Jesuit Journeys  
Spring/Summer 2001  

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John Farrell, nSJ (above, right) spends a lighter moment with "fellow pilgrim" Howard. He met Howard while working in Chicago at Voices in the Wilderness.

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     Last spring, enflamed by a desire that I did not fully understand, I embarked on a month-long pilgrimage in which I sought to learn more about nonviolence. On my journey, I wanted to become more inspired to do justice, love tenderly, and walk humbly with God, and I was; but I didn't foresee the way that God would bring this about. What I had originally envisioned as a personal quest to give flesh to my own ideological convictions became a guided tour of the theological implications of brokenness and fear.

     My novice directors commissioned me, as they did three of my fellow novices, with $35 and a one-way bus ticket. I criss-crossed the Heartland from St. Paul, Minnesota to Chicago, Illinois, where I worked with Kathy Kelly and Danny Muller in the office of Voices in the Wilderness, a grassroots campaign to end the economic sanctions on the people of Iraq. I did office work, repaired computer viruses, and wrote articles for the campaign.
     While I was there, Kathy Kelly (along with Denis Halliday, the former UN director of humanitarian aid in Iraq) was nominated for a Nobel Peace Prize because of her tireless work to end these sanctions, which UNICEF has estimated to be responsible for over 550,000 deaths of Iraqi children.

     Being around the dedicated people at Voices in the Wilderness made me want to do more for the people of Iraq. In Kathy Kelly's compassionate manner I saw a connection to those who suffer that still amazes me. This is the core of the nonviolent lifestyle, that in the act of entering wholeheartedly into another's struggle for life and justice there occurs a blossoming of tenderness and empathy that cannot help but disarm the heart. During my three weeks in Chicago, as I lamented the violence endured by hundreds of thousands of people in Iraq, I also struggled with despair as I witnessed the violence of our own city streets.

     Late one Friday night, as I walked almost seven miles across the city on my way home, I met a mix of people who were windows to the violence of poverty. In the middle of a housing projects neighborhood, I was stopped by a prostitute and asked if I wanted to "spend some time." I declined her original intent, but I did share some moments of conversation with her that briefly opened my eyes to her desperate situation. If I lived as she does, might I also lose hope?
     In that same neighborhood, when I stopped into a bar to ask directions, I met a lonely bartender who was kind enough to ask me about my story and buy me a drink. But I soon found myself gulping that beer rather quickly as the young man next to me unleashed a string of bigoted comments about black people and how they'll rob you at any turn. I tried softly and unsuccessfully to get him to qualify his remarks in a more compassionate way. Appalled and angry, I ended the conversation by slipping wordlessly into the night. But as I left, I caught myself looking over my shoulder to see if there were any shady characters waiting to jump me; was I ready to quicken my step?

     My bar-mate and I had something in common: the tendency to fear. Acting out of fear, we will do anything to "protect our interests." But ultimately, making decisions out of fear does not work towards building what Martin Luther King, Jr. called the "Beloved Community." It does not bring human beings together in harmony. It does not bring us into greater common unity with others and communion with the Sacred Heart of Jesus beating at the center of the universe. Acting out of fear does not bring us closer to being what we are created to be: merciful and compassionate images of the unseen God.

Continuing on my walk that night, I refused the offers of a couple people who wanted to sell me drugs, and then when I was almost home, I was embraced randomly by an inebriated man who couldn't find his way home. He introduced himself as a Jewish man of Spanish descent, and when he found out I was Catholic he battered me with a complete history, as he knew it, of Catholic oppression of Jewish people in Spain. While his ranting seemed harmless at first, it quickly wore on me as I tried to find a place for him to stay the night. I felt abused. A violent reaction rose from within. I wondered: "Is this what it feels like to be an object of anger and prejudice every day?"

     Eventually I directed this lost man to the nearby Catholic Worker house, where, despite his protests, he would be able to sleep on the porch for the night. I knew that the people at the house would be generous to him, but I wondered if he thought I was trying to force him to accept charity from Catholics, perhaps to embarrass him for his comments about my religious tradition. Was I? I tried not to think of this and hurried home. Before getting back to the house, though, I ran into another homeless couple that I had met on the streets before. We chatted for a little while, and they asked me if I was homeless too; this reminded me of how safe and secure I really was.

     I was on a pilgrimage, yes, but I knew that my basic needs would be met that night. Not all of the folks I met on this long walk had the same assurance. Most of them were living in the violence of poverty, and they probably saw me, a lonely stroller, in the same way. They offered coping mechanisms: sex, alcohol, drugs - something to ease the pain. I talked with them, trying to share a bit of my own way of life and the gift of God's love. But I felt self-centered and shallow. How could I offer these brothers and sisters anything of value if I could not fully identify with them, if I did not live in solidarity with them? I had food, shelter, and prospects for the future. I had friends, a loving family, and a supportive Jesuit community, a home to which I would be returning in only two weeks.

     Through my continuous pilgrimage of life, I've come to ask God to continue to be generous with me in the same way that God has been generous to me. In my life of absurd privilege, what else can I do? I desire to give of myself and receive of others fully, not just to feel good about myself but because God desires this for all of us, and because this is how the Beloved Community takes root and grows.

     I desire to act out of love and a sense of justice, rather than out of fear and prejudice. And I have come to believe that my desire to be nonviolent is simply a desire to love God, self, and others with my whole being, in union with the way the heart of Christ loves the world.

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