By Thea Jarvis

If you want to say something about Catholic Workers, you can say that they love each other.

And if you want to say something more about Catholic Workers, you can say that they love other people too.

I didn’t really know this when I made my way to the lower east side of New York City on a brisk September morning just a few weeks ago.

I had left Long Island about 7:30 and taken the scenic route to avoid heavy traffic – through the innards of old Brooklyn neighborhoods, up to the ancient Williamsburg Bridge, across the busy East River and a few blocks down to the Worker house on East First Street in lower Manhattan.

It was 9:15 when I arrived at St. Joseph’s House and I was surprised at its “littleness.” The house stood in the middle of a narrow street. People hurried by, traffic squalled its noisy morning yawnings, without, it seemed, the knowledge of the place. No fanfare here, no neon lights proclaiming “God’s work carried on inside.”

A few men, awaiting the morning’s meal, stood outside a bare green door decorated with a plainspoken note about hours of operation. Looking around, I caught sight of a larger identification above and to the left of the door: The Catholic Worker.

I gave a tentative knock and thought I might have to stand in the soup line myself to be allowed inside. But I was expected, and, within a few seconds, a friendly bearded face appeared at the door’s little window. I was ushered inside with little fanfare but much warmth, and I felt almost immediately the tangible aura of peace that distinguishes Catholic Worker houses from the chaos of the rest of the world.

Soup

In the kitchen-dining area of the house, workers were in the throes of preparation for the Friday meal. The biggest cauldron of soup I had ever seen simmered on its own gas-powered stove at the back of the first floor room. Standing upright in the soup was a boat oar, seasoned no doubt with the flavors and spices of many former soup days, which was used to stir the brew.

An aged black stove that looked as if it had been resurrected from some bygone hotel’s kitchen held more pots of soup and a hefty tureen of coffee. Peggy had come in early that morning to start the soup going, I was told. By nine it was sending its hearty fragrance throughout the room.

At one of the oblong tables along the far wall, Bob and Mike were making bread and butter sandwiches. They quickly enfolded me in their conversation and again I felt the warmth and openness of the place. I helped butter up the last of the bread and joined Alice in setting up the tables.

It struck me that there were a lot of workers going about the business of the 10 o’clock soup service. Each seemed to mesh with the others into a pleasing whole. When the first of the men sat down at the tables and serving started, it was as if a liturgical dance had begun.

My ear caught the subdued strains of some classical music as I grabbed a bowl of soup from the serving table. Ryan showed me how to master the art of carrying a cup of coffee, a bowl of soup and a bread and butter sandwich to the tables in one trip. It was a good feeling to look as if I knew what I was doing. I felt at home.

So did the men and occasional women who came in to eat. After the first wave of 35 or so were seated and served, new arrivals were admitted at the door as soon as a place was emptied.

Although the weather was mild, and the coming cold was not yet a problem, the guests were obviously very hungry. They ate with relish, many lacing their soup with the salt, pepper and even hot sauce that sat on the tables.

A few looked as if they were sick. Some were very quiet and hardly spoke with their portion was served. Others flashed a grateful smile and exchanged a few pleasantries. Jack was particularly adept at getting the guests to loosen up, talking and joking with them and making them feel comfortable – more than comfortable, loved and valued by those to whom they had to look for food and drink.

I was told that the men liked to come to St. Joseph’s House because of the attitude of the workers. There are many municipal shelters in Manhattan. Interestingly enough, Holy Mother of the City (Dorothy Day’s designation) does much for the homeless in New York and works hard to open her doors to those without shelter. But the municipal shelter must be a hard and cold experience once you have been to a Catholic Worker house.

The Worker Dance

I took a turn ladling the soup into bowls and realized I was part of the worker dance. As I dipped my ladle into the cauldron, I sensed I was keeping time to the classical hummings in the background – music that has traditionally been associated with Dorothy Day and her houses of hospitality.

Paul stirred the soup and Bob washed the dishes. Marty served the bowls and Ryan poured the coffee. Their movements seemed graceful, almost lyrical.

All the workers are special, as are their guests. Through the morning, some shared a bit of their background as I shared my own with them. There was no sense of intrusion or prying, just a natural acceptance of the presence of one another.

One of the workers had spent time teaching at an alternative junior high school in the city while deciding whether or not to join a religious order. Another was a peace activist from the Midwest who planned a trip to Nicaragua this winter to help with the harvest.

The Friday volunteers included a Maryknoll seminarian, workers who had recently taken time off for travel, and residents of St. Joseph’s House who were well and able enough to help in the kitchen.

Besides serving soup, workers dealt personally with those who needed more than the morning’s ration. Jane sat on a bench near the large statue of St. Joseph in the front window and hugged an elderly visitor crying in her arms. Her husband was ill and she was just having a bad day. Mike defused a minor skirmish between two of the men having difficulty getting along. When one woman insisted on a special serving of coffee from the pot on the stove, Ryan and Jake gently honored her wishes within the limits of the serving routine.

None who shared the morning’s work wore his faith like a badge or gave the impression that everyone ought to be a Catholic Worker, manning the breadlines and stirring the soup. They were content to be there themselves.

Their reward was the knowledge that they had cared for people who needed them on a very basic and personal level. A sincere and quiet thank you, the helpful gesture of returning dishes to the serving area, a kiss blown in the air, meant to rest on each of the workers – all these were the pats on the back they received from those they willingly served.

In the Garden

As the morning wore on and the last of the guests had eaten, I made my way out the back door past the imposing black stove to a little patio that was the garden spot of the house.

Flanked by multiple-story dwellings, itself a study in concrete, the patio was Dorothy Day’s other resting places that seemed always to accompany her worker houses.

Earlier in the morning, I had sat with Frank and Jane at a little table on the patio, asking questions about the work and enjoying the first taste of fall in the air.

Frank has been with the Worker movement for years and described it with enthusiasm for its past and hopefulness for its future.

The present house, he explained, was acquired in the late sixties and is the descendant of the second Chrystie Street house. With five floors, it has space for a newspaper office on the second level, plus three floors used as living quarters by volunteer staff and resident guests.

The patio serves as a storage area as well as a place of respite, and bushel baskets of fresh vegetables decorated the area along with pots of summer flowers holding on to the last gleamings of the season. The vegetables, Frank said proudly, came straight from the Peter Maurin Farm in Marlboro, New York, where workers can refresh themselves in a country setting while learning the how-tos of productive agriculture.

I left the patio to join the workers and St. Joseph’s House residents for lunch. Like the portion served the morning’s guests, it was plain fare. Fresh tomatoes from the farm, cheese and rolls, along with the soup that still simmered on the stove, made for a frugal but satisfying meal.

Some of the workers had gone to 12:15 Mass at a neighborhood church staffed by the Jesuits. As they returned and joined the residents and those who had been hard at work putting the finishing touches on the latest issue of the newspaper, the room came alive with the flesh and blood of community.

Community

Elaine had just come back from a summer stay at a Worker farm in Michigan and brought Alice some cookies she had made. George asked if I would contact a man in Atlanta who had called up to New York for a Catholic Worker subscription. Robbie took over kitchen duty from Mike, and I helped Ryan with her Spanish.

They were all still unsure of whether or not their speaker for the Friday night meeting would be coming or if he would be in jail and unable to attend. The meetings had resumed the week before after a summer respite and they expected a good crowd.

Gary, a miraculous medal suspended unselfconsciously from his ear, stopped to talk. It’s the little things that keep him going, he said, a word of thanks, a query about how he’s getting along, the human contacts that make it worthwhile.

Like others in the community, Gary works outside the house to support himself and the worker effort. He is employed at times as an orderly in a home for incurable cancer patients nearby.

I learned that some workers do full-time duty on the staff and may live at one of the two houses of hospitality the Worker sponsors. Others may work on the outside and live in nearby apartments, sharing the worker load as their schedule permits. The lifestyle is flexible and geared to making each feel a part of the community.

I headed upstairs after lunch to catch a glimpse of the office where The Catholic Worker newspaper was put together. I found it disappointingly bare and neat as a pin. I had envisioned stacks of paper and loose clippings strewn in happy disorder and was met with a room near-empty except for the long tables that faced me at the door and some serviceable cabinets and chairs.

Preston was sitting at one of the tables having a cigarette and explained the reason for the emptiness. The paper had been properly but to bed and the last of the thousands of issues that go out around the country had been mailed.

He took down my name and address for a subscription and showed me around a bit. In a deep closet on the far wall, stacks of shoeboxes, cracked and faded with age, held the address labels of Catholic Worker subscribers. The paper was late in getting out this month, Preston said, but is published eight times a year, with some months included in a combined issue.

As we talked, a voice from the second floor landing called out stentoriously to no one in particular, “I am now … going to smoke … a Pall Mall … cigarette.” A few minutes later, the voice exclaimed, just as loudly, “I am now … looking at my shadow … on the wall.”

Preston identified the voice as Harold making his way to his room. Ryan later explained that Harold had been a tireless worker in years gone by but had fallen in a snowdrift one hapless winter day and hadn’t been the same since. The community cared for Harold with love. Frank described him to me as very “dear” to the workers.

Maryhouse

Downstairs, Jane and Ryan were keeping watch at the door leading onto First Street. There were still some men looking for food and they were given a sandwich at the door. Jane explained that the 10 o’clock soup service was held Friday through Sunday but that the workers responded to individual requests for food and sometimes clothing during the week from 8 a.m. until 10 p.m.

Elaine was leaving for Maryhouse and I asked if I could tag along. The walk was just a few blocks over to East Third Street and took no more than minutes.

Frank described the setup between St. Joseph’s House and Maryhouse as “one house with a big breezeway — Second Avenue.” He was right on target.

Maryhouse is a residence primarily for women and is located in the building which formerly housed the Third Street Music School. I followed Elaine through solid wood doors decorated with attractive white-painted grille-work and was welcomed by a gracious statue of the Blessed Mother in the hallway. Nearby, an older resident counted change with methodical precision.

One flight up, I found Peggy, Frank and Gary in a sunny, streetside office, Peggy teaching layout to a young worker and Frank and Gary discussing the business of the day.

Peggy asked if I would deliver a stack of the latest Worker issue to the Open Door in Atlanta. It contained an article by Murphy Davis on capital punishment and a quick delivery was needed because of the pending execution of John Eldon Smith in Georgia.

Newspapers in hand, I passed the large auditorium used for Friday night meetings and Mass and made my way to the basement level of the house, which accommodated a laundry area, clothes closet and kitchen-dining facilities.

Frank joined me downstairs and introduced me to Pam, who was just cleaning up the kitchen after a residents’ lunch of grilled cheese sandwiches.

While we sat around the kitchen and talked, a young woman came in looking for food for her family. Pam gave her the makings of a meal and explained that they had started buying food supplies over and above the needs of the house to meet requests from local people.

Maryhouse last winter sheltered a maximum of 42 residents, workers included, Pam and Frank told me, adding that they viewed themselves as a family where people bore with and accepted each other. They agreed it wasn’t always easy, but it was the goal they had in mind when they came to live at the Worker house. For them, and for most Catholic workers, life within an intentional Christian community was an important expression of their faith.

Beyond the kitchen was another worker haven, an enclosed garden area with shrubs and flowers and a place to sit and rest. Frank said they often held their daily vesper service here, when weather permitted, adding that frequently workers from both houses shared in the evening prayer.

Leave Taking

I left the garden grudgingly. It was peaceful and green and I wanted to sit for awhile myself, but I had to get back to St. Joseph’s House for my ride home to Long Island where I was staying with my family.

Walking from Maryhouse alone after saying goodbye to Frank and Pam, I felt something powerful had happened inside my head and my heart. It was too big to take in all at once, but a day spent at a Catholic Worker house is an experience in conversion.

At St. Joseph’s House I wished the workers well and headed out of the city. As I thought of the people I had met and the lifestyle they followed, the words of Dorothy Day in her book “Loaves and Fishes” came back to me: “The consolation is this – and this our faith too: By our suffering and our failures, by our acceptance of the Cross, by our struggle to grow in faith, hope, and charity, we unleash forces that help to overcome the evil in the world.”

Well said. And well done.