Jim Eder (1940-2023): Conjurer of Community

“Heaven is a banquet and life is a banquet, too, even with a crust,

where there is companionship.”

~ Dorothy Day

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In Gratitude for a Fresh Glimpse at Dorothy Day

Joe:

I can't recall if I sent you a thank-you note for that book, but I'm finally reading through it, and I'm grateful you sent it along.

You mentioned that the author is a friend of yours. If you're in touch with him, please tell him that he has succeeded in coaxing the dying embers of my Catholic Worker enthusiasms back into flame.

I didn't become a Catholic because of Dorothy Day, but I don't think I would've become a Catholic without her – and Peter...and the whole messy Catholic Worker schtick. 

Deo gratias.

– Rick
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Decades ago, in Eugene, Oregon, I read Dorothy Day's autobiography and decided to move to "the city" to find out about this Catholic Worker thing she started. Before I left, I forked over to Harper & Row for a whole box of Long Loneliness paperbacks, and I handed them out to family and friends and strangers. I urgently wanted others to meet this extraordinary woman – to see Jesus through her eyes, to meet him again, as I had, with her help.

Years ago, here in South Bend, I asked the New York Catholic Worker community to sign me up for a bulk subscription to their newspaper. Ever since, every month or two, I get a tight roll of 50 copies in the mail. I spread them out on a table, weigh them down with encyclopedias to flatten them, and then place them in the vestibule and exits at my church. It's not quite the same as passing out copies of Dorothy's autobiography. Still, there's always the possibility that somebody will, out of curiosity, pick up one of the newspapers and discover the Catholic Worker for the first time – and, indirectly, discover Dorothy.

However, Terrence Wright's new book, the one Joe sent me, has brought me up short. I read it eagerly, and I'm looking forward to reading it again. Far from nostalgia, it makes Dorothy's complex legacy and the rollicking CW ethos come alive, succinctly and compellingly. And, for me, it was a powerful reminder of why I've been pushing The Long Loneliness and the newspaper all these years: Because Dorothy Day knew Jesus, and she hoped the Catholic Worker – through the works of mercy and peacemaking and clarification of thought – would help others to know him and make him known.

So, stand by, Ignatius Press. Once I scrounge together the cash, I'll be contacting you for a boxful of Wright, and I'll get back into the book-pushing business.
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An Aragon Ballroom Tutorial

 In Paradisum deducant te angeli (CCC 335).

Several years back, I took my two oldest girls to their first rock concert. At the time, Joan was a big fan of Janelle Monáe, and Meg liked Bruno Mars, so when we found out the two would be performing together in Chicago, I decided to spring for tickets. Besides, the venue was the Aragon Ballroom in Uptown, my former home – it was a cinch.

We made it to Chicago alright, and then parked at St. Thomas of Canterbury, my old parish. After a visit inside the church to show off where I’d become a Catholic a quarter century before, we walked the two blocks to the Aragon. Inside the tattered ballroom, it was festive and noisy – standing only, no seats. As the opening act, a local band, was warming up, Joan and Meg moved through the eclectic crowd closer to the stage. “We want to be up front,” they indicated – fine by me.

Then the band started playing – loud. “I think I’ll move a little further back,” I shouted to the girls. They nodded in time with the throbbing music, and I withdrew. When Monáe took the stage, I made signs to the girls that I was moving further back still, to the very edge of the crowd. And Bruno Mars? As he started his set, I removed myself as far back as I could go – to the back wall of the ballroom, behind the Miller Lite cart, next to a security guard. She must’ve seen the pain that lay behind my shrinking demeanor, for she pointed to her ears and mouthed, “Pretty loud.”

I slowly nodded, wide-eyed. “Where can I get some ear plugs?” I begged her. She smiled and pulled out a small packet from her pocket. “Here you go,” she said simply. God bless her – an angel of mercy.

As the clock inched toward midnight, my daughters and I made like Cinderella and hightailed it out of Uptown. They preferred to stay longer, but I wanted to be plenty alert for the long drive home to South Bend.

Wheeling along I-80 gave me time to reflect as the girls chatted about the evening's events. Clearly they had a good time, and that was the outing's main goal. My experience was considerably different, however, and it came down to two unanticipated object lessons:

1. My rocking days are over. It's not like that's a surprise, least of all to my kids. Nonetheless, my Aragon-induced bafflement – the standing, the din, the unexpected foreignness of it all – overwhelmed me and made it crystal clear that I had no business attending traditional pop blast-fests any more. If I'm going to tag along with my kids to events in the future, I'll have to be more selective – i.e., stacks of amps and screaming guitars will have to give way to indie performers and much lower decibel levels, which is consistent (hopefully) with my advancing years and accumulating gravitas.
2. Angels don't always announce. Usually, like St. Gabriel and St. Raphael, not to mention  Christmas's Heavenly Host, angels are commissioned to proclaim and "spread abroad." Apparently, like the security guard that night, they can sometimes mercifully muffle and obscure. It's not a form of deception nor avoidance, but rather a divinely appointed selectivity based on our ability to handle the fullness of whatever's going on. Revelation, that is, on a need-to-know basis.

With regards to Lesson #2: I'm recording this story here on the off-chance my security guard-savior will read it and recognize herself. If so, thanks again! If not, I sincerely hope to have the chance to reiterate my gratitude in Paradise someday...quietly.
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