In Response to Violence



In times of national tragedy or during moments of senseless violence it can be easy to accept divisive rhetoric or the condemnation of one particular group over another.  It can be easy to uphold or tepidly respond to forceful opinion, or to retreat further from the challenges of difficult discourse.

 As we remember though, the faces and the personal stories; as we ponder, question, and attempt to understand; as we clamor for justice; as we embrace, but also appear unsettled; it is important to not let relationship be overshadowed by limitation; it is important to not let an identity based upon mutual respect and love be overtaken by an acceptance of violence and hate.  The Prayer of St. Francis of Assisi is a reminder of this call and of our commitment toward peace.



Dancing Francis sculpture at Viterbo University, La Crosse

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.
Where there is hatred let me sow love;
Where there is injury, pardon;
Where there is doubt, faith;
Where there is despair, hope;
Where there is darkness, light;
Where there is sadness, joy.

O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek
To be consoled as to console;
To be understood as to understand;
To be loved as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive;
It is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
And it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

Amen.

Dear Workers, around this same time last year, I finished a one and a half month hitchhiking tour of France with my travel companion Mike Elderbrook and found myself living in a squat (an abandoned building illegally inhabited by non-owners). I discovered it, a place known as Stendhal squat, when I was still with Mike passing through Paris. We had been searching for cheap lodging in Paris two weeks earlier when a friend said to try this address, that maybe some of her friends still lived there. Not knowing anything about the place, the people, the living situation, if they they would have room for us or if they even let strangers stay there, Mike and I went.

The first time I saw the dingy blue doors it was sundown and there was a grinning, mostly toothless, french man of asian descent named Loon smoking a joint and sipping on a beer in front of the “abandoned” hospital. Weary from travel, we had a short conversation in which he noticed my American accent and invited us inside for a break from our journey. He let us in with a quiet reminder to watch our stuff closely and offered us various substances to relax until he could ask the other squatters whether we could stay there. The spacious once-upon-a-time reception hall had scarred concrete floors scantily clad in tattered worn fabric. The unfinished drywall had posters, superb graffiti, and long ago written notes pockmarking its face. There were scattered beautiful paintings and drawings done right on the walls and floors. There were at least thirty bicycles hanging in that room with old refrigerators, old clothes, beer cans, and beat up furniture with a couple of twenty somethings lounging and smoking.

Quickly welcomed and assured lodging, the tour we received of the eight level complex was fairly shocking. Alongside the hallways and rooms resembling the reception area, there were also a home-built stage and auditorium with high tech sound and light systems, a free clothing store, a not so small library, a pristine white dance hall, and an immense labyrinth of a bicycle workshop. It seemed an odd combination of a blooming renaissance and decrepit chaos.

Later that night, we witnessed a borderline bacchanalia of the thirty mostly young squatters (between 20 and 35 years old) in which the dancing, hallucinating, table thumping, smoking, and drinking members celebrated their comrade's birthday. Although it was intense, it was amazing how welcoming and trusting they were with their things. We were given food, new clothes, access to their somewhat working bathrooms, and were offered a variety of substances. That night, we slept in an old hospital room with two stained mattresses and bug infested pillows while the party raged on a few floors below; I have never slept so well.

I decided to come back alone two weeks later to discover more about this lifestyle; I ended up living there for almost a month. The people who lived there were mostly french students, artists, musicians, activists, and scientists along with a couple of ukrainian refugees and me. The life there had a different pace. Some people had jobs and some didn’t but everybody was a freegan (meaning that we only ate “expired” or thrown out food which we found on the ground after markets or in the trash). The love of the earth and a respect for human freedom was palpable. Many in need of home, shelter for a night, or a meal stopped by on a daily basis and were given help freely and joyfully.  Art, drugs, hospitality, music, and coffee were priorities and everyone took part in them. The daily schedule for many squatters was waking up at noon, drinking absurd amounts of coffee, taking various creative drugs to “enhance creativity,” doing some sort of work on a skill or for a business till mid afternoon, then drinking and partying till well past midnight every night. On a weekly basis though,  there were plays, dance lessons, philanthropic/activist meetings and reunions happening there. There were entrepreneurs and scientists living there and continuing their research in the midst of this chaos.  There was a bicycle workshop that involved dumpster diving for old bicycles which were then repaired and given to refugees who otherwise had no other mode of transport.

A complex philosophy structured life there, and if you can read French then you can find out more about it here: http://lestendhal.net. I thought I was encountering a sort of underground left wing rebellion against “the man” and the socially constructed “needs” that suck our soul away. In some ways, this is what it is but there is a different texture to it. I could not understand how such abject hedonism existed in harmony, albeit imperfectly, with a seemingly selfless philanthropic project. Of course there were the inevitable contradictions between philosophy and practice that manifested themselves clearly in the actions and words of my friends. Yet, hypocrisies, which are so rampant in religious, political, and idealistic circles, needed no tortured explanations to keep a false sense of continuity and righteousness within the community, but were regarded as a natural part of working through the neuroses of living in a postmodern world and coping with the seeming purposelessness spawning from the lack of an apparent rival. I couldn’t figure out who the enemy was. Was it the government? The USA? The materialists? I was expecting to find clenched fists but all I found were hugs and kisses. I didn’t get it, they didn’t seem to be fighting for something. It slowly dawned on me over the next few weeks though. There wasn’t so much a sense of fighting back but of letting go and easing into a lifestyle in which they could undergo change.

To use Girardian concepts, there was an incredibly underwhelming sense of having no enemies--there was no revolution of the “poor downtrodden rising up to crush the maleficent bourgeoisie who had cruelly enslaved them,” nor was there a “good chosen people trying to bring truth to the reckless non-believers before they destroy the world”; rather, there was a gradual movement away from systems based around conflict. It was an exodus of the self-proclaimed disillusioned starting to move away from systems that perpetuate various types of violence to give a self-defined feeling of victory once some arbitrary goals are met (most typically, defeating the “other”). And it was in this bizarre intersection of peace and rebellion that I heard about the murders and subsequent events in Charleston, South Carolina.

I watched as we packed the still warm bodies of the slain into ammunition to wage our old political and cultural wars. Hoping to make sense of the cruelty, we framed the events to confirm our pre-existing beliefs so that we could be vindicated and exonerated of blame by identify with the victims. We set up nuance as the enemy of truth because we are afraid of what conceding ground means for us. With the ferociousness of our conviction, we mutually blind one another to the very light we want the other to see. In the vacuum of this fighting we suffocate the possibility of any concessions--that a gun makes it easier to act on the violent and potent impulses that arise from rivalry and ignorance, but also that this same violence can manifest itself no matter whether we can access a gun or not. This pattern is played out time and again in different political arenas: abortion, marriage laws, the death penalty, and even what bathrooms we can use.  
    In contrast, I saw in these hippies a genuine goodness that I hope to see in my community and myself one day. It’s not only their simplicity and generosity, but their openness to change and live in the tension of competing philosophies.  While not advocating that we all become drugged-up, hedonistic hippies, I hope that by gradually loosening our grip on a seamless worldview in which we are the “good,” there can be space for real grief to inform us of our daily collective and individual complicity in a system of rivalry and violence.

Now, almost a year later, I am trying to convince myself that this is possible in our present political climate.  We should ask ourselves who we have set up as our ideological rivals. We spend much of our time decrying the various heresies of competing denominations, bemoaning the falsehoods of our political adversaries, and touting the beauty of our own just and informed ways. How often do we listen to the opposition, truly seeking to understand their ideas and justifications? I believe it is only in this spirit that we can begin the slow, underwhelming process of working through our problems without overcoming them as enemies, but undergoing them as products of our collective/individual human ignorance.

Love,

Sam

Fix your minds on the things that are above

We will go down fighting, I was about to say. But actually we are not going down, we are going up. We are progressing. In the long run, we win though we may have to go through the agony in the garden, the cross itself, to get to the ascension, to receive the Holy Spirit.
 - Dorothy Day, On Pilgrimage - October 1958

Ascension of Christ, Garofolo, 1510s.

We “celebrated” the Feast of the Ascension last Sunday, though I didn't sense much celebration in the air. At mass, the priest greeted us with the words, “Joyful, joyful!” and a huge grin, reminding us that we are celebrating the Easter season. But then his homily centered on the sadness the disciples must have felt after Jesus’s final “goodbye” and the difficulty of major transitions in our own lives. I have also heard many similar homilies explaining that the Ascension is fundamentally about Jesus's absence, about patiently waiting until he “comes again.” Is the Ascension, then, merely something we begrudgingly accept is good for us somehow--akin to “Good Friday”--something we shouldn’t expect to inspire genuine celebration?

Though it may seem that way to us, it was understood very differently by the early Christians, according to the Catholic theologian James Alison (in his book Raising Abel: The recovery of the eschatological imagination):

This can be seen in passages like Romans 8:34; Ephesians 1:20; Hebrews 1:3,13; and 1 Peter 3:22. We are talking about something which was evidently imbued with great significance for the apostolic witnesses to the life and resurrection of Jesus: the happening which we describe when, while professing our faith, we say, "He ascended into heaven and is seated at the right hand of God." ... Is that happening in any way significant to us? ... Insofar as it gets talked about at all it appears as a somewhat apologetic loose end to the resurrection stories, as if it were a slightly shameful way of explaining why Jesus is no longer to be found, at least in this form…

However, it seems to have a special importance in the apostolic witness; in fact, in [Colossians 3:2] it seems to be the sine qua non by which Christians understand who we are, as well as being a principle of action. If this is the case, then we are talking about some lost understanding, something that was quite clear for the apostolic witnesses, but which has become so opaque for us that we don't even realize that we're missing out on something...

Alison translates Colossians 3:2 as: “Fix your minds on the things that are above, and not on the things of earth.” In recent days, my mind has been fixed most often on the things of earth to do with Donald Trump, as I suspect is true for many others, perhaps contributing to the gloominess I perceived on Sunday. Even as I write this, it is only with effort that I am able to resist checking the latest Trump news, although there is almost surely nothing new since I last checked an hour ago. So embarrassing--that is not the state of mind I want to be in. Especially now, in the face of all the suffering and vicious cycles in the world and our city, not to mention my sick children and overworked wife, I want to be alive with hope and able to envision the new creation Jesus is bringing about.

Stoning of Saint Stephen, altarpiece
of San Giorgio Maggiore, Venice,
by Jacopo & Domenico Tintoretto

I want to have the mind of St. Stephen, who, in a situation much more dire than I will ever face personally, "being full of the Holy Spirit, fixed his gaze on heaven and saw the glory of God and Jesus standing at the right hand of God, and said: Behold I see the heavens opened, and the Son of man standing at the right hand of God." As he was being stoned to death immediately thereafter, Stephen was able to follow Jesus to an extraordinary degree. He gave up his spirit peacefully and even prayed out loud that God forgive his misguided murderers. The subsequent conversion of just one of those who participated in Stephen's murder, Saul, would go on to transform history.

As best as I can understand (with the help of James Alison's book, a longer excerpt of which is available here), Jesus's ascension to the right hand of God is the sign of his definitive victory, initiating the creation of a new reality on earth as in heaven. A victim of the most shameful failure and death imaginable--a supposed messiah publicly tortured and killed at the request of all the people--is now in the most glorious and exalted place imaginable. As we fix our minds on that, we too can receive the spirit that animated Jesus, the power to act creatively as if death and failure were nothing, and to free others weighed down by shame or consumed by resentment.

Dorothy Day wrote of the ascension (at the top of this post) in reference to being evicted from her New York City houses of hospitality, the city having seized their property by eminent domain. I can only imagine how angry I would feel, and how overwhelmed by the pressure of finding a new way to provide for the dozens of people who had come to rely on her for shelter. She, however, had the grace to write:

We are not at all cheerless and can see quite a few ways out. For one thing we don’t want to borrow money from the city at six per cent interest (our own money, remember, remember!) We know that it is going to take some time to collect from the city the cost of our house and the money we put in for repairs. There is not going to be enough money to buy a house and repair it, as far as we can see, unless St. Joseph wants it that way and sends us the money through the Appeal which also has to take care of all our current bills for our household of over a hundred people. 

Dorothy Day in 1959 (photo by Jim Forest)

So what are the alternatives? We can rent a loft for our office, and for a sitting-around place for everyone. WE can feed them there. We can rent a floor of a hotel for our men and find an apartment for our women nearby. We can still give out clothes, we can still feed the hungry. And all this without any too great outlay of money all at once. We can stall along this way for a year until we find a place suitable and one which the city will accept as suitable and give us a certificate of occupancy for.

The creative, unhurried, and unafraid spirit of Jesus was clearly evident in her. Through her participation in the Eucharist each morning (among many other things, of course), she concretely experienced the crucified and risen Jesus offering himself for her and for all. Let's pray that our hearts may also see Jesus in his glory as Stephen and Dorothy knew him and so joyfully receive the gifts of the Holy Spirit that empowered them. As just one specific way towards that, you could try this prayer of praise composed by St. Francis of Assisi, which he prayed several times a day with his brothers: The Praises to be said at all the Hours

Walking for Mercy, Walking for Justice

Twice, I have had the opportunity to see Glen Hansard in concert.  The first time was a number of years ago at the historic Pabst Theater in downtown Milwaukee; the second time was last June at the Orpheum Theater in Madison.  His singing has always impressed me for its range and due to the sheer volume and raw emotion that he is able to convey through his voice.  Often, his voice emerges as a faint whisper, but then slowly it increases in dynamic to a startling cry which then rises almost to a heightened scream before fading back as quickly into the silence from which it came.  He carries a powerful voice, which speaks to the most intimate moments of life, and he does so as though he were an old friend.  One song in particular, “Her Mercy,” speaks to that most intimate desire of relationship; the lyrics end with the repeated invitation: And when you’re ready for her mercy, / And you’re worthy, / It will come.

 

 

In March of last year Pope Francis made the announcement that 2016 would be known as the Year of Mercy.  He made this announcement without precondition, without limitation; not everyone may be ready, but we are all worthy, and it will come.  The works of mercy, much like the beatitudes, are concrete examples of the gospel carried out.  They can be simple and straightforward—such as feed the hungry, or clothe the naked—but more so than the action, we are called to partake in the relationship of mercy that is not always so straightforward, never simple, but always life changing and life affirming. 

This is the identity of mercy that was demonstrated by Pope Francis in washing the feet on Holy Thursday of those who were incarcerated, of his visit to the Greek Island of Lesbos with Patriarch Bartholomew to call attention to the plight of the refugee, and of opening a Vatican conference challenging the notion that war can ever be considered just.  The difficulty of promoting mercy though, is that for it to come, we must also be willing to participate in the pursuit of justice.  And sometimes, it is through the smallest of actions—such as in a walk—that together we begin down this path of mercy, this walk toward justice.

A few weeks ago, on Good Friday, I had the opportunity to participate in a walking Stations of the Cross in downtown Madison.  The entire route for the walk was roughly a mile long; there were ten stations, each represented by a building or an organization that sought to convey a specific theme or issue calling for our attention and inviting a response.  The walk was sponsored by the Madison Catholic Worker group.  It was the first year that we had organized this event, and we had hoped for a small number to participate.  75 people arrived that evening, gathered together in Cathedral Park near the capital building.  At 4:30PM an opening prayer was read, and the first station—Jesus is Condemned to Death—came to a close.  Stillness pervaded the park. 

Opening prayer at Cathedral Park

From that stillness emerged the single beat of a drum.  And then there were footsteps; slowly at first, as we all began to walk across the concrete steps leading out from the park to the street.  Again a drum beat.  The voices of those walking—whispered, hushed, some harmonized, others quietly humming—Jesus remember me when you come into your kingdom, Jesus remember me when you come into your kingdom.  The drum beat continued, keeping pace between the footsteps.  Each participant carried a simple wooden cross, painted white.  Pause.  Stillness.  Noises of the surrounding traffic; continued footsteps.  Until slowly, we all stopped, standing in front of the Dane County Courthouse.  And then, amplified over the crowd, a reader spoke, “The Second Station: Jesus is Given His Cross.”  And when you’re ready for her mercy, / And you’re worthy, / It will come.

Walking past the state capital; a drum beat keeps pace.

Between the reader and those gathered, we spoke of our immigration system, of families who had been separated, of those locked in detention centers.  Just as the simple wooden crosses had names written on them—from a previous procession at the School of the Americas—we sought to identify each station not with the historical Jesus, but with a Jesus whose presence was still observed in the ongoing suffering of the world today.  Eight other stations followed in a similar pattern: drum beat, footsteps against the pavement, spoken verses, and then silence, proceeded by the next reader.  Each reflection focused on a contemporary issue in which the reality of Jesus’ ministry, the physicality of the Gospels, was demonstrated by a modern day representation, whether through a homeless shelter (#9), the state capital building (#6), the police department (#4), the county jail (#3), or a veterans museum (#8).  The stations sought to encourage our understanding of mercy, and to challenge our association of justice—not a straight and absolute path, but a meandering and often fragmented journey into a greater depth of relationship and a wider sense of community.

 

The 8th Station - The Wisconsin Veterans Museum



I have now participated in a walking Stations of the Cross four times in the last five years; the previous walks which I attended took place in La Crosse, Wisconsin and were hosted by the Franciscan Spirituality Center.  Up until my introduction to this type of walk I had never felt a deep connection to the standard Stations of the Cross that can be observed in any Catholic parish and remembered each year on Good Friday.  For some reason though, this type of remembrance—physically encountering each station in a substituted form—reminds me that the Gospel is and will continue to remain an active presence in today’s society, and that Jesus’ walk to the cross is a walk that many stumble upon through no choice of their own, as represented through these modern day stations.  The crucifixion made clear the sufferings in the world, but it was the resurrection and Jesus’ encounter with the disciples at a later date which would render His presence to the modern world, incarnate in the stations of today.  Through Jesus’ resurrection we are able to encounter Christ in this modern narrative of the Way of the Cross.  What Easter has brought us is an encounter with mercy.  And when you’re ready for her mercy, / And you’re worthy, / It will come.

***This post was also published on the blog Messy Jesus Business, and in the newspaper for the Place of Grace Catholic Worker in La Crosse.



Pope Francis on the Works of Mercy

Pope Francis visits the imprisoned in Philadelphia. (David Maialetti/The Philadelphia Inquirer, Pool)

The emphasis Pope Francis has recently placed on the works of mercy is striking, and it is worth really taking in his words one month in to this Extraordinary Jubilee of Mercy. First, from the papal bull officially declaring the Jubilee Year of Mercy:

In this Holy Year, we look forward to the experience of opening our hearts to those living on the outermost fringes of society: fringes which modern society itself creates. How many uncertain and painful situations there are in the world today! How many are the wounds borne by the flesh of those who have no voice because their cry is muffled and drowned out by the indifference of the rich! During this Jubilee, the Church will be called even more to heal these wounds, to assuage them with the oil of consolation, to bind them with mercy and cure them with solidarity and vigilant care. Let us not fall into humiliating indifference or a monotonous routine that prevents us from discovering what is new! Let us ward off destructive cynicism! Let us open our eyes and see the misery of the world, the wounds of our brothers and sisters who are denied their dignity, and let us recognize that we are compelled to heed their cry for help! May we reach out to them and support them so they can feel the warmth of our presence, our friendship, and our fraternity! May their cry become our own, and together may we break down the barriers of indifference that too often reign supreme and mask our hypocrisy and egoism! 

Visiting the sick. (CNS photo/Paul Haring)

It is my burning desire that, during this Jubilee, the Christian people may reflect on the corporal and spiritual works of mercy. It will be a way to reawaken our conscience, too often grown dull in the face of poverty. And let us enter more deeply into the heart of the Gospel where the poor have a special experience of God’s mercy. Jesus introduces us to these works of mercy in his preaching so that we can know whether or not we are living as his disciples. Let us rediscover these corporal works of mercy: to feed the hungry, give drink to the thirsty, clothe the naked, welcome the stranger, heal the sick, visit the imprisoned, and bury the dead. And let us not forget the spiritual works of mercy: to counsel the doubtful, instruct the ignorant, admonish sinners, comfort the afflicted, forgive offenses, bear patiently those who do us ill, and pray for the living and the dead.

We cannot escape the Lord’s words to us, and they will serve as the criteria upon which we will be judged: whether we have fed the hungry and given drink to the thirsty, welcomed the stranger and clothed the naked, or spent time with the sick and those in prison (cf. Mt 25:31-45). Moreover, we will be asked if we have helped others to escape the doubt that causes them to fall into despair and which is often a source of loneliness; if we have helped to overcome the ignorance in which millions of people live, especially children deprived of the necessary means to free them from the bonds of poverty; if we have been close to the lonely and afflicted; if we have forgiven those who have offended us and have rejected all forms of anger and hate that lead to violence; if we have had the kind of patience God shows, who is so patient with us; and if we have commended our brothers and sisters to the Lord in prayer. In each of these “little ones,” Christ himself is present. His flesh becomes visible in the flesh of the tortured, the crushed, the scourged, the malnourished, and the exiled… to be acknowledged, touched, and cared for by us. Let us not forget the words of Saint John of the Cross: “as we prepare to leave this life, we will be judged on the basis of love”.

In his newly released book, The Name of God is Mercy, discussing whether the traditional works of mercy remain relevant today, he says:

They are still valid, still current. Perhaps some aspects could be better “translated,” but they remain the basis for self-examination. They help us open up to the mercy of God, to ask for the grace to understand that without mercy a person cannot do a thing, that you cannot do a single thing, that “the world would not exist,” in the words of the elderly lady I met in 1992.

Let us examine the Seven Corporal Works of Mercy: feed the hungry, give drink to the thirsty, dress the naked, house the pilgrims, visit the sick, visit the imprisoned, bury the dead. I do not think there is much to explain. And if we look at our situation, our society, it seems to me that there is no lack of circumstances or opportunities all around us. What should we do for the homeless man camped in front of our home, for the poor man who has nothing to eat, for the neighboring family who cannot make it to the end of the month due to the recession, because the husband lost his job? How should we behave with the immigrants who have survived the crossing and who land on our shores? What should we do for the elderly who are alone, abandoned, and who have no one?

Visiting drug addicts in Buenos Aires in 2008. (CNS)

We have received freely, we give freely. We are called to serve Christ the Crucified through every marginalized person. We touch the flesh of Christ in he who is outcast, hungry, thirsty, naked, imprisoned, ill, unemployed, persecuted, in search of refuge. That is where we find our God, that is where we touch the Lord. Jesus himself told us, explaining the protocol for which we will all be judged: “whatever you did for one of these least brothers of mine, you did it for me” (Matthew 25:40)...

Recollections of a Madison Catholic Worker who knew Dorothy Day

[Editor's note: Several of us celebrated Dorothy Day's birthday this past Sunday by watching and discussing a documentary on her life. Barbara Reed was not able to join us, but she agreed to write up something about her experiences that we could share after the movie--particularly the story of her first visit to a CW farm, which happened to be exactly 41 years ago (on Dorothy's 77th birthday).]

In the early 1970s I was living in upstate New York with my 4 children and had been visiting and becoming connected with Dorothy Day and the Catholic Worker houses in New York City some 200 miles away.  

A young woman who had been living in a battered old car not far from our house had come to my attention and I had invited her to come and live with my children and me.  I will call this woman "Betty."  She was 20 years old and had dropped out of school due to inability to keep up academically.  She was unable to work at a job without one on one assistance.  Betty was from a farm family.  When I spoke to her parents to make sure they would approve of her staying with us, I was told that she was "of age and on her own."  They said that they could not "handle her behavior" and were not willing to participate any longer in her care.

Betty was not feeling well, and I arranged an appointment with a reliable local doctor.  The doctor found her to be several months pregnant (I insisted that Betty and I talk on the phone with her parents about this.  The parents were even more adamant that they wanted no more contact with her or with a baby.)

Betty was slow in comprehending things, but she adapted easily to our family and we to her.  In fact, we were sitting around our Formica kitchen table at supper one night when my 7 year old son announced, "God really listens!  I prayed for another sister and now I have two new sisters!"  (A 19 year old girl who had been evicted from her apartment was also living with us. 

As Betty's pregnancy advanced, she constantly said that she did not want to keep the baby. I was familiar with the complex nature of the local adoption procedures and reached out to my friends at the NYC Catholic Worker seeking advice as to the best solution.

That is how I was put in touch with an extremely competent and caring young woman who was helping as a sort of "house parent" at the Catholic Workers' Peter Maurin Farm on the Hudson River. (The Farm was designed to employ volunteers willing to live as "Catholic Workers" to plant and harvest organic fruit and vegetables to be shared among those at the farm and with those at the two CW houses in NY City.)

I was immediately invited to bring Betty there for the remainder of her pregnancy with the assurance that their contacts through the social service organizations and Catholic Charities they would readily locate her an adopting family.  There were "no strings attached" but of course I was eager to spend as many weekends as possible helping at the farm.

That is how I happened to make the first of many visits to Peter Maurin Farm and to drive there on November 8, 1974 with Betty, taking our other guest, Nancy along to keep Betty company.  The rest of this article is copied from a letter I wrote in 1974 describing that visit.  The most pertinent remarks I can think of to follow the showing of the film relate to:  "what was life like in a Catholic Worker house during Dorothy's life time?"

Welcoming the Stranger

We arrived at 6:30 PM.  It was clear but very dark.  On the way from Tivoli where we had stopped to ask directions I asked Betty and Nancy: "Have you ever been to a place before where you didn't have to worry about being evicted because nobody has to pay rent?" 

Betty replied, "Just at your house!" 

As we drove up we saw a rambling old house of several stories with lighted windows welcoming us.  Two young men stood in the driveway talking.  We introduced ourselves.  One of them immediately asked if I was a nun to which I replied,  "Oh, no, I'm just Barbara." They welcomed us and showed us into the house.

Inside, some men were sitting in the dining room talking and drinking coffee. We were told that dinner was just over, so I asked where the kitchen was so that we could help with the dishes. 

Once in the kitchen, we found that dishes and clean up were already finished.  Linda, with whom I had spoken on the phone came into the dining room to meet us along with a woman named Joan. (Joan became a close friend over the years. She is very quiet but does so much in caring for the sick and elderly.  She lives in a little cabin on the grounds where she always invites others to visit and have a conversation.)

Joan and Linda really made us each feel so welcome, as did everyone we met.  We all sat down together to have coffee.  At that moment George rang the bell for Vespers. 

Dorothy Day with Deane Mower (right) at the Farm

Linda led Betty, Nancy and me to the chapel where a few others joined us.  One other person was seated in the corner of the chapel, an elderly woman sitting alone.  I guessed correctly that she was Deane Mower who by then had almost totally lost her eyesight.  We were introduced after Vespers and I made an appointment for a walk with her the next morning. 

I was so happy to be there but so tired!  Returning to Joan in the dining room we found our coffee waiting as well as three women in their twenties who had been outdoors all day building a barn!  They had a connection with the Benedictines from Erie, Pennsylvania.

Emerging from the kitchen was a man named Chuck who was visiting from a cooperative farm where he and two of the barn building women had been living recently.  Chuck was a most interesting speaker and I enjoyed hearing details about the farm and his life. 

Chuck had destroyed his draft card and had simultaneously given up institutional religion in the 1960's.  He then set out to build on the positive, simple, yet powerful, values that he articulated to us.  I gave him my opinion that he is a holy person.

We agreed that he was an inspiration to all of us.  He showed endless patience in joining in picking hundreds of pounds of apples that weekend, in stringing apples for drying, and in the tenderness shown toward the large numbers of energetic and sometimes boisterous children living on the farm. 

Linda showed us to our beds in the women's dorm.  It is a lovely, warm room that has windows along two sides that give a nighttime view of the heavens and a daytime panorama of the Hudson River. Betty and Nancy joined other women in the room and went to sleep.  I went back downstairs to talk with the others for a couple hours. 

I don't remember ever having spent a more comfortable night than in that lively, peaceful place.  A true blessing for all of us...

Note:  Betty thrived at the farm.  She was surrounded by the gifts of healthful activity, acceptance of her as a person, prayer, and hope.  During her labor she complained bitterly and loudly about the pain and the inconvenience, but her healthy little girl arrived and was adopted by an ecstatic local family.  Betty stayed on at the farm, content to work at simple routine chores.  She relinquished parental rights and declined any invitation to have contact with the child. 



Dorothy Day at the Farm ca. 1970.

Post script:
It was some weeks after that visit before I was at the farm at the same time as Dorothy Day.  With Dorothy present, the routine of things ran pretty much as they did in her absence.  One might find her praying the Office in the chapel, writing articles for the Catholic Worker newspaper in her study or peeling potatoes in the dining room among a group of volunteers.  She was part of the rhythm of the functioning of the place but was in no way a "person in charge."  Dorothy's demeanor was calm, but no nonsense, and purposeful.  Many sought her out to discuss their personal concerns.  She listened attentively and encouraged them as they figured out possible and practical solutions.  She was extremely efficient and insightful but never seemed to be in a hurry.  Dorothy lived her life day by day as a prayer of contemplation, caring, and action to bring into our world God's kingdom on earth, a kingdom of peace with justice. 

Happy 2015!  As it turned out, we all took a bit of a break to enjoy the holidays.  Here's hoping that yours were spent in warm company.

Thanks to Tim, we are on schedule to spend next Sunday, Jan 18 with the Catholic Workers and guests at Hope House in Dubuque IA.  Since our last meeting in the fall, we have connected to a few new folks who will be joining us for the trip on Sunday.  

One new member is Kathy Laubmeier of St. Maria Goretti Parish.  Kathy has graciously offered her 7 passenger van for the trip.  As Tim has indicated, we will plan to meet Kathy at Blessed Sacrament Church parking lot on Sunday.  We plan to depart promptly at 1:30, so please come a bit early. Remember too that we may get to help with the serving of the weekly meal, so dress accordingly.

We will need to know for sure if you plan to attend the outing so we can arrange transportation.  Here is the current sign-up list:

Kathy  (with Van)

Tim

Marilyn

Jon

So please consider joining us for this exciting first trip to another Catholic Worker house.  We will be returning to Madison by 9:30 pm, in time to get ready for Monday's work obligations.

If you have any questions, or suggestions,  please let us know.

Dennis

[Ed. note: Dennis has been down with the flu this week and it now looks like he won't be able to make it. - Tim]