demanding choice to draw near, to remain and to love where others might turn away. Then and now, the question stands before us with quiet insistence: Who is our outcast? And are we willing, like Christ, to cross the distance that our fear creates and to recognize, in every person, the face of God reflected back to us?