I arrive at Cook County Hospital in Chicago, as I do most Wednesdays, to work with other Catholic chaplains tending to a wide range of needs among a population of patients that is mostly African-American and Hispanic. These two groups, while generally very different in their backgrounds and religious traditions, share the common denominators of faith, sickness, and poverty. The sick and poor here are a diverse group of what theologian Jon Sobrino, SJ refers to as the “crucified body,” lives that endure constant struggle and oppression. Inadequate preventive health care and endless lines for prescription drugs are symptomatic of larger social ills.

The old Cook County Hospital is reflected in the windows of the new building where Tom Neitzke, SJ serves as chaplain.

My ministry is to accompany them on their journey, if only for a few moments, to help them see that God reaches out to them with loving hands in their suffering, loss, and pain. I should note that a new Cook County Hospital opened recently, replacing a circa 1913 building where I have spent most of my time, an imposing edificewith an impressive façade, the charm of which fades dramatically the closer one gets to the chipped concrete walls, broken windows, half-lit signs, garbage, and the homeless people sleeping in the doorways. The hospital has been depicted in many movies and television programs such as ER, all of which fall short of showing how deteriorated the building truly is.

On this day, the line of people waiting for care wends down a city block and is reminiscent of Great Depression bread lines. The stalled procession is an eclectic mix of all ages and nationalities. It winds inside the doors and down a crowded, once-sanitary corridor to the spot where it begins – below a sign that seems to mock as it instructs: “Please form line here.” Inside the door next to the sign is a woefully undersized waiting room overflowing with people, as it usually is, hoping to be healed or relieved of their pain. The hospital serves more than 400, 000 people each year. Sometimes it seems like they all are here on the same day.

The interior hallways are reminiscent of long, narrow grade school corridors, with lime green floors and yellow wall tiles that form inconsistent patterns as many have fallen off. Paint is chipped. There is no air conditioning. Fans blow hot air that pours through broken and open windows along with waves of flying insects that fall to unrhythmic snapping sounds in the buzzing blue lights of electronic bug zappers. The sheriff ’s deputies who patrol the wards add to the strange ambience.

But dismal halls and equally dismal rooms aside, what one notices most is all the need in this thirdworld- like environment, much like a hospital I know of in Central America.My white lab coat, Roman collar, and ID badge allow quick access past the lines and up the stairwell to the 6th floor where I meet with the other chaplains to review the patient census and plan the night’s events. I fill a pyx with Communion hosts, stuff my pockets with rosaries and prayer cards written in Polish, English and Spanish, grab the Catholic census, and head to the ER and Trauma Unit.

A nurse approaches with a newspaper article about an elderly couple (a minister and his wife driving home from their 50th wedding anniversary party) who were killed by a drunk driver. The driver had been convicted twice before and had no license. Before I can tell the nurse how angry the article makes me, he tells me the driver is in the next bed and that I should visit with him. I am stunned. “Go, he really needs to talk to someone,” the nurse says.

Tom Neitzke, SJ (right) makes a sandwich in the kitchen of the Jesuit residence with Ralph Cordero, SJ (center) and John Stys, SJ.

“God, I don’t know what to say to this man, so you have to give me the words,” I mutter prayerfully as I open the curtain and read his chart. He is my age, in police custody, and tied to the bed by handcuffs and a shackle on his right leg. I approach his bed still feeling angry and not knowing what to do or say.

But before I say a thing he tries to reach out to me with his restrained hand and begins to sob. I pause for a moment before extending my hand to meet his. His touch is as cold as the metal that binds him. I am holding the hand of a young man, a killer, a mother’s son, a prisoner, a father, a child of God. In these hard moments when my own anger and sin get in the way, God breaks through and allows His compassion to flow through me.

Before I am able to say anything, deputies come to transport him to jail. It is only then that I notice I have been sitting and holding this man’s hand for 10 minutes without saying a word. He just sobbed and told me what he had done and asked forgiveness. As they take him away he turns and thanks me. The same nurse who told me to visit the young man asks me what I said to him and why he was thanking me.

“I held his hand.”

“That’s it?” the nurse responds.

“That’s it.” I reply, and leave for Mass in the upstairs chapel.

The chapel is a mixture of religious kitsch, representing the diversity of the patients and staff of Cook County. There are statues and pictures of every kind lining the walls. None of the furniture matches. The most prominent feature is the defunct electric organ that serves as a pedestal for the tabernacle. Mass is attended mostly by Hispanic and Filipino nurses who take time from their lunch break to be there. The celebration is quick and precise, lasting all of 20 minutes. After, the nurses approach the chaplains and ask us to visit patients in their care. I jot down some names and stations and wander off to the ER which is now overflowing its maximum capacity.

Patients in the ER waiting room have been waiting for hours to see a doctor they may never get to see. I sit with people and listen to their stories as they criticize the system and explain their plight. They usually ask me for money and that I use whatever influence I have to help them see a doctor. I have no money and my perceived influence with doctors is just that, perceived. The one thing I have to offer is the gift of prayer, a gift some accept and others reject.

Later I finish visiting patients, fill out a pile of forms, and head for my car in the parking garage a few blocks away at the Cook County Juvenile Prison. On the way I notice a rather disheveled man following me. He sees my Roman collar and shouts out, “Hey, Father, wait up.” It has been a long day and all I honestly want is to get back to my community and relax. I turn to him and say I don’t have much time. “That’s OK,” he says. “I’ll walk with you.” I am puzzled and nervous as he grabs my hand. I feel my heart quicken. After a half block he lets go. “Thanks for allowing me to pray with you,” he says, then turns and walks away.

Tom Neitzke, SJ takes a moment in the chapel at the main Jesuit residence at Loyola University – Chicago.

I was indeed praying, but I don’t think we were praying for the same thing. I watch him walk away and wonder what he prayed for. As I stand there, he looks back and gives a great big wave and smile.Moments later I get into my car, race down and out of the parking structure, and try to find him on the street. He’s gone.

The theology and philosophy I have studied at Loyola in the First Studies Program have given me the ability to see and understand God in ways expected and unexpected, and in ways welcome and unwelcome.

On the way home from the hospital I stare at my hands on the steering wheel. Driving up Lake Shore Drive it strikes me that it was not what I had said or what I had offered anyone this day that made a difference. Rather it was God using the simplest of gestures – holding hands – to bring compassion, forgiveness, and love into the lives not only of the sick poor, but mine as well.