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

Hope in Spite of Present Difficulties

[This article originally appeared in the Lent/Easter 2025 edition of our newsletter; read the rest of it here.]

We seem to be constantly living with the contradictions of hope and difficulty here at Giuseppe Conlon House.

Usually, it is a long, slow grind for those who are guests living here with us, but in the last year, six of the men living with us were granted ‘leave to remain’ and were able to move on with their lives, despite the roadblocks of bureaucracy, the housing crisis, and the ‘hostile environment’. And we were able to help one to get compensation from the Windrush scheme. Lots of work on our buildings has also created a more pleasant, safer house to live in, thanks mostly to Tom, Richie, and Francisco, as well as Jurgen’s team. Tom and Natalie moved into their own home so they could welcome their baby, Silas, after a year and a half of marriage and a real health scare. At the same time, we have a great new team of Catholic Workers who have joined us in the last few months. Francisco, Moya, and Dottie have joined myself and Thomas. Together, these changes have enabled us to re-open the night shelter in the hall, at the same time as continuing to welcome guests into the community house. We welcomed our first guests into the shelter when I started writing this article a few weeks ago. We will soon be full again, with a house abuzz with life, grace, blessings, and challenge.

In the Catholic world, 2025 is a Jubilee Year of Hope. Pope Francis is trying to remind us of the importance not of superficial optimism, but of hope as an active and theological virtue: a deep trust that God is good, that God is love, and that Love has come into the world, and continues to do so with each child born and each act of generosity, care, or tenderness. These are truths we witness in the midst of struggle in a house of hospitality, where we might be ‘entertaining angels without knowing it’ (Hebrews 13:2).

At the same time, living among refugees and asylum seekers, the fate of those trying to get to the UK and the EU is never far from our minds. We remember and pray for those who have lost their lives trying to cross the Mediterranean and the English Channel, in particular during our monthly prayer and protest vigil outside the Home Office. And Thomas has recently pointed out that according to the UN, more people are now dying in the Sahara than in the Mediterranean, at least in part due to EU and UK funding for north African ‘border forces’, who often simply take migrants out into the desert and leave them there to die.

It can be hard for us to reconcile times that seem good for our life and work, but are also times of sadness, loss, tragedy, anxiety, or anger elsewhere. Recently, the Tottenham Refugee Alliance had to give up on finding a house to rent locally where they could sponsor and welcome a Syrian refugee family. The rents are just too high: it was impossible for them to find anywhere within the Local Housing Allowance (or Housing Benefit cap, in ‘old money’). As a result, we have received a good share of what was left of the money raised for that project. We are sad that they were unable to find a house, but grateful to receive the resources they had collected.

Reading the Times

I went on retreat at the start of Advent. It was a challenging and fruitful time, as I pondered where God has brought me to and where I am being led, in the midst of so much uncertainty, as so often seems to be the way with Catholic Worker life. Of course, the uncertainty is not just about our life here in the house. It feels like we are living in a world of so much uncertainty right now.

Jesus tells us to read the times. Reading our times at this moment in history makes me aware of the apparently powerful gods, idols, and demons of the new world order who blasphemously demand our allegiance, or at least seek to determine our futures. Uppermost in my mind right now are AI (artificial intelligence), the climate and environmental emergency, and Donald Trump and his allies both in the US and elsewhere, ‘moving fast and breaking things’ (or more accurately, breaking people), and his frenemies like Vladimir Putin, playing chicken with nuclear threats and preparations for war that should be no more (Isaiah 2:4). The times feel very dangerous as well as uncertain. We all are being played in a high-stakes game of Russian roulette. The Bulletin of Atomic Scientists recently moved the hands of the Doomsday clock to 89 seconds to midnight, the closest it has ever been. We will write more about this in our next newsletter, when we have had more time to reflect on what is happening.

When I was a teenager, I told my Dad about a news story reporting that the Soviet countries would not let their people leave. I said “that’s terrible isn’t it.” He replied “well, if they did let them leave, we wouldn’t let them in”.

 These seem prophetic words today, revealing that it is not human nature that has changed, but the situation.

It is tragic that so many have to flee poverty, violent conflict, and persecution, which are fed by such things as the arms trade and climate change. On the other hand, at least they are allowed to leave and have the resources and ability to be able to flee. The poorest still do not have that ‘luxury’. And it is the same ability to travel fast and cheaply that so many Brits take for granted when going on foreign holidays that enables many from the global south to at least aspire to follow the wealth and the work to where it has been taken. Rich countries like ours are like King Canute, trying to hold back the tide of human movement. As we tell our house guests, if you look at the Earth from space, there are no lines around it. Borders that keep the poor out are not God’s creation or will. Nor are the injustices and suffering that both push and pull people to move. We pray that refugees are welcomed here. And equally, that they will not have to leave home in the first place and travel safely when they do, as we wish for our own family and friends.