There is often an intimacy to hospitality that is
uncomfortable for both the giver and the receiver. On Monday, Kathleen had
shared in this intimacy. Tuesday it was my turn. A guest had been bitten just
under his armpit by a spider. Spider bites afflict people on the streets as
they try to find rest in abandoned buildings or under bridges. This man had
gone to the hospital and the infected area was lanced and cleaned, but his
wound was still open and needed attention. So he asked for help.
He
stood patiently this morning as I did what Kathleen had done on Monday. I
applied some antibiotic lotion to the wound, placed a gauze bandage over the
wound, and then wrapped an ace bandage around him to keep the gauze bandage in
place.
Doing
this kind of first-aid was not something I had expected when we opened Manna
House eleven years ago. But in those years we have bandaged a variety of
wounds, some small, some large. Some we could not handle and we took the
wounded person to the hospital.
Offering
hospitality keeps me close to wounded humanity. The wounds are not always
physical. There are just as often emotional and spiritual. Tending to those
wounds often means just listening or standing with the person in prayer. In
offering hospitality, in treating those wounded, I have also become more aware
of my own woundedness and limitations. Hospitality requires recognition of some
level of shared vulnerability, and to get to shared vulnerability we need to
get close to each other, as close as binding up a wound under an armpit.
Hospitality offers in the midst of shared vulnerability and intimacy a deep
respect for the human dignity of the person receiving hospitality.
As I
have thought this week about how we as wounded treat the wounded, I have
returned to two people who in their own ways responded to wounded humanity and
who have inspired me over the years. Both died this past Saturday and their
deaths have been weighing heavily on my heart. At Mass on Sunday one of the
songs included this line from Scripture, “Where, O death, is
your victory? Where,
O death, is your sting?” (1 Corinthians 15:55). But as I sang, I felt defeated
and stung by the deaths of June Averyt and Daniel Berrigan. I realized I needed
to do some remembering in anticipation of resurrection to come, and to move in
the interim toward some healing in my woundedness caused by their deaths.
Both
June and Daniel were heroes of mine in responding to the wounded. I knew June
better than Daniel, having worked with her through Manna House. She came by
Manna House at least once a week, looking for a guest with whom she was working
or seeking out others who she might be able to help get into housing. June was
our “go to” person for getting people housed. She knew plenty about the
woundedness of people on the streets, and she was forthright about her own
woundedness. “I am not easy to work with,” she would say, “I can be prickly.”
She was not being falsely modest, just honest. Dan was well known for his
response to those wounded by war. He was a peace activist. But he also
practiced hospitality, working for a number of years with AIDS patients in New
York. Dan also did not suffer fools gladly. He was quite adept at puncturing
pompousness, often with humor.
I
knew Daniel Berrigan much less well than June. I interviewed him as part of my
research for my PhD dissertation. Then at various times our paths crossed, at
Jonah House in Baltimore (a community his brother Philip and Liz McAlister
started), and at Kalamazoo College where his nephew Jerry Berrigan was a student
of mine, and a few times on picket lines or activist gatherings.
Both
June and Daniel were grounded in their responses to woundedness by their deep
faith. Their faith was not sentimental and not ostentatious. They were
thoughtful questioners and seekers, but within churches with traditions of reflection
and liturgy that provide space for dwelling with Mystery. The way things are is
not the way things have to be was a conviction that guided both of them because
they both had the conviction that there is a God greater than mere human
convention and human arrangements. At the heart of this God is love and justice,
and both are necessary for our lives to be fully human.
Both
June and Daniel knew that wounds are caused by cuts made by powerful systems of
injustice that do violence. So both were quite skeptical of the powers that be.
Both resisted those powers in their own way. June resisted by working through
the nooks and crannies of the system, much like a weed forcing life through the
cracks in a sidewalk. She was skilled at getting grants and working the system
for the people she served, those who were on the streets. Dan was notorious for
his acts of civil disobedience, especially as a member of the Catonsville Nine
and the Plowshares Eight. Neither was under the illusion that their efforts
would by themselves overturn either homelessness or war, but as Dan said, “Just
because you can’t do everything, doesn’t mean you have to do nothing.”
Both
June and Daniel knew that resisting a wounding system and responding with love to
the wounded required a sense of humility and humor. Daniel often wrote of the
importance of “modesty” by which he meant living within our humanity, accepting
our limits as part of the goodness of human life. We are all so wounded by arrogance and pride,
the overreaching of humans into weapons of mass destruction, over-consumption, and
claims of national and racial superiority. Daniel’s poetry and many books
display his humor laced with realism that puncture such arrogance, such as his
famous line, “If you’re going to be a disciple of Jesus, you better look good
on wood.” June had little patience for grandstanding or drama. For her it was
important to simply get the work done, to get people into housing and keep them
there through the nitty-gritty of community support.
I
doubt that June and Daniel ever crossed paths. Except in my life they did. I
have a hunch that if their paths cross in heaven they will be good friends. For
both of their lives I am grateful. In faith I hope to meet with both of them
again. In the practice of love and hope they will continue in my life now. May
they both enjoy the blessed presence of God. Thursday I expect one of us at
Manna House will be treating that spider bite again.
