Tea, Coffee, Cocoa

[This article was originally published in our newsletter for Lent/Easter 2025 - read the rest here!]

 For a long while now,I’ve spent a few hours every couple of weeks giving out food with a few different organisations. On a recent shift I saw something unusual: in the long queue were a couple of families with children. The temperature was close to freezing and children were standing with their parents on a dark pavement next to a busy road junction so that they could get a hot meal. I was distressed by the fact that children have to do such a thing in a wealthy country, and maybe more so by the thought of their parents having to explain it to them. I have seen worse things, but this upset me because it was something new and I am not yet used to it. It reminded me of how I felt when I started doing this sort of work, and, for the first time in my relatively sheltered life, coming into contact with human need so directly. Not that the first few times were particularly emotionally difficult – serving a long, fast-moving, and sometimes impatient queue from tables set up on a pavement is exciting, and I imagine excitement will be the dominant emotion for most people at first.

The difficult thing is not that visitors come, but that they keep coming. It is not difficult to serve at a soup run just once, because that first time you are thinking only in terms of the immediate need you are resolving: the people in front of you need food, and you are giving it to them. What is difficult is serving the same queue week after week, with many faces becoming familiar, and starting to think of hunger itself as a continuous problem, persisting over time, which you are unable to resolve. In this sense it does not matter that you are giving out food now – the hunger will still be there next week. This is easy to understand in the abstract, but harder to take when it is your own work being flung against the intractable problem, and those affected are in front of you.

We all want power. The least of us are not very different from the great in this way. Parents want the power to feed their children, the hungry want the power to feed themselves, politicians want the power to enrich or aggrandise themselves. People who perform the works of mercy generally want the power to relieve the need they see. I would like to be able to resolve the problem of poverty by waving my hand. I wonder whether I am more distressed by seeing the suffering of others or by the consciousness of my impotence to resolve it. This is a sort of arrogance which is perhaps difficult to distinguish from altruism, and ironically is likely to reduce our usefulness still further. The people I want to help are often able to do far more for each other than I do for them. I have seen people in precarious situations, with very little energy to spare, devote all of it to helping the people around them, and doing so very effectively because, sharing similar experiences, they know what they need. Usually, the most useful role those of us who are relatively privileged can perform from outside is to facilitate solidarity without imposing ourselves too much, but the more obsessed we are with the restrictions on our own agency the more we’ll struggle to do so. 

Over the course of a cold winter, we have seen this tendency play out lethally in London through the disorganisation of council-provided “severe weather emergency protocol” (SWEP) shelters. Beds have remained unoccupied while people have remained outside in the freezing cold because councils have insisted on assigning beds through their own small internal referral teams rather than utilising the knowledge of the many dedicated grassroots organisations, which know who needs shelter and where they are, to say nothing of the experience of rough sleepers themselves, who of course know perfectly well that they need to be indoors on freezing nights. The desire to be the one to solve the problem and the concomitant desire for control are temptations which run right through all charities, from professionalised institutions down to small volunteer-organised teams, and is probably a large part of why ‘charity’ has acquired such a bad name. I expect that we have all done some sort of harm, to some extent, for these reasons.

These reflections make me more and more convinced of the importance of humility, which used to be regarded by Christians as a great virtue. The word comes from the Latin humilitas, derived from humilis, the quality of lowness, itself derived from humus, meaning ‘earth’, giving the word the additional sense of ‘groundedness’. One who is humble is close to the earth, and thus aware of their limitations as an earthly creature. Reflecting on my limitations is a great consolation because, without reducing my motivation to do what I can to work against problems, it undercuts the sense of frustrated omnipotence which makes me want to eliminate them all myself. It also helps me to serve those I serve in a more practical way, by keeping me conscious of the limitations of my experience and the need to defer to those who have more of it. Humility will help us to avoid doing harm when we think we are doing good.

If we lived in a sane society humility would be regarded as an indispensable virtue in private and public life; it would be taught in schools and there would be a general understanding that the lack of it is both unhealthy and actively dangerous. Of course this will not happen, and of course in my own life I will not succeed in cultivating it as much as I should. But I can work on it. We at least have the advantage of the example of the Cross, on which Jesus exhibited perfect humility, taking on the maximum possible degree of limitation and accepting it, and thus saved the world. We also have the ministry of Mary, who understood and accepted the divine will when nobody else did, because she was uniquely willing to accept just the role she was given in it, and, because of this, received as a spear through her own heart the crucifixion of her son. She was able to participate in the greatest of all human actions just because of her humility. We cannot hope for anything more.

Thomas Frost

Taking Time for God

[This article originally appeared in the Lent/Easter 2025 edition of our newsletter - read the rest here!]

“You must know when to find your own, quiet moment of solitude. But you must know when to open the door to go be with others, and you must know how to open the door. There is no point in opening the door with bitterness and resentment in your heart.” - Dorothy Day, A Radical Devotion. 

I recognise what our dear Dorothy was writing about; working with volunteers, homeless people, and refugees can be frustrating at times, especially in light of the current housing crisis we are experiencing in this country. It is scandalous how little housing for ordinary and poor people has been built compared to office and tower blocks and hotels for the very wealthy in London. And so, there are moments when frustration leads to compassion fatigue and, sadly, sometimes resentment. Then I know it is time to take a break and recharge my batteries.

Luckily, in our Catholic and Church of England churches, we have several monasteries and abbeys that are ideal places for that much-needed silence and solitude. And although I live in a priory in London, a few times a year I go for a silent retreat to an abbey not too far outside the city. One of those places I go to is the Monastery of the Holy Trinity in Crawley Down, near Gatwick, where the monks live a life in silence; even meals are eaten in silence. Every day, the monks pray for unity between Christians and to learn from the ‘One Tradition’ of our common early Church and early monasticism. But, like almost everything in the West, it is a well-organised place, and you need to email and book in advance before going, as the number of rooms is limited!

“The quieter you become, the more you hear.”

Why do I go for a silent retreat? Well, as I wrote, to recharge my batteries, but I have also learned that when I become more silent, I can actually hear more. It gives me much more headspace and makes me more compassionate again. “Listening” lies at the heart of monastic life. Sometimes, God speaks more clearly to you after a time of silence and a bit of prayer. God’s voice can be a whisper, an understanding of what you should do next, a  dream, or a piece of Bible text that clearly speaks to you. There are different ways God speaks to each of us, but we need to practise listening. And it is not just about listening to God, but also oneself. Personally, I enjoy being in the surrounding woodlands in the presence of the Divine. On my last visit, I was looking at an enormous and beautiful oak tree through which the Creator’s magnificence shone: a deeply spiritual experience.

“But I have quieted and stilled my soul, like a weaned child on his mother’s breast; so my soul is quieted with me.” - Psalm 131:3

Being in nature is healthy for our mental wellbeing, and so is silence, but silence can also be very confronting. When all the noise and busyness around you falls away, the pain, stress, and questions you struggle with can become very present. The presence of a monastic may be needed to guide you in that silence, especially if you are not used to it. I remember a few years ago, I was staying at the St. Antonius Coptic Monastery in Germany with my dear  Orthodox friend Father George, and even though I was clearly not dressed as an Orthodox monk but wearing my Catholic habit, many people came to talk. There was a deep need; people wanted to reflect on their daily struggles and spiritual hunger.

“I will sprinkle clean water upon you, and you shall be clean from all your uncleannesses. A new heart I will give you, and put a new spirit within you, and I will remove from your body the heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh.” - Ezekiel 36:25-26

A different experience I had in Ethiopia was during our visit to Catalam Mariam, a pilgrimage site on the outskirts of Addis Ababa, where people go for Holy Water, to drink it, and to be washed with it. It’s somewhat similar to going to Lourdes in France or Walsingham in Norfolk. People go there to seek healing or spiritual comfort. One of the young women joining us from Bole (a posh, affluent area of Addis Ababa) casually remarked that she “didn’t like poor people.” I guess she probably meant she didn’t like being confronted with the many people living in poverty in Addis Ababa. Yet, I was slightly shocked by this remark. But when we arrived at Catalam Mariam and waited while our friend went for the Holy Water, we were sitting next to the sweetest ‘poor’ young girl I had ever met. She had a withered hand and spoke with a soft, friendly voice. She was there with her mum, and as we sat closely together, this poor girl, so rich in gentleness, touched the heart of the wealthier girl from Bole (and also mine), an encounter that broke down barriers. It was not some kind of negative compassion towards the girl’s disability, but it was the deep gentleness of the young girl that touched us. I think that even though the wealthier girl from Bole didn’t take the Holy Water that day, something had already changed in her just by having that encounter.

And that is what holy places can do when we go into the silence or meet other people. It is as if all the prayers said in those places penetrate the soil, rocks, and air. It becomes one of those places we call ‘thin places’, where the distance between heaven and earth just feels a little thinner. Some older churches have that too. They are places that lead to an encounter either with the Divine around us or the Divine within us.

A part of our journey into the silence, or travelling towards a place with Holy Water, is preparing ourselves (like fasting), waiting, and expecting something holy. When I go to my silent place in Crawley Down, the journey starts in the heart of busy London, and from the final bus stop to the monastery, it takes a twenty-minute walk through a wood. This journey is part of the whole spiritual experience for me. For people living in communities, like the Catholic Workers, taking time out is fundamental to the functioning of a community. Not taking serious breaks when you need them, having to do everything yourself, thinking people need you, Dorothy Day sees as a risk of pride! “There are times,” she writes, “when one’s generosity is a mask for one’s pride: what will ‘they’ do without me…?” In The Duty of Delight, she writes, “I need to overcome a sense of my own importance, my own failure, and an impatience to deal with myself and others that goes with it.”

Taking time off for families with young children or responsibilities for the elderly isn’t always easy. But we can build silent moments and helpful rituals into our daily lives, like saying grace before eating, praying before sleeping, and having a quiet corner in your flat. On Sunday, on our way to church, it can be a journey towards inner silence. I know one Ethiopian father who goes to church with his children on Saturday, and on Sunday, he goes on his own, so he has time for his own prayers.

A little ritual in the Oriental Orthodox Churches, which always helps me a little bit, is that on entering the church, you have to take off your shoes. “Take off your sandals”, leave behind the dirt and worries of the world, “for the place you are standing is holy ground” (Ex 3:5). Ultimately, for the wellbeing of others and ourselves, we need to make time for God.

A Journey North

 [This article was first published in the Lent/Easter 2025 edition of our newsletter - read the rest here!]

In the spring of 2020, the initial Covid-19 measures meant that most guests of Giuseppe Conlon House were moved into hotel accommodation if no alternative was available to them. During this time, I accepted a gracious offer from the Methodist minister and activist, Dan Woodhouse, to join him living at his manse in Brighton, East Sussex. Nora and Sam Ziegler also moved from GCH into this little community around that time.

During the next four and a half years, we became involved in projects relating to assistance for asylum seekers, feminism and transgender rights, support and maintenance in our local church, union organising, housing hospitality and outreach work. Much of this engagement was inspired by the writings and lives of Dorothy Day and Peter Maurin, and the fellowship contained in the Catholic Worker movement.

An aspiration that Dan and Nora envisaged was the acquisition of a medium-sized Brighton hotel (many were available for purchase) and its conversion into affordable accommodation for low-income residents and a day centre for the city’s homeless. Additionally, space would be made available for study groups and community organisations.

On the Sunday following the death of Queen Elizabeth, Dan, a republican, did not lead prayers for the royal family, but gave space for members of his congregation to do so. This minor, dignified action was seen by a small number of people as offensive. Their objections eventually led to a prolonged controversy and much duress for Dan.

Fortunately, Dan and the community accepted a kind and generous relocation to the Wirral, west of Liverpool, where Dan is currently minister to five churches. The reception given to us was warm and enthusiastic in every possible way. We now live together in a large home we have designated Rimoaine House, in memory of a beloved and much-missed brother of our family who died suddenly and tragically young. Often a victim of petty and bureaucratic discrimination, Rimoaine, throughout his life, was a stoic and joyful companion to family and comrades. May he find eternal love.

We are now six people sharing a corner house with two rooms set aside for either visitors or emergency housing. We attend different churches and pursue various interests. We have had visitors stay on many occasions and welcome guests from the Catholic Worker communities.

Dan devotes his energy to ministering to his churches; Nora is editor of Bad Apple, an interfaith anarchist quarterly, as well as compiling interviews and research into the life experience at Giuseppe Conlon House. She also works with the Joseph Rowntree Charitable Trust and is studying to be a lay preacher. Andy is involved in fundraising at a local church popular with youth and those with special needs. Rob is a volunteer gardener at Birkenhead Park while applying for full-time employment. Sam is exploring becoming a youth football coach, and I continue my studies into twenty-first-century Christianity.

As a community, we gather each weekday morning for prayer. Cooking and cleaning are shared, we make decisions together in weekly house meetings, and we sit together for dinner Monday through Friday.

Often in conversation, we recall with great affection those who came in the evenings as local volunteers to prepare communal suppers at Giuseppe Conlon House. Residents and visitors shared good cheer and fellowship over delicious dinners prepared with real TLC. We were introduced to new dishes ranging from spicy jollof rice to Korean fish pancakes. Meals were followed by varied discussions. A monthly visit by Bruce Kent invariably produced lively discourse and amicable sharp repartee.

We receive the London Catholic Worker newsletter and greatly value the work at Giuseppe Conlon House. Like all who have seen for themselves the dedication and service provided to those lacking resources, we pray that Giuseppe Conlon House continues as a shining example of charity and hospitality to those in dire need of assistance.

 I’ll close with a passage from The Long Loneliness: “But the final word is love… We cannot love God unless we love each other, and to love we must know each other. We know him in the breaking of bread, and we are not alone anymore. Heaven is a banquet and life is a banquet, too, even with a crust, where there is companionship. We have all known the long loneliness and we have learned that the only solution is love and that love comes with community. It all happened while we sat there talking, and it is still going on.”

Dedicated to the memory of Edwin Kalerwa, Pilgrim.

Paul McGrail