Fear or Faith?

The long walk from the city shelter back to the nuns’ shelter was foreboding: the streets were not well lighted, most of the lights were broken, the streets and sidewalks trashy, lined with homeless beggars, with very few people in the streets or on the sidewalks, except for the leering gauntlet of the helpless and other unsavory characters lurking about. So why was I walking the streets of New York City after dark in the bad part of town, with a switchblade knife in one pocket and a rosary in the other?

A quote, as follows, from the Book of Sirach, may exemplify this conflict: “There are set before you fire and water; to whatever you choose, stretch forth your hand. Before everyone are life and death, whichever they choose shall be given him.” (Sirach 15:16-17). In retrospect, I lived those verses and this is the story I need to tell.

Isolated and Alone in New York City

Monday through Saturday mornings were filled with both teaching and studying. Working full-time and studying to complete my master’s degree was demanding. However, Saturday afternoon to Sunday night was very different, and in many ways far more difficult because my “aloneness” became intensified. I felt the ice-cold loneliness of New York City; it was a terrible feeling of isolation mixed with fear. I had never felt that way before even though I had lived alone for years. So, I knew there was more to this loneliness than just being alone.

In Cambridge, Massachusetts I lived alone yet felt connected to others, the community, the church, etc. I knew some of my neighbors, and the Knights of Columbus (to which I belonged) were just down the street. In northern Maine, where I lived for over fifteen years, I always lived alone, yet never experienced a “lonely” day. New York City was different. It was as though I could feel the “spirit of the city,” which was cruel, cold, and predatory.

Previously I had been in touch with a small group of catholic young men at the university who were studying for the priesthood, but once I started working full-time I lost touch with them. Still, occasionally I would hear from them and was able to attend some of their social events, but the events became fewer, and further apart.

During the week, Monday through Friday, my whole life was consumed by my new teaching job and attending evening classes for my master’s degree. I was either coming from, going to, or on the job, and during my spare time, completing lesson plans or studying.  Friday nights I was exhausted and Saturday afternoons to Sunday nights became my hours of despondency, so I consulted my spiritual director.

Service

He seemed aware of my circumstances.  Without specifying a vocational direction, he advised me to “do something for others.” He suggested volunteer work for Mother Theresa’s Missionaries of Charity in the south Bronx. I said, “yes.” He made a telephone call, and the nuns were expecting me the next weekend, Saturday at 4 pm.

My duties were simple but relevant: I escorted homeless men, one at a time, to public shelters. I was welcome to take all my meals at the Missionary of Charity shelter and to attend Sunday Mass there as well. Also, a very important part of my volunteer duties was to stay the night with the homeless men in the upstairs barracks which was designed to accommodate twenty people; I had to be the last one to sleep and the first one to awake, and of course, provide basic “safety” supervision.  Dinner at the Missionary shelter started at 5 pm; the screening process, to determine which homeless persons could enter, began at 4 pm. Anyone who had been drinking or taking drugs was not admitted and they were referred to one of the nearby city shelters and escorted there by a volunteer, like me. This process started a little after 4 pm and continued until completed.

Fear

Those walks to and from the city shelter usually took about ninety minutes. During the winter months, it was all done in the dark. On the return trip, I was alone. I must admit that walking the streets of the South Bronx, alone on a Saturday night was not a pleasant experience. Truthfully, at first, I was afraid, and fear is not what I signed up for. Yet I wanted to help the sisters with their ministry and understood very well why they needed volunteers.

As far as escorting the homeless to another shelter (called in advance to reserve a space), the nuns felt that each person who came to their shelter became their responsibility. They could have just sent the “rejected” back into the streets without any explanation or assistance, but this they could not do. So, people like me shared in that charitable responsibility of “being my brother’s keeper” and brought them safely to another place.

The streets were dark; some of the streetlights just didn’t work. Most of the buildings and stores were closed with large sliding cage-like doors, sealed shut by lock and chain. with no interior light to help illuminate the darkness.  Even at this early hour (I usually did my return walk between 6 pm and 8 pm), the only places open were the liquor stores, the bars, and an occasional small café. The sidewalks and storefronts were lined with the desperate and the helpless; many of them setting up “camp for the night” in doorways of the closed stores.

There was not much traffic and very few people were walking the streets except those few, small groups of young, restless, and loud men who walked by, and fortunately for me, kept on walking.  The route from the city shelter to the missionary shelter was foreboding, despondent, and predatory.  I couldn’t shake “my fear.”

A Switchblade

I felt “unprotected,” so I purchased a small knife from a pawn shop near my place of work. Of course, the nuns never searched me or directed any “screening” questions my way; they trusted me; I came highly recommended, but I was afraid, and I couldn’t tell them that truth.

So, I walked the streets of the south Bronx tightly grasping the knife in my jacket pocket. Still, I was apprehensive, every unexpected sound made me walk a little bit faster; other people on the sidewalk filled me with dread; I was fearful, and the switchblade didn’t give me courage at all. This experience became a crisis and a conflict of Faith. In a vain attempt to resolve my crisis, I started to carry both the switchblade knife and my rosary on those dutiful but bleak sojourns through the bowels of hell, with my right hand on the knife and my left grasping the rosary in my jacket pockets.

Did I trust in God or not? Carrying both knife and rosary exemplified my conflict. I had to choose. If I had faith, I would choose to trust in God, and of course, trusting in God I would choose the rosary. So, what did I do? What could I do? It was a contradiction to help the Sisters of Mother Teresa and not trust in God; so, I left the knife at home.

Trust and the Rosary

As I recall walking that desolate, desperate distance from public to private shelter, I walked in fear. But when I prayed the Rosary as I walked and depended entirely on God for my well-being, that fear left me. The streets were the same, the unsavory characters lurking about just as predatory, but the fear was gone and in its place, I felt safe, as though a shield of light was wrapped around me. I really can’t explain it except to say that I walked with dignity. I felt elated and protected, perhaps I walked with angels; I don’t know. I do know that walking that walk became the highlight of my volunteer experience. After that, I looked forward to those walks, once I chose the rosary instead of the knife, once I chose to trust in God.”