Dorothy Day (1897-1980) “was not a ‘gingerbread saint’ or a ‘holy card saint,’” observed the late Cardinal John O’Connor of New York. A journalist, activist, and pacifist, she championed the poor, embraced poverty, and worked for social change in a way that made many uncomfortable. Cardinal O’Connor went on: “She was a radical precisely because she was a believer. . . . If any woman ever loved God and her neighbor, it was Dorothy Day!”
Choosing to live among the poor and needy and not just care for them from a distance, Dorothy Day made it a point to practice love of neighbor in a challenging, tangible way. The following article, written by Day in December 1945, reflects her commitment to putting Jesus’ words into practice. As you read her words, ask the Holy Spirit to show you how you can welcome Jesus more fully this Advent by making room for his people.
It is no use to say that we are born two thousand years too late to give room to Christ. Nor will those who live at the end of the world have been born too late. Christ is always with us, always asking for room in our hearts.
But now it is with the voice of our contemporaries that he speaks, with the eyes of store clerks, factory workers and children that he gazes; the hands of office workers, slum dwellers and suburban housewives that he gives. It is with the feet of soldiers and tramps that he walks, and with the heart of anyone in need that he longs for shelter. And giving shelter or food to anyone who asks for it, or needs it, is giving it to Christ.
We can do now what those who knew him in the days of his flesh did. I’m sure that the shepherds did not adore and then go away to leave Mary and her Child in the stable, but somehow found them room, even though what they had to offer might have been primitive enough. All that the friends of Christ did in his lifetime for him we can do.
Peter’s mother-in-law hastened to cook a meal for him, and if anything in the Gospels can be inferred, it is surely that she gave the very best she had, with no thought of extravagance. Matthew made a feast for him and invited the whole town, so that the house was in an uproar of enjoyment, and the straight-laced Pharisees—the good people— were scandalized. So did Zaccheus, only this time, Christ invited himself and sent Zaccheus home to get things ready. The people of Samaria, despised and isolated, were overjoyed to give him hospitality, and for days he walked and ate and slept among them.
And the loveliest of all relationships in Christ’s life, after his relationship with his Mother, is his friendship with Martha, Mary, and Lazarus and the continual hospitality he found with them—for there was always a bed for him there, always a welcome, always a meal. It is a staggering thought that there were once two sisters and a brother whom Jesus looked on almost as his family and where he found a second home, where Martha got on with her work, bustling round in her house-proud way, and Mary simply sat in silence with him.
Christ in Disguise.
If we didn’t have Christ’s own words for it, it would seem raving lunacy to believe that if I offer a bed and food and hospitality for Christmas—or any other time, for that matter—to some man, woman or child, I am replaying the part of Lazarus or Martha or Mary and that my guest is Christ. There is nothing to show it, perhaps. There are no haloes already glowing round their heads—at least none that human eyes can see.
It is not likely that I shall be vouchsafed the vision of Elizabeth of Hungary, who put the leper in her bed and later, going to tend him, saw no longer the leper’s stricken face, but the face of Christ. The part of a Peter Claver, who gave a stricken Negro his bed and slept on the floor at his side, is more likely to be ours. For Peter Claver never saw anything with his bodily eyes except the exhausted, black faces of the Negroes; he had only faith in Christ’s own words that these people were Christ. And when the Negroes he had induced to help him once ran from the room, panic-stricken before the disgusting sight of some sickness, he was astonished. “You mustn’t go,” he said, and you can still hear his surprise that anyone could forget such a truth. “You mustn’t leave him—it is Christ.” . . .
It would be foolish to pretend that it is easy always to remember this. If everyone were holy and handsome, with “alter Christus” shining in neon lighting from them, it would be easy to see Christ in everyone. If Mary had appeared in Bethlehem clothed, as St. John says, with the sun, a crown of twelve stars on her head and the moon under her feet, then people would have fought to make room for her. But that was not God’s way for her nor is it Christ’s way for himself now when he is disguised under every type of humanity that treads the earth. . . .
The Simple Truth.
In Christ’s human life, there were always a few who made up for the neglect of the crowd. The shepherds did it, their hurrying to the crib atoned for the people who would flee from Christ. The wise men did it; their journey across the world made up for those who refused to stir one hand’s breadth from the routine of their lives to go to Christ. . . . The women at the foot of the cross did it too, making up for the crowd who stood by and sneered.
We can do it too, exactly as they did. We are not born too late. We do it by seeing Christ and serving Christ in friends and strangers, in everyone we come in contact with. While almost no one is unable to give some hospitality or help to others, those for whom it is really impossible are not debarred from giving room to Christ, because, to take the simplest of examples, in those they live with or work with is Christ disguised.
All our life is bound up with other people; for almost all of us happiness and unhappiness are conditioned by our relationship with other people. What a simplification of life it would be if we forced ourselves to see that everywhere we go is Christ, wearing out socks we have to darn, eating the food we have to cook, laughing with us, silent with us, sleeping with us.
“You Did It for Me.”
All this can be proved, if proof is needed, by the doctrines of the Church. We can talk about Christ’s Mystical Body, about the vine and the branches, about the Communion of Saints. But Christ himself has proved it for us, and no one has to go further than that. For he said that a glass of water given to a beggar was given to him. He made heaven hinge on the way we act towards him in his disguise of commonplace, frail, and ordinary human beings.
Did you give me food when I was hungry? Did you give me something to drink when I was thirsty? Did you take me in when I was homeless and a stranger?
Did you give me clothes when my own were all rags? Did you come to see me when I was sick or in prison or in trouble?
And to those who say, aghast, that they never had a chance to do such a thing, that they lived two thousand years too late, he will say again what they had the chance of knowing all their lives, that if these things were done for the very least of his brethren they were done for him.
For a total Christian, the goad of duty is not needed—always prodding him to perform this or that good deed. It is not a duty to help Christ, it is a privilege.
Is it likely that Martha and Mary sat back and considered that they had done all that was expected of them? Is it likely that Peter’s mother-in-law grudgingly served the chicken she had meant to keep till Sunday because she thought it was “her duty”? She did it gladly: She would have served ten chickens if she had them.
If that is the way they gave hospitality to Christ, it is certain that is the way it should still be given. Not for the sake of humanity. Not because it might be Christ who stays with us, comes to see us, takes up our time. Not because these people remind us of Christ, . . . but because they are Christ, asking us to find room for him exactly as he did at the first Christmas. n
Adapted from an article that appeared in The Catholic Worker, December 1945. It is reprinted with permission from the Dorothy Day Library on the Web (http:// catholicworker.org/dorothyday/).