Father Francis Gruber, O. Cist., is currently working on his doctorate in philosophy in Rome.
Artist: Angel Valdez
It is with a sense of wonder that I recall my time at Casa Juan Diego in the summer of 2012. I believe that this feeling of awe can be attributed to one of its most unique and defining aspects: the undeniable fact that more takes place there in one day than anyone will ever be able to fully comprehend. This elusive character of the work is not attributable alone to the sheer volume of people helped and/or services performed. Even on a purely sociological level, one would be hard-pressed to determine how far the reach of the effects born from efforts at CJD actually go. Still, the incomprehensibility I invoke is not reducible to the level of quantification.
The inexhaustible quality of the work places it on a level beyond our ken. CJD is, more properly speaking, an event that is ever-unfolding. The scope of the influence that issues forth from CJD can in no way be wholly traceable back to the amount of labor that is carried out within. Being able to unleash an effect greater than what it is able to produce of its own accord bestows upon it a peculiarly transcendent quality.
Delayed Onset Realization
Shortly after leaving CJD and beginning a master’s program in Chicago, I experienced what may be referred to as a delayed onset realization of the magnitude of the project of which I had just recently been a part. Making an arduous trek home from the university through the urban streets of downtown Chicago, I would pass people on the streets who were without a home, with only a few blankets. And I began to be disturbed by the indifference of the world, including my own, which due to perfectly good reasons excuses itself from the responsibility of these non-entities of society, who are nevertheless inexorably human, who are condemned to endure a northern winter without shelter. I asked myself: does not anyone out there care about the humans who are looked upon as the burdensome refuse of first-world society? Does anyone take heed of the demanding words of Christ in regard to the neighbor, the human other, who is in want? It was at moments such as those that I began to realize the utter gravity of the project of which I had been a part, of the work that goes on day and night, without cease, in Houston at Casa Juan Diego. I began to think of the universal Church as a whole and began to realize that no matter how important the activity of other organs of the Church may be, that the close and direct service of the poor inspired by the faith is probably the most faithful adherence and compelling witness to orthodoxy there is. As I wrote in a term paper I did on the Zwicks’ immense project, in order to demonstrate that the measure of orthodoxy is most clearly manifested by conformity to the Gospel: “There is a simple test we would like to propose to evaluate how close a philosophy or way of life is to the Gospel. As a map in one’s hands, one should look at the Gospels and then up at the world again and see how well the actuality before them conforms to the teachings laid out in the writings. If people are feeding the hungry, welcoming the stranger and clothing the naked (not to mention all in a spirit of vibrant faith), you can be sure you have found the right place.” Contrary to the prevailing opinion in some circles, orthodoxy is not something that primarily concerns the greatest possible risk reduction of any potential margin of error of theoretical or theological disquisition as much as it lies at the heart of the orthopraxis of ever-vigilantly taking heed not only to hear but also to act on the Word (James 1:22). In the intimacy of my own fidelity to the work of CJD, (rather than the oft-invoked climactic eschatological masterpiece of Matthew 25), I am most inclined to call to mind the astounding words of Luke 14: “When you hold a lunch or a dinner, do not invite your friends or your brothers or your relatives or your wealthy neighbors, in case they may invite you back and you have repayment. Rather, when you hold a banquet, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, the blind; blessed indeed will you be because of their inability to repay you. For you will be repaid at the resurrection of the righteous” (NABRE). I remind myself that I have never read or heard anything like this anywhere else in my life. One need not despair that the concrete charity spelled out by the Gospels remains a beautiful idea that is never put into action—or perhaps even more dangerous, transformed into an innocuous metaphor that cancels its original, literal, and straightforward meaning—but can find hope in its actual unfolding at places like CJD.
Two Recollections
My memories of CJD can only be retrieved through the lens of seven years of hindsight and will therefore not convey impeccable objective reporting as much as the impact of the personal impression they made on me that has withstood the test of time. Among the community primarily served at CJD—immigrants fleeing from tribulation in their homeland—I made some relationships that I will never forget.
The first indelible image took place after the Wednesday evening Mass at the men’s house. As I was standing outside admiring the twilight sky in the wake of that spirit of transcendence and peace that descends after another weekly Mass at CJD, a large, middle-aged, bow-legged American man – not an immigrant – lurched toward the house. He told me that he was in much need and asked if he might be able to find a place to sleep. Knowing that he would not be able to be find shelter there that night, I told the man to wait a moment while I would go and talk to the man-in-charge, Don Marcos. I felt somewhat bothered by the untimely intrusion of this large man asking for help at such an hour at a place that, out of the others that he could have gone to, was not able to take him. Yet, at least in the midst of my fallen and all-too-human annoyance, I am grateful to recall that I was nevertheless haunted by a question that was only now becoming all too uncomfortably immanent. With respect to the host that the priest had raised during the consecration of the Mass, proclaiming the solemn words so dear to us in the faith that announce the real presence of the Lord, in his coming through the simplest of species of bread and wine, did the tradition of my faith not also tell me that this large man (by whose interruption I was slightly miffed) too was a harbinger of the real presence of the One who Was, who Is, and is to Come? Is it not the selfsame Lord who had just come to us in the bright vibrancy of the Host who was now also coming to me through the guise of this misshapen and cumbersome stranger?
I succeeded to bring the large man to Mark. As Mark was already advanced in years by this time, I wanted to stand by to do all that I could to assist and arbitrate one of the many requests that would accost Mark all throughout the day. The man explained his situation of needing a place to stay the night to Mark but his refusal to go to the shelters. Though Mark could not offer him a place to sleep, he proceeded to perform a deed that was one of the most important lessons I learned of what CJD is all about in its actual praxis on the ground-level and not only in its mission statement in its literature. He pulled money from his pocket and freely gave it to the man, telling him kindly that this should help him find a hotel room to stay for the night. The man was very pleased and thanked Mark and, uplifted, now in a bit of a jocular mood, recounted to him how he was happy not to be going to the shelters, as people steal his stuff there.
The second story involves a job very familiar to any Catholic Worker at CJD, and that is driving the guests to doctor’s appointments, though here, with a slight twist. Louise explained to me that I would not be taking a guest per se, staying at the house, to a doctor’s appointment but rather a man from Iraq, suffering from some mental problems, who lived at another home in town for refugees, nevertheless of whom CJD takes care. The man was waiting outside for me as I drove up and quickly got into my vehicle. His disposition was gentle yet troubled, meek not so much as a virtue as much as being void of confidence, it seemed. As we were driving, I wanted to make conversation with him and, in my attempt to be culturally sensitive yet still desiring to engage the religious nature of our work, asked him if he was active in his own faith to which he answered affirmatively. When I followed up and asked if he enjoyed going to the mosque and reading the Koran, he corrected me promptly and told me that he did enjoy practicing his faith but that he was Christian and often read the Bible. A bit surprised, I asked him if he was raised Christian, and he explained to me that he was not but had converted after fleeing the war in Iraq and finding refuge in the States. I dropped him off at his appointment and ventured to run another errand in the hour-long window I had before picking him up. I showed up a bit late and there he was standing outside the doctors’ office, as meek yet forlorn as could be. He got in the car, and I drove him home. What could have been (and in reality was) just another routine doctors’ appointment run somehow became one of the most grace-filled moments of my time as a CW. Just before getting out of the car, the man turned to me to shake my hand and to thank me for driving him to his appointment. The look in his eyes testified to a genuine, visible, and heartfelt thanks to have received this ride from CJD. I watched the meek man, crouching forward a bit uncertainly, disappear into the buzzing hubbub of the meager lodgings in which he lived. Just one of the many unknown and forgotten casualties of a human life displaced from wars fought for the interests of powerful nations, disappearing into the sea of the anonymous underworld of refugees scattered throughout the earth. Though on a purely objective level it could seem rather depressing, the Holy Spirit, which I believe exuded from that man’s heartfelt thanksgiving, helped me understand better that the world through the eyes of the Spirit is not the same reality of that of the world of the mass-media, with its own economic interests, scrolling stock-market tickers, interested hustle and bustle, and ultimate indifference and blindness to the irrevocably singular, to the human. There always exists somehow the possibility of hope, as in the life of this displaced man, who recounted to me with a certain sense of pride his faith and, though broken, still knew how to unfurl a sense of gratitude, which gave testimony to a profound heart underneath, to a complete stranger.
To me, such stories and are evidence of the truth that a force greater than human efforts is diligently at work at CJD.
Memories of Mark
I cannot conclude my reflections on CJD without spending some time on the man who stood behind it all: Mark Zwick. When I first met Mark on my first day there, just minutes after arriving, what was first clear to me was the utter kindness and good-naturedness that underlay the somewhat stoic, simple appearance (a worn long-sleeved, button-down shirt, a drab pair of pants, and a baseball cap) and laconic demeanor. Even if he often had to wear a very serious expression, there was nevertheless always detectable on his face the well-springs of a nascent smile. The hard lines ingrained upon his somewhat stern and undeniably dignified face were ever ready to loosen into the gentle welcome of a warm smile: a visage that bespoke a love that was compassionate yet demanding, much like that of Christ’s love. As Mark began to show me the ropes, I felt a kinship begin to blossom with him, also a sense of allegiance, and even discipleship. Sometimes he would joke that the fact he could remember my name must mean a good thing, that I was doing good work.
Sometimes during the day at the men’s house, Mark would drop in unexpectedly to check on us and see how everything was going. The other men and I would enjoy a nice exchange with him, share a few laughs, and then continue on with whatever we were doing. I remember that, on more than on one occasion, long after I thought that he had left, I would open the door to the tiny chapel at the men’s house, only to find him seated there, serene as could be, head tilted slightly forward, with that facial expression of a somewhat furrowed, even wary brow, showing a seriousness and extreme vigilance, as well as the imprints of all he had been through, that nevertheless remained undergirded by the ever-present dawning of a smile. Looking back, reflecting on the moment to a fellow CW at the time, I realize that even though I sensed a great sense of peace emanating from this man in adoration, at the same time I could also somehow sense the heaviness of the burden. As Mark and Louise have often written, the work at CJD is undeniably good work, but it is a difficult work that ultimately cannot be done without faith. They do as much as they can but ultimately, like the offering up of daily bread, must put the work and the fruit it is to bear into the hands of the One who once commanded and now guides it.
As my time at CJD came to a close, I remember distinctly that at my last Friday evening dinner at the Zwicks with the other volunteers, that as I was sitting on the couch taking part in the general conversation, Mark caught me unawares as he approached me on my right side to pat my arm to get my attention. I remember responding with an affirmative embracing of his hand on my arm in affirmation and eagerly, affectionately looking into his eyes, hopefully effusing the same sort of presence the man from Iraq had shown to me, as if to tell him, “I know our time left together here is short—I have come to love and admire you deeply for all that you do, for all that you stand for, for all that you are—I will help you in whatever way you need.” As I write this, it somewhat becomes clear to me: the person I felt that I wanted to be of assistance to the most was Mark. Even though one comes to CJD in order to serve the poor, I did come to realize at a certain point that I could not have been able to find the energy to do all that is demanded of the work without the presence of the community of all the other Catholic Workers: their love, encouragement, and warmth not only to the materially poor but also to the spiritually poor, like myself: to all who come to join in their work.
Holy Communion With the Other
A beautiful and strange dynamic begins to open up, that seems to me to carry on the original intention of the founders of the Catholic Worker Movement, Dorothy and Peter. We come together out of our own need, even inadequacy, in order to be together, to help one another, and thereby to grow in genuine human relationship and dignity. If there is a mantra of sorts that I can think of to encapsulate my time at CJD, I remember that it was indeed “holy communion with the other.” When we Catholics receive holy communion, of course in its most straightforward sense, it is first and foremost union with our Lord. But it is just as undeniable that this same Lord wanted to engrain upon us, that the extent of our communion with Him only goes as far as our ability to open up those portals (cf. Ps. 24:7) of our inner-life to the communion, which must also be something holy and sacred, with the other. An aura, it seemed, began to follow me that summer. A rediscovery of life, of the depths of the faith, and the viscera (σπλάγχνα) of its meaning begins to emerge when day after day you place yourself in an environment where good intentions cannot remain thus but must be put into severe, and at times “harsh and dreadful”, action. Everywhere I went, with everyone I met, I tried to actualize (and more importantly, allow myself to be actualized by) that notion of holy communion with the other. I was reminded that in every person I came across that communion with our divine Lord who awaits us and beckons to us from heaven can only find its telos and the fulfillment of the secret of its meaning when it becomes incarnate and made reality with the human and imperfect neighbor we find here with us on earth.
Houston Catholic Worker, January 2020.
