By Jeff Schinstock
Director of evangelization and catechesis,
Director for pro-life activities
When the Church remembers St. Lawrence, we usually think about his funny quip during his martyrdom over a fire: “turn me over, I’m done on this side.”
But there is more than a clever story, or even a dramatic martyrdom. We remember a man placed under extraordinary pressure. Lawrence was a servant of the Church who was forced to choose, in a moment of fear and uncertainty, what he truly believed about the Gospel.
Lawrence served as one of the seven deacons of Rome in the third century, entrusted with the care of the Church’s poor and the stewardship of her material goods. He served directly under Pope St. Sixtus II, at a time when being a Christian—let alone a leader in the Church—was dangerous. During the persecution under Emperor Valerian, Sixtus II was arrested and executed. Lawrence watched his spiritual father, his bishop, his pope, led away to death. It was a life changing moment.
With the pope murdered and persecution intensifying, Lawrence was known and he was visible. He was primarily responsible for the Church’s resources. Roman authorities were aware of this, too. They demanded that he surrender the treasures of the Church. This was not a casual request, as it was made with the implication that he would join Pope St. Sixtus if he did not comply.
The pressure was immense: hand over the gold, the sacred vessels, all the wealth and perhaps he would live, or refuse and die. Lawrence asked for time. What he did next was so amazing we have remembered it for centuries. It reveals the depth of his faith.
Instead of gathering objects, Lawrence gathered people. He went into the streets and brought forward those whom the Church supported and protected: the poor, the blind, the lame, the sick, the orphan, the widowed, the suffering. These were men and women the empire tried not to see. People whose bodies bore weakness, whose lives bore loss, whose dependence made others uncomfortable.
When Lawrence returned and presented them to the authorities, he pointed and said, in effect: These are the treasures of the Church.
Lawrence did not offer a metaphor. He did not make a theological argument. He placed real people in front of power and forced it to confront what it usually avoided: The blind whose eyes could not see the world’s splendor. The lame whose bodies moved slowly and awkwardly. The sick whose suffering disrupted daily life. The poor whose very presence challenged the illusion of self-sufficiency.
Rome and the world were not impressed. These people were not producers. They contributed little or nothing to the empire’s strength or efficiency. And yet Lawrence saw them as jewels, not despite their weakness, but precisely because of it. He saw with the eyes of Christ. In fact, he saw Christ in them. That vision cost him his life.
Lawrence’s martyrdom confronts us with an uncomfortable question: Who do we see as the treasures of the Church today? And perhaps more honestly: Who do we fail to see at all? Our society still has blind spots. We value productivity, independence, speed and control. Those who move slowly, speak differently, struggle publicly or require accommodation can be treated as problems to solve rather than persons to love. They may not be rejected outright, but they are quietly pushed to the margins, often because we don’t know how to act. This is where we need the eyes of St. Lawrence.
I want to tell the beginning of a success story. Here in our diocese, one quiet but powerful witness to those eyes can be found in the low-sensory Mass for people with special needs and their families. We have it on the second Sunday of every month at the Pope St. John XXIII Center in Lincoln at 9:30 a.m., and a wonderful little community is forming—a community that hears, supports and accompanies. It isn’t trying to fix every problem, just worship together in the peace of understanding. I know, I go with my own family. The liturgy is simple and quiet and beautiful. Families are free to move, step out, or attend to their loved ones without fear of judgment. The goal is simple: to make space for those who often find traditional liturgical environments overwhelming.
But something deeper is happening here. By adapting the environment, the diocese is making a statement about value. The diocese is saying that people with sensory sensitivities, developmental disabilities and special needs are not an afterthought. They are not a burden. They are not a disruption. They are central. In a culture that often struggles to see their worth, the Church says: you belong here. You are one of the jewels of the Church.
The low-sensory Mass is an invitation to conversion—to those of us who are there, and to all who hear of it. Conversion that calls us to slow down, to soften our expectations and to learn again how to see. Not with the eyes of efficiency or comfort, but with the eyes of a deacon who stood under threat of death and declared that the Church’s greatest riches were the ones no one else wanted. St. Lawrence still asks us the same question today, do you see what I see?
