First Tuesday of Advent: 2022

A brother said to an old man:  There are two brothers.  One of them stays in his cell quietly, fasting for six days at a time, and imposing on himself a good deal of discipline, and the other serves the sick.  Which one of them is more acceptable to God?  The old man replied:  Even if the brother who fasts six days were to hang himself by the nose, he could not equal the one who serves the sick.

--Desert Wisdom

"After 1976 Dorothy [Day] virtually withdrew from the affairs of the world of the Worker movement.  Her lot, as she knew, was to await death.  Content to spend as much time as she could in the company of her daughter and grandchildren, she remained in her room at Maryhouse, coming downstairs only for the even Mass that was said at the house.  In her room, which overlooked Third Street, she could look out onto the dismal prospect of a narrow street, shadowed by five-story buildings, shoulder to shoulder, whose unkempt and desolate appearance suggested that they, like the people who passed before them, felt that their existence mattered not at all.  In front of these buildings, parked cars at the curbs were jammed against one another.  One structure, ugly with shattered windows and an aspect of grotesque garishness, was fronted by motorcycles--powerful brutish machines with signs and symbols that proclaimed their  owners' defiance of civilized norms.  The building was the home of the Hell's Angels, a motorcycle gang about whose doings fearful stories were told.

"It was in this part of New York that Dorothy had spent a half-century of her own life, where just blocks away she had lived in 1917 as the acting editor of the Masses and where in that cold winterof 1918 she had whiled away the nights with Eugene O'Neill and the young radicals and artists of the Village.  A few blocks to the west and south was New York's Lower East Side, the home of the Jews.  She had never left them.  Mott Street was two blocks away, the street of the Italians.  She remembered sitting on the front steps of the Mott Street house, watching them celebrate the feast of San Gennaro.  Perhaps she remembered that night soon after the war had begun, the cool clear air and the half-moon shining brightly over Mott Street.

"Dorothy died on November 29, 1980, just as night began to soften the harshness of the poverty and ugliness of Third Street.  Her daughter, Tamar, was in the room with her.  There was no struggle.  The last of the energy that sustained her life had been used.

"The funeral was on December 2 at the Nativity Catholic Church, a half block away from Maryhouse.  An hour before the service, scheduled for 11 o'clock in the morning, people began to assemble in the street.  Some were curious onlookers, the hollow-eyed people and stumbling people who roam the streets of lower New York, but others were drawn there by some sense of propriety of paying their last respects to the woman who had clothed and fed them.  There were American Indians, Mexican workers, blacks and Puerto Ricans.  There were people in eccentric dress, apostles of causes who had fealt a great power and truth in Dorothy's life.

"At the appointed time, a procession of these friends and fellow workers came down the sidewalk.  At the head of it Dorothy's grandchildren carried the pine box that held her body.  Tamar, Forster, and her brother John followed.  At the church door, Cardinal Terence Cooke met the body to bless it.  As the procession stopped for this rite, a demented person pushed his way through the crowd and bending low over the coffin peered at it intently.  No one interfered, because, as even the funeral directors understood, it was in such as this man that Dorothy had seen the face of God."

--William D. Miller

This morning to ward off the noise I have my radio on---Berlioz, Schubert, Chopin, etc.  It is not a distraction, it is a pacifier.  As St. Teresa of Avila said as she grabbed her castanets and started to dance during the hour of recreation in her unheated convent, "One must do something to make life bearable!"

...

I feel that all families should have the conveniences and comforts which modern living brings and which do simplify life, and give time to read, to study, to think, and to pray.  And to work in the apostolate, too.  But poverty is my vocation, to live as simply and poorly as I can, and never to cease talking and writing of poverty and destitution.  Here and everywhere.  "While there are poor, I am of them.  While men are in prison, I am not free," as Debs said and as we often quote.

--Dorothy Day