Let your Love Come to Me and I Shall Live

Harry Wills reflects on lasting riches.

Great Resurrection, Wassily Kandinsky, 1913

Therefore I say to you, do not be anxious about your life, what you should eat or drink, nor about your body, what you should wear. Is life not more than food and the body more than clothing? Behold the birds of the sky, that they do not sow, nor reap, nor gather into barns and yet your Heavenly Father feeds them… Now, who among you by being anxious can add a single hour to his lifespan? And why are you anxious about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow. They do not labour nor do they spin. I say to you, however, that not even Solomon in all his glory was adorned like one of these. (Matt. 6:25-29)

Easter is here and the LCW is not only rejoicing in the resurrection of Christ but also of a night shelter, which you can read about in the House Update. Grief has brought life and resurrection to my mind too, but so has the arrival of Spring and the seasonal resurrection of life, the perfect season to be beholding the birds and considering the lilies and to be reminded of the consolation of God:

The Lord is my shepherd, I lack nothing. He makes me lie down in green pastures, He leads me beside quiet waters, He refreshes my soul. He guides me along the right paths for His name’s sake. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me. (Ps. 23:1-4)

So, considering the birds and the lilies, if life does not consist in an abundance of possessions, (Lk. 12:15) what does it consist in? Paul’s answer is to do good, to be rich in good deeds, and to be generous and willing to share. In this way we will lay up treasure for ourselves as a firm foundation for the coming age, so that we may take hold of the life that is truly life. (1 Tim. 6:17-19, cf. Prov. 3:9-10) In other words, to use worldly wealth to gain friends for ourselves, so that when it is gone, we will be welcomed into eternal dwellings. (Lk. 16:9)

Instead of worrying over food that spoils, (Jn. 6:27) garments that wear out, (Heb. 1:11) wealth that vermin destroy and thieves steal, (Matt. 6:19) we are told to seek the true bread from heaven, that endures to eternal life, (Jn. 6:27, 32) garments of salvation and cloaks of His righteousness, (Isa. 61:10) the true wealth. (Matt. 6:20; 19:21; Lk. 16:11) That is, the true life. (1 Tim. 6:19)

Where do we begin the search for this true life? The Johannine literature reveals that eternal life is this, that they know you, the only true God (Jn. 17:3) and whoever does not love does not know God, for God is love. (1 Jn. 4:7-8) Eternal life, then, lies in love, and to abide in love is to abide in God. (1 Jn. 4:16) We are also told that man shall not live on bread alone, but on every word that comes from the mouth of God (Matt. 4:4). These ‘words’ culminate in this command: that you love one another, as I have loved you (Jn. 13:34; Matt. 7:12; 22:40) and we must remember that His command leads to eternal life (Jn. 12:50).

He has distributed freely; he has given to the poor—His righteousness endures forever. (Ps. 112:9)

Let’s return to the birds and lilies. Saint Basil of Caesarea said that the more you abound in wealth the more you lack in love, because the measure of our superfluity is a measure of our inequity and, therefore, a sign of our neglect of neighbour and God. Divine love is self-giving, self-sacrificial (Jn. 15:13) but if we are anxious about our earthly means, we will be reluctant to participate in it. Maybe the true wealth that cannot be stolen is the wealth we give away, the cloak of His righteousness is the cloak with which we cover the naked and shield the vulnerable, the bread that endures to eternal life is the food that we share with the hungry. Since we have received freely, so should we give freely, (Matt. 10:8; 18:21) having faith that the love we measure out will be measured back many times over. (Prov. 11:18-19; Matt. 25:14-30; Mk. 10:29-31)

Go, sell your possessions, and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in the heavens. And come, follow Me. (Matt. 19:21)

Giving up our attachment to what is earthly is the challenge of love, but also the consolation! He comforted us, saying: As I live, you also live. (Jn. 14:19) Who can deny that Jesus is resurrected in the present, not just as the body of the church, but in our deeds when we live and love in self-giving ways inspired by Him? Also, our relatives, friends, martyrs, and saints, who have passed away, who gave of themselves for us, share in all that life and joy when we love others as they did us. Love endures forever. (1 Co. 13:7) Even in this life we gain much: A friend loves always, and for adversity a brother is born. (Prov. 17:17) Those who love receive life (Lk. 10:27-28; Hab. 2:4) and some, who love as Christ loved, may not taste death  before they see the Son of Man coming in His Kingdom (Matt. 16:28).

How good and pleasant it is when brothers live together in unity! For there the Lord  bestows His blessing, even life forevermore. (Ps. 133:1, 3)

There’s no profit in possessing the world if we forfeit life, (Matt. 16:26) and we mustn’t remain slaves to mammon, as we cannot serve two masters. (Matt. 6:21-24) We will not be free from this slavery, however, unless we start giving, not only from what we can afford, but also from what we can’t. (Mk. 12:41-44) How can we bear anything less when faced with Jesus’ total sacrifice on the cross? We must do this not only because we are rewarded according to what we have done, (Matt. 16:27; 25: 14-30) but also: through our own sacrificial love and self-giving, the resurrected Lord abides, alongside the spirit-life of all who have loved us.

Let Your love be ready to console me, according to Your promise to Your servant. Let Your love come to me and I shall live. (Ps. 119:76-7)

Harry Wills

Humans And Our Edges

Volunteer James Catterson reflects on living in community.

Graphic by James Catterson

Over the past two years, I’ve lived in three intentional communities. As my current chapter living at the London Catholic Worker (LCW) as a live-in volunteer draws to a close, I thought I might reflect on my time here and note a small handful of things I’ve learnt across my experiences in intentional community.

I didn’t really know what to expect in coming to the LCW as a long-term volunteer. I vaguely heard about the project from a friend in 2023, then throughout 2024 the LCW sat at the back of my mind as a possible intentional community I could be a part of. After getting in contact in late 2024, I visited shortly afterwards in early 2025. It’s such an interesting experience to dip your toes into an established community and wonder how you could fit into it. It can be quite vulnerable actually, to consider – “How could I complement this? Would I fit in here? What will this place teach me or mean to me?”

Well, it turned out that living at the LCW has been a gift that I didn’t quite expect. I have worked alongside other young live-in volunteers who care a lot about people, the injustice that we are seeing, and faith in God. I have lived alongside a household of men with vastly different stories to mine who have truly welcomed me in like a brother, a son, a friend. I have even gotten to be involved in the current chapter of their stories. I have met volunteers who come to cook for the community, drive for the community, live in the community to help for a week; all who generously give of their time, finances, stories, joy, and love in a way that I can’t quite comprehend. Although living in community can be hard, I believe that it allows us to face the reality of our humanness as we experience living alongside one another’s hard and soft edges day in and day out.

Here are a handful of things intentional community has taught me:

Living in community means letting yourself have a bad day in the community and being okay to wear that. Especially when you’re in a role, such as a volunteer. It says, “Yeah this is my home. And I’m human. This is where I have my good days, my bad days, my in-between days”.

Living in community asks you to think of mercy regularly. Living with multiple other people means your edges will rub up against other’s edges. I often have to choose to show grace – to choose to be forgiving and not hold a grudge, to choose to still be kind when I’m agitated, to accept it when I can’t have my preferred way.

Living in community means that you need to make time in your week to do something on your own, or something that is just yours. Going for a few runs during the week is something that is solely mine. I am alone, I am moving my body, I am seeing different houses and different people, I am breathing deep breaths.

Living in community means making decisions together. We are a bit of a yes generation – feeling the need to answer straight away, and often for the answer to be a yes. It’s been a big learning curve that when someone asks a question, instead of answering straight away, to reply with “I’ll let you know after I’ve checked with the others”. Humbly, it helps you to see something in a different light, and respects that the community is home to multiple people and views.

Living in community means getting sleep and having a sacred space. Being able to switch off, letting your room or a nook be your introvert haven, is vital. I stand by the concept that I am always more loving if I’ve had enough sleep and some alone time. Even if that’s a nap on a day when you’re not feeling it.

Living in community ultimately means seeing the human in one another: embracing the human imperfection. Clichéd as that sounds, it’s something I think I’ll stand by forever. Often, you don’t have the choice of the exact kind of people you live in community with. Maybe someone really gets on your nerves. I’m often someone who takes a first impression of a person and holds onto it. But time and time again, I am surprised as I learn about people, how I am softened to them, to their edges, their story, their vulnerabilities, their gifts.

To the Edge and Beyond

Alex Holmes writes about life and loss in the borderlands.

Calais Draughts, Alex Holmes

Watergang du Nord, Calais. The narrow stream that flows along the northern edge of the Courgain Est playing fields. Willow scrub on its southerly bank once sheltered many dozens of Eritreans’ tents. All that remains now is a broad carpet of wood shavings. Another campsite obliterated. The new site is an old site from which the Eritrean community was last evicted in 2022. Back then, it had become a swampland of puddles and mud.

September. The weeks of summer dry have ended; torrential cloudbursts now herald the change of season.  After a night of heavy rain, the fence is a festoon of wet clothes and bedding. Five sodden blankets topped by a sheet of plastic will serve as a soft underlay for Zehra’s tent. The sun emerges and there’s now a holiday feel. The grass, newly mown, is a sward of alternating dark and light green stripes. A pot of food bubbles on a fire. There’s music, Massawa delicately plucking the strings of a krar, a traditional Eritrean instrument.  Finishing his tune, he passes the krar to Fikru who plucks and sings. Elsewhere, a game of dominoes is underway.  Dawit is deep into a book. You want morning coffee? Hayat proffers a small paper cup emblazoned with the words ‘Café Royal, Switzerland’. The coffee is intensely sweet.

How is UK? Fireside, it’s the question asked again and again. This time it’s Ariam who’s asking. And then, Ariam, you tell your story. How you escaped from Eritrea to Israel only to be deported after five years to Rwanda and then pushed by the Rwandan authorities into Uganda. How you journeyed to Egypt, married and became the father of three children. Your dream is to reach the UK and have your family join you. But today is the very day that the UK government has added to its ‘one-in-one-out’ flagship deterrence deal with France by putting a halt to refugee family reunion.

A sudden electrical charge pulses through the campsite; everyone is immediately on edge. Robel and Hamid stride towards the gate at the field entrance to check who might be approaching. After a recent night attack, two Eritreans keep guard throughout the hours of dark. Yusef describes how his fingers were slashed and needed stitches. Now, Yusef, you sit on the edge of your seat clutching your bandaged hand, your eyes following Robel and Hamid. This time the approaching group are new arrivals, an Eritrean family with two children. The relief is palpable; the electrical charge dissipates.

But the police clearance that occurs every second day is expected and the camp must be dismantled. Anything left will be taken away. Within minutes it becomes a ghost site, emptied of people and possessions. There remains just a residue of occupation: Yohannes’ wheelchair, a single trainer, a pair of trousers on the perimeter fence sporting the words ‘The Past’. And close to the edge of the smouldering fire, the abandoned krar.  It will be dusk before anyone will dare return.

Wissant, a village at the Channel’s edge, down the coast from Calais. Another story told. Your story, Abbas. “Fishermen rescued you on your way from Libya to Italy, where you were the only survivor of a shipwreck involving 58 people. In 2012, you were one of the first to testify that the Mediterranean border is killing people, but the UNHCR blocked the broadcasting of your testimony. You spoke of your route, Sudan, Lalibela and the restaurants in Addis Ababa. About the war when you were a child and how you left Assab by stepping over dead bodies. Eventually you were resettled in France where the psychiatrists wanted to pump you full of drugs. Rightly, you didn’t want to take them. What’s the point of taking medication in order to conform to a society that excludes us, destroys us, imprisons us in individualism? You have shown us once again, and once too often, how the border kills and how important it is to fight for freedom of movement.” Words of tribute spoken at your graveside, Abbas. A single candle flickers in a glass jar. Hands are placed on your coffin. Gently you are lowered over the edge and into the dark earth.