Blessed are the Peacemakers

This obituary for Brian Quail was first published in the Glasgow Catholic Worker in February of 2026, reprinted in the London Catholic Worker - Easter 2026 by permission of the author.

Photo by Jamie Simpson

He came to mind the way the desert prophets do—a little wind-burned, a little out of step with the world, and wholly unwilling to soften the truth. John the Baptist, with his wild honey and locusts, his rough coat and rougher message, never tried to belong to polite society. He prepared a way. He made straight the path. He unsettled people into honesty. Brian Quail lived like that.

There was in him the same stubborn, luminous refusal to compromise—the same sense that faith was not meant to be tidy or respectable, but alive, inconvenient, and burning. The old Russians had a word for such people: a Fool for Christ. Not foolish in mind, but foolish in the eyes of a world that mistakes comfort for wisdom. The holy fool speaks plainly, lives simply, renounces applause, and becomes, just by existing, a quiet rebuke to complacency. We had one of our own.

I first met Brian on the evening of 19 March 2003, at a Scottish Socialist Party rally in Greenock opposing the second Iraq War. Within hours, the bombing would begin. Brian, already known as a tireless peace activist, spoke that night with a kind of trembling conviction—not theatrical, not rehearsed, but rising from somewhere deep and immovable. I was captivated. He was impossible to miss: an older man, white-haired, oddly dressed, wearing bright red braces, a CND T-shirt, and Doc Martens. Around his neck hung a large silver Russian cross. That, more than anything, startled me—this hardened left-wing peace campaigner marked so visibly by faith.

Someone in the crowd heckled him: ‘Aye, you’re bangin’ on aboot peace, but that cross roon yer neck is the biggest killin’ machine the world has ever seen!’

Brian looked down at the cross, then back up, and said slowly, gently, ‘This? This is Jesus of Nazareth.’

It would not be the last time I watched him disarm hostility with nothing but simplicity, sincerity, and truth. At that time, I had drifted from Mass and buried myself in Marxism. I did not know Christians like Brian existed, certainly not in left-wing political circles. I sometimes think that if I had not met him that night, I might never have returned to faith at all. Brian did not preach at people. He never demanded heroic gestures or arrests.

 Yet his life—steady, stubborn, sacrificial—unsettled our comfortable beliefs. He gave everything to peace, though he never romanticised it. He did not enjoy prison. He did not enjoy cold cells. Once, on our way to Faslane for a four-minute prayer vigil—four minutes, the time it took for Nagasaki to be destroyed—he confessed he felt physically sick every time we went. Courage, in Brian, was not bravado. It was endurance.

Even in later years, when his body began to fail him, he continued. Arrest, prison, witness—again and again. When he could no longer throw himself beneath military vehicles, he still showed up. Presence, for Brian, was resistance. Yet he was never dour. He could appear in full kilt and Glengarry at republican socialist commemorations, proud and smiling, a man stitched together from faith, politics, and history. At the end of our weekly Catholic Worker meetings, he loved to lead us singing the Regina Caeli in Latin—his voice thin but determined, as if heaven might lean closer if we sang bravely enough.

He had a gift for unsettling rooms. In 2016, at a polished event in St Aloysius’ School, he stood mid-lecture and reminded everyone it was the anniversary of Easter 1916, asking Glasgow Catholics of Irish descent to pause and remember. The air thickened with embarrassment. I felt only pride. He confused people, too—especially secular activists—with his seamless garment ethic: anti-war, anti-nuclear, anti-death penalty, pro-life. To Brian, consistency was not ideology but conscience.

He encouraged my writing, offered ideas, nudged me forward. I will miss him more than words allow. Last August, though frail and gaunt, he joined us once more at Faslane to mark the 80th anniversary of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. He sat on a small stool, worn from a lifetime of resistance, yet still present. Around us hung peace banners. We carried a replica of the Nagasaki Cross—the only thing left standing after the cathedral was destroyed and its faithful incinerated. From ruin, a sign of reconciliation.

Photo by Jamie Simpson

Brian often despaired. He could not understand how humanity accepted what he called a portable Auschwitz. Many dismissed him as eccentric, unbalanced—a fool. But he understood something the world prefers to forget: sometimes one must become foolish to be wise. Brian was wise. The madness was never his. He stood, stubborn and gentle, a voice in the wilderness, pointing toward another way—a world beyond violence, made possible through the life and witness of Christ. He believed peacemaking was a calling, even unto imprisonment, trusting that faithfulness, not success, was the measure, and that in the end, resurrection would have the final word. Rest in peace, Brian Quail.

Ross Ahfeld

Houses of Hospitality

Expulsion of the Merchants from the Temple, Monreale Cathedral, Palermo

I am the newest volunteer at GCH, here for a short(ish) stay of six months. I’ve been invited to write about coming to the community, and I thought of contrasting this place to Camphill, since I volunteered in one of those communities for ten months.

The quickest way to draw out the difference between the two is the following—at the end of January, I was arrested at a Palestine protest. If this happened to me at Camphill, even if I wasn’t roundly shown the door, I feel sure that the sense of having committed a grievous faux pas would have made me leave.

Long term Camphillers tend to be left leaning, but socially quite conservative. Everyone knows they are involved in a good work (providing support to adults with learning disabilities), and that is enough to be getting on with.

Large scale disruption of society is not in the Camphill credo. I got the sense that in the early days, the socially conscious sensibilities of the sixties were more prevalent. But with the introduction of the Care Inspectorate, comprehensive legislation around the care of vulnerable adults, and the fact that most community income now comes directly from government spending, Camphill and revolution aren’t compatible.

In contrast, while we agreed we should get better at preparing for the worst when someone goes out to protest, here at GCH, they stand by a comrade in need. Never have I had the sense that everyone is contemplating what a maladapted hooligan I am.

Here, there is an understanding that we are in a shared struggle against an unjust status quo, each working in whatever capacity suits us best. And that, at the end of the day, a few tables will be upturned in the temple before the kingdom comes.

 A further difference between GCH and Camphill is how comfortable I feel here. There were times at Camphill when I felt like my whole personality was a faux pas. I arrived fresh from a Scottish council estate and a chaotic failed attempt at a commune, and the very wholesomeness of Camphill life alienated me.

The typical Camphill volunteer is a middle class German teen. Living there was my first encounter with so many peers from financially stable, two parent families. It seemed like everyone’s mother and father were together in holy matrimony, and on top of that, they were both heart surgeons.

The farm was the saving grace of Camphill for me. It was an open space where I could run around, get muddy, wield pitchforks, and generally swear and shout. I had free expression at tea break, messing around with the autistic service users I came to have genuine friendships with. It was the place where I was able to be outspoken and test the boundaries of Camphill social convention. And if I don’t flatter myself too much, I think sometimes I cheered things up.

But at the opposite end of that spectrum were whole community social events, which were frequent, performative, and mandatory. These wholesome gatherings always put me on edge. I felt like a coarse, ill mannered ned forced to imitate, if not quite ‘high society’, still a type of society I had never experienced. I always felt like a fugitive about to be unmasked and would sneak off for as many cigarettes as would get me through the evening.

In contrast, here at GCH, I genuinely enjoy it when we do things together. And I don’t feel like I need to stretch and strain to be something different than who I am. Maybe it’s because I’m a few years older and wiser. But I think it’s also something hard baked into this community.

The whole place is aimed at reaching out to the disenfranchised, people who’ve been handed way worse cards than me and who don’t even have the security of citizenship in the country they live in.

Camphill is also trying to help people, but it does it in a totally different way. Camphill’s approach is pedagogical. It ultimately aims at making people with learning disabilities better. Teaching them to do useful work, to feel responsible for others, and to be less chaotic in their interactions.

The approach here couldn’t be more different. This community certainly doesn’t see itself as teaching guests how to behave or integrate into British society. It is just an open hand, a point of rest, an attempt to offer compassion.

Maybe that’s why I feel so comfortable here. To stay at Camphill, I felt I would have to cut off large parts of myself and let them disappear. Let all my bad memories be overwritten by pleasant dinner parties and cold dips in the loch.

Here, there is no such pressure. This community doesn’t turn itself away from the pain of the world, seeking to insulate its members within an ideal, mini society. This community is here to engage with and confront that suffering.

I suppose that is to be expected when the image of a crucified God is at the heart of a place. It is really no wonder I feel comfortable being here with all my wounds.

(Disclaimer: despite my moaning, Camphill is pretty nice. I love going back there as a visitor, it is just not somewhere I would commit my life to. I wouldn’t advise anyone against volunteering there.)

Eva Martinez

Notes on Failure

Dorothy Day, John Orris

“Certainly the Catholic Worker movement has failed.” Dorothy Day wrote those words in a 1947 editorial reflecting on the movement’s first fifteen years. There are plenty of grounds to contest them—look at the miracle whereby this movement, with no structure, no consistent leadership, and of

ten no money, has persisted for almost a century and now in more than one hundred communities. Countless people have been housed, fed, and clothed, and their dignity upheld, in spite of all the efforts of the State, the economic order, and the devil to deny it. But this, of course, was not Dorothy’s point. She was reflecting on all that had been left undone, and the extent to which the Revolution of the Heart had not been fulfilled—both in the flawed individuals who made up the communities, and in the Church which had largely ignored the movement’s original call for a house of hospitality in every parish. The labourers were very few, and not always effective, and the need was unfathomably great.

In addition to our own house of hospitality, we ran our own night shelter between February and November last year. We provided ten beds and accommodated twenty people across the year. Every night without fail we provided a freshly cooked dinner, a warm bed, and breakfast to people who would otherwise have spent most nights on the street. Beside our own work, it was enabled by the many people who gave their time as volunteer cooks, and all those who provide the donations which pay for the heating, water, and food. I am very grateful to all those who made it possible to stay open, and for the privilege of doing a little of God’s work in proclaiming the good news to the poor—all the works of mercy are forms of evangelism, because the good news includes the fact that it is not necessary that anybody in this city should have to sleep outside in the rain, if we love our neighbours enough to invite them into our homes.

Still, we were always conscious of how little we were offering people—a folding bed in a rundown old church hall which we couldn’t keep as warm as we would have liked, with one shower and two toilets down a steep flight of stairs which were difficult for some of the guests, and having every morning to leave until night, whatever the weather. It was much less than they deserved. If we are welcoming Jesus into our house in the guise of the poor, it is surely appropriate to feel a little shame at the paucity of our hospitality for the King of Heaven, even if it is because we have little to offer. Nor were we ever in a position to welcome the guests as equals – with a limited service, there was more conflict, often about use of the shower, and we had to mediate. Ensuring that the guests had an environment in which they felt safe obliged us to wield authority and enforce rules. Catholic Worker communities generally want, as far as possible, for guests to be equal members of the community, but this is rarely achieved in practice. Certainly, in the night shelter the hierarchy between those giving and those receiving hospitality was always very apparent, so that beside our anxiety about the quality of the service, I felt a less useful anxiety about whether we were being ‘real’ Catholic Workers, which is, I suspect, more common in our communities than we generally acknowledge.

King Solomon in Old Age, Gustave Doré

By October we had come to the very difficult decision that we would not be able to keep the shelter open over the winter. The primary reason was that, straightforwardly, we were running out of money, and while a grant and an exceptionally generous donation have improved our situation in the last couple of months, the extra cost of the shelter, particularly in heating the hall through the winter, might have caused us serious problems. The other reason was that, on top of all our other work, many of us found the shelter exhausting, mentally and emotionally. The shelter was never intended to be permanent, but having extended it from its initial three months to the eventual ten months, it had become part of our life, and while the decision not to open in the first place would have been relatively easy, the decision to close it after nine months of operation was very difficult. I, for my part, was left with a sense of failure, which was to an extent irrational. Considered objectively, we did a very good job with our very limited resources, and the guests expressed humbling gratitude for what we had done. We were, moreover, very happy that all of them moved on to other accommodation rather than the street. Still, those whose cases were not resolved still face an indeterminate period of destitution, reliant on night shelters and the generosity of friends, and at the mercy of an inhumane border regime. Some of them may still be among the many thousands who will sleep on the streets of London this year.

It is difficult to feel a sense of success while these conditions continue. In the face of the vast suffering of this city—let alone the rest of the world—our efforts will always seem insufficient. Dorothy Day more than once reflected that Christ was a failure at the point of his crucifixion, and was victorious precisely in his failure; consequently, if we are setting out to follow him, we can expect to fail too, at least as the world understands it. The call is not to resign ourselves to these problems as though they were insoluble—in fact they are all solvable, and could be solved today if more people had a will to do so!— but to recognise that our sowing is worthwhile regardless of the extent to which we ourselves see or enjoy the reaping. This is almost a consolation. Still, I think it’s important for us to acknowledge, and allow ourselves to feel, the failure in our work, rather than strain to maintain an illusion, to ourselves or anyone else, that it is a constant unalloyed success. As Solomon knew, there is a time for mourning as well as a time for rejoicing.

Thomas Frost