"Do you want the house now?": A Catholic Worker Workshop on Organized Anarchy
From "Do Not Neglect Hospitality" (1990), a sociological investigation of three Catholic Worker houses by Harry Murray
We continue with our serialization of a chapter from Harry Murray’s “Do Not Neglect Hospitality” with his observations about the decision-making process and the logistics of the “flagship” Catholic Worker institution of the soupline.
You can read part one of Murray’s chapter on St. Joseph’s House in New York City that Roundtable published last week here.
In this chapter, Murray touches on a very fragile issue in older Catholic Worker communities: how to carry on a communal tradition while also honoring the personalist philosophy of a movement that asks Workers to be persons, fully responsible for their vocation and their neighbor, and not to be cogs in what some workers call “the Works of Mercy Machine” or employees enacting a program.
One Worker reflected on the community’s decision to cut the number of days of the soupline in half, saying:
We were doing it just for the sake of doing it. We weren't really looking at the guys' needs and whether we were serving them. It was just because it was tradition.
Nothing kills a community like the phrase: “This is how we’ve always done things,” as a wise person once told me. I was surprised to learn that the morning prayer circle before serving was something Murray witnessed being instituted—I remember leading a few of those prayers during morning souplines at St. Joseph’s several years ago. And I thought of how much the soupline changed during the two pandemic years of serving to-go containers outside, a flexible adaptation to the needs of the moment.
One tradition persists: Murray comments on the perduring nature of soup as a vehicle of nourishment to the largest number of people. As one Worker put it, you can run out of hot dogs or baked beans, but "with soup you can always add more water."
Emmanuel Mounier called a personalist society one that maximizes the freedom and creativity of each person. As Murray demonstrates in this chapter, what that society looks like can be a complicated and contradictory reality. But, as he points out, such places are a vital means of coming face-to-face with concrete moral issues. We cannot wave them away as abstract ideas, we encounter them in the person sitting across the soup table from us, who will either walk away hungry or full—our choice.
peace,
Renée
“Do You Want the House Now?”
From the Chapter, “The Flagship,” in “Do Not Neglect Hospitality” by Harry Murray
House Organization
As a sociologist, I was interested in how the house was organized. This question is particularly intriguing at St. Joseph's, given the anarchist philosophy of the Worker and the fact that the movement's charismatic leader had died just a few years previously. Indeed, one recent book (Aronica 1987) is devoted to the organizational effects of Dorothy's death. From my experience, it appeared that the house had two different levels of organization: one for major "policy-type" decisions, and the other for day-to-day decisions about hospitality.
Organization for Major Decisions
After living at the house for two months, I must confess that I had only the vaguest of notions as to how major decisions were made. My experience at the other houses had led me to believe that I would learn this aspect of the house without a great deal of effort.
I found, however, that this was not the case in New York. In the first place, decisions could be made either at St. Joseph's or at Maryhouse, decreasing my chance of being present when decisions were made.
Second, because there were so many Workers, I did not become as important a part of the community as I did at other houses and thus did not have as much access to decision making. Most importantly, the New York house has had a long history of dealing with visitors, students, and researchers. It long ago established techniques to preserve the backstage of decision-making (Goffman 1959). In any event, my primary interest was in the day-to-day practice of hospitality, and so I did not pursue the question too closely. Nonetheless, a few observations may clarify the situation somewhat.
The decision-making "system" combined elements of collective decision-making, authority by seniority, consensus among whoever happens to be around, and pure anarchy. The situation was complicated by the fact that some decisions were made jointly for and by both Maryhouse and St. Joseph's, others were made for and by the individual houses, and still others concerned the paper. When major issues arose concerning the house, there was an effort to call meetings of either all the Workers or all house members.
Two such meetings were held during my stay. The first, which I did not attend, was a meeting of Workers held in the apartment of one of the old-time Workers. A number of issues were discussed, including whether the soupline should be increased from three to four days a week. Several Workers later complained that, although the decision making was technically collective, "nothing happens unless [one of the senior Workers] wants it to happen."
A second meeting was held a few weeks later to continue discussion of adding a day to the soupline. This meeting was held in the house, and everyone was encouraged to attend—Workers, residents and even temporary guests. After a half hour or so of discussion someone suggested that those who had not spoken be given a chance to voice their opinions, and all present did so. The general consensus seemed to be against adding a day—the argument was made that if the present glut of Workers disappeared this would leave the same old hands with more work. It was decided that people should ask the men on the line what they felt they needed, as well as going over to the Men's Shelter to see just what the city was now offering. It did seem to me that the word of the more senior Workers carried the most weight. The issue was finally resolved at a meeting after I had left—a meal was added on Thursdays.
There was, apparently, no one person formally in charge of the house, although the editor of the paper usually had a good deal of influence. Decision making was done collectively, although the group that formed the decision-making collectivity was not clearly defined. The house was an example par excellence of "negotiated order" (Strauss 1978). Given the strength of the commitment to anar-chism, nearly everything was open to negotiation by almost anyone. Roles, rules, and statuses were negotiated in a way that does not happen in bureaucracy.
Organization for Day-to-Day Decisions: "Taking the House"
One cannot comprehend hospitality at St. Joseph's without some understanding of the notion of "taking the house," the rather curious way in which the New York Workers institutionalized anarchism.
Essentially, they created a benevolent dictatorship that changed hands every five hours. There were three shifts a day (8-12, 12-5, and S-10), each of which was covered by someone "on the house." The person on the house had near-absolute authority over what went on during her or his shift. She or he answered the phone, answered the door, decided who got in, who got clothes, who got food, and who was given overnight shelter, maintained order. and addressed any problems that arose.
Everyone was expected to defer to whoever was on house This was a strong norm that held even when other people had vastly more experience. Thus, when I was "on the house" experienced Workers would turn problems over to me. During my first week or two of being "on the house," they would occasionally correct me; after that, however, I was pretty much autonomous. Enforcement of this norm was illustrated by a story I was told by a woman who had recently become a house Worker and who felt that one of the old-time Workers was infringing on her authority. She talked about this to another old-time Worker, who "taught me that when [she] starts [interfering], you just jangle your keys and say 'Do you want the house now?' Now I just jangle the keys. I don't even have to say anything."
Each shift included special tasks. The morning shift cleaned up breakfast (which was usually laid out by a man who came in from 7:00 A.M. and worked until 8:00 A.M.) and prepared lunch. On soup-line days, the morning person was in charge of the soupline. The afternoon shift entailed responsibility for cleaning up after lunch and setting the tables for supper. The evening shift included cleaning up after supper and a brief cleanup just before ten. One's style of hospitality could be affected by how well one was doing in finishing these standard tasks. I tended to be less gracious to someone who came to the door if it was 4:45 and I didn't have the tables set for supper.
A wide variety of styles existed for taking the house, and the norm was that once someone was accepted as eligible to take the house, his or her judgment was respected. She or he was not constrained by any rules that had to be followed, but was expected to use "common sense" to react to any situation.
Even when I pressed for a rule, I had a hard time getting one. One evening when I was on the house, a temporary guest went out, saying he'd be back later. I asked one of the experienced Workers what I should do if the guest came back drunk. He replied, "I don't know. Just use your common sense." After several more attempts to get something a bit more concrete from him, he said, "If he looks like he's going to just come in and crash out, fine, but if not ..." His voice trailed off, implying that perhaps then I shouldn't let him in. And that was as close as I could get to a rule about a situation that arises several times a week.
I noted in my journal: "Try as I will to get a rule articulated often it is 'use your common sense.’ Several people have told me 'Everybody on the house does it in their own way' and this appears true. Everyone develops their own rules, sometimes discussing things with others, sometimes not."
Some people who took the house were relatively authoritarian, reluctant to let anyone in the door except for a "legitimate" reason. Others were very laid-back, allowing people to come in until the atmosphere of the house became a bit tense.
In general, people from outside the house who worked one shift a week tended to be more lenient than Workers who lived in the house, and less experienced Workers tended to be more lenient than more experienced Workers. This was in part due to the effect of experience-since people created their own rules, those who had had more bad experiences tended to have more rules to prevent similar problems. It was also in part due to the emotional strain of taking the house. The experience was demanding, as one had to decide who did and who did not get such basics as shelter and clothes and had to put up with a certain amount of abuse. Someone who did it only once a week simply had more time to recover for the next shift. I felt emotionally exhausted after taking the house three days in a row.
The weekly schedule for taking the house was set up at the Sunday evening meeting of Workers. No one chaired the meeting, although someone would take responsibility for recording the schedule. The shifts that were covered regularly by volunteers were filled in first.
Then Workers stated what shifts they would like to work. After everyone had volunteered, the group negotiated to see who would fill any gaps in the schedule. Generally, a Worker did between two and four shifts a week.
Theoretically, anyone could become a "house Worker"; however, while I was there, only ideologically committed persons took the house. In the past, however, persons who initially came to the house from the streets have taken the house. The process by which one becomes a house Worker was fairly standard.
Generally, the candidate is a middle-class person who either moves into the house or begins coming regularly to help out. One does not move into a predefined role immediately; rather, one negotiates the role one will play by hanging out in the dining room and asking if anything needs to be done. On soupline mornings, the response usually is "butter bread," so one grabs a knife, sits down with other volunteers, and butters several dozen loaves. During the meal, newcomers are often steered in the direction of washing dishes; they may also ladle soup, wait on tables, or do a combination of these things. Roles are fluid and often change hands during the course of the two-hour soupline.
Given this situation, one's initial strategy is to observe what is being done, and step in and do something when needed. Gradually one becomes accepted as someone who knows what's going on and as a reliable Worker, All of this is a necessary prelude. a first step toward taking the house. Gradually, one can begin to advance the idea that you feel you are ready to take the house. This can't be done too soon.
I offered within a day or two of coming and was told I should wait a week or two, "until you get to know the guys." Within the week, however, people became more open to my taking the house.
Your first "on the house" assignment comes at the Sunday evening meeting. Generally, you will have talked to a couple of Workers beforehand about your intentions. You volunteer to take a shift and if no one objects, you get one. For the first couple of shifts, a new Worker is apprenticed-assigned to a shift with an experienced Worker. This allows you to learn the role by example, sharing responsibilities and asking questions. This apprenticeship is the second stage of becoming a house Worker.
Training for the role is more aphoristic than systematic.' Even during apprenticeship, you are not given a list of rules but are told to use your discretion. In certain situations the person with whom you are working will give you hints, but no hard and fast rules. The norm is that accepting a person for the role means trusting them to use their own judgment. A wide variation in styles is accepted. After apprenticeship is over, advice is usually accompanied by an affirmation that you are making the decisions:
"It's up to you, but I would recommend not letting so many people in for coffee since you're new here," or "If I were you, given that you're new, I wouldn't do clothing today. Of course it's up to you."
The on-the-house structure resonates with the Catholic Worker notions of personal responsibility and anarchism in a number of ways. First, no one is assigned shifts, unless they have made it clear that they want to work but haven't yet indicated their preferences. People must choose to do shifts, and there is no pressure to do more than one has offered to do unless there is a real shortage of Workers.
Second, there is a strong norm that once a person is accepted as an on-the-house Worker, his or her judgment should be respected. There is no system of rules for a Worker to follow—only a few aphoristic traditions of how things are handled. This gives maximum flexibility for a personal response to problems that arise.
Hospitality
St. Joseph's was open every day from 8:00 A.M. to 10:00 P.M. That did not, however, mean that the door was unlocked. What it meant was that during those hours someone was responsible for answering the door and deciding who to let in.
The door was the focus of hospitality. There was a group of people who had keys, a group that was always let in when they knocked, and the vast majority, who had to negotiate with the person who answers the door. Many who came to the door did not even ask to come in-they asked only for bread and butter "to go." On entering, one would usually find several people, sometimes as many as a dozen, sitting around the tables, talking, and drinking coffee or tea. Some may be in the kitchen area cooking the next meal. Some may be waiting for the person who answered the door to get them some clothes. Others were waiting in line to use the bath. room. Most were ragged looking, often wearing overcoats even on warm days.
The dining room was small, containing five tables that seated only twenty-eight people. The neon lights on the ceiling were shaded by strips of faded flowered shelving paper, except during the Christmas season when the strips were replaced by Christmas wrapping paper from which paper snowflakes are hung. The room was painted yellow and a number of pictures adorned the wall-woodcuts by Fritz Eichenberg, a photo of Peter Maurin and one of Dorothy Day as well as several other religious pictures. On a slightly raised tile floor to the rear was the kitchen area, which contained a large black stove, a small round soup stove, a white refrigerator, and a three basin metal sink.
The daily practice of hospitality can be conceptualized in terms of the corporal Works of Mercy. The bulk of the work of the house consisted of feeding the hungry, sheltering the homeless, and clothing the naked or near-naked. ("Giving drink to the thirsty," perhaps because it was an unfortunate choice of words in this skid-row millieu, was unobtrusively incorporated into "feeding the hungry.") The other corporal Works of Mercy-visiting the sick, visiting the imprisoned, and burying the dead—were also considered to be part of Worker hospitality and were performed in a less routinized way as the need arose. Together with advocacy at social service agencies, they constituted the informal aspect of Worker hospitality.
Food
I felt a great sense of tradition at the soupline— in many ways, the operation had probably not changed much since the 1930s. Someone volunteered to get up early and make between forty and fifty gallons of soup, usually consisting of beans and vegetables, plus, perhaps, a bit of meat. The person taking the house organized everthing else-buttering two huge trays of bread, setting the tables, getting the dishes and pots washed, and making coffee. If a new volunteer didn't know what to do, the house person would steer him or her toward one of these tasks-usually buttering bread. More experienced volunteers simply began work on whatever seemed to need doing.
By 10:00, everything was ready. A thirty-gallon pot of soup was placed on top of a metal milk basket in back of the serving table and someone volunteered to ladle. Just before the door was opened, the house person called everyone into a circle for a moment of prayer, usually asking for a peaceful meal. This prayer was an innovation adopted while I was there, decided upon in a meeting of house Workers. After the prayer, soup and bread were placed at each of the table settings and the person at the door let the first twenty-eight people inside.
It was a flurry of activity from then on. Two persons washed dishes, one watched the door, one ladled soup, the house person made coffee and made decisions about any unusual situations that arose. Everyone else waited on tables. If the house person allowed seconds, the waiters picked up empty soup bowls when a guest signaled them and they returned with a refill and perhaps two more slices of bread. As someone left, one waiter sponged off his place at the table and another brought a new place setting of soup, bread, and coffee cup. When they were finished, most guests took their dishes over to the dishwasher. The few who didn't were asked to do so; however, if they just walked out, the waiters cleared the space themselves. Guests often said a word of thanks to the dishwasher as they handed over their dishes.
Servers often duplicated tasks and got in each other's way. Waiters were not assigned to tables, so each tried to serve the whole room.
Often two waiters brought bowls of soup to the same space simultaneously. If there were too many waiters, a competition developed among the less experienced to see who could get to a table first. Sometimes there were simply so many waiters that they tripped over each other. At these times, experienced Workers simply stopped waiting on tables and let the volunteers do it. At other times, of course, there were too few Workers to get the job done. One never knew how many servers would show up. Thus, the more experienced Workers showed up regularly, prepared to work if there weren't many volunteers or to sit around and chat if there were more than enough hands.
The soupline continued in this way for two hours. During this time, volunteers traded places, spelling each other at soup ladling or dishwashing. There was a constant stream of diners, mostly men, mostly black, in tattered clothes, often smelling of booze. Some stood out. Juan, a young Puerto Rican, would dash in, a bundle of frenetic energy. He wore a ski cap pulled completely over his head and often he carried around his neck a thick metal chain, which he might pull off and handle nervously. Everyone warned you to treat him carefully. Sometimes he left by dashing out the door like all the demons of Hell were after him, upsetting his chair as he went. While I was there, however, he never attacked anyone. Earl, an elderly man with wild white hair, would come in with the aid of a broken three-legged walker and rarely left without engaging in at least one screaming argument with Helen.
Willie, a tall, rangy black man always came in carrying a bent, splintered, guitar that had once been bright red. He was a quiet man who stood out primarily because of his physical appearance. Tex, a tall, lean, one-eyed man with a Southern drawl, was someone I recognized from Unity Kitchen some years ago.
There had been one substantial change in the soupline since the death of Dorothy Day. In the summer of 1982 it was reduced from seven to three days a week. Those involved at the house at the time said that the complement of Workers was very low—down to three or four—that the soupline was getting increasingly violent, and that, with the sudden interest in the homeless, other souplines were opening.
One Worker said of the decision:
It was getting so people dreaded the soupline. And if you aren't enjoying it some, if you're just enduring, then there's something wrong.
We thought we would do things better. We used to serve just black tea, dry bread, and soup, not coffee with cream and sugar, and bread and butter, like now. The meal used to be a lot more Spartan than now. So we aren't doing as much, but we are doing it better.
It also has changed the rhythm of the house. Now the house revolves around the weekends-Friday, Saturday, and Sunday souplines. It used to be the same, day after day. No day was different.
Now, there's a different rhythm, and that's good. It breaks the week up. There's change in the schedule.
There were fewer people working then. You'd end up being on the house five days a week. It was just getting to be too much. We were doing it just for the sake of doing it. We weren't really looking at the guys' needs and whether we were serving them. It was just because it was tradition. I'm really pleased that we were able to make that decision.
Another stated:
You should have been here a few years ago. We had the soupline seven days a week. I don't know how we took it. It was a hard decision to go down to three days. It was the first time the Worker didn't serve every day. Everyone was running around feeling guilty and all. But the line had grown so much. And there were a lot of places springing up to feed people. People went around to find out about these places and decided that the weekends were the time when the fewest places were open.
After going down to three days, they experimented briefly with serving different types of meals —for example, hot dogs and beans instead of soup, but stopped this after a few weeks because there wasn't always enough to go around and "with soup you can always add more water."
Accounts of the change differed considerably. Workers tended to say that the problem of violence was so great that it justified the change and that the quality of the food had improved since. Residents tended to feel that the quality of the meal had declined. Some part-time volunteers were not convinced that the level of violence had justified the change.
There were several other ways in which food was distributed. Every day, from 8:00 A.M. until 10:00 P.M., people walked up to the door asking for food. A plastic container of buttered bread was kept by the door, and the person on the house gave a few slices to whoever asked. Occasionally, the house person invited someone in for tea and bread; usually, however, the bread was just handed out the door.
Not everyone was grateful for bread. One Worker told me that a recipient smeared the buttered bread on the door in disgust. Another Worker said that while she was walking toward the house one day she saw someone come away from the door with two slices of bread, throw them on sidewalk, and trample them. When he noticed her, he looked up sheepishly as if to say "nothing personal." I heard a few complaints about receiving only bread and butter myself. However, I was struck by the number who received this meager gift meekly, even thankfully. It made me wonder a bit about Edwin Meese's proclamation, made about this time, that there is no hunger in America.
Another means of food distribution was the house meal. Between those living in the two houses and the "friends of the house" who had standing invitations to the meals. sixty to ninety persons were at each meal. At St. Joseph's House alone, there were between twenty-five and forty.
Breakfast was a "pick-up" meal. The morning house person set out coffee, cold cereal, fruit, jelly, and bread for toast. Breakfast was available from 8:00 until 9:30, so it did not have the character of a group meal.
Lunch was more formal, usually consisting of soup, fruit, and, perhaps, cold cuts for sandwiches. The food was set out on the serving table and everyone helped themselves.
Supper was prepared in St. Joseph's House for both houses. Workers from both houses took turns preparing it. At 5:00, two Maryhouse Workers would appear with a shopping cart to take their share, after which the St. Joseph's House meal would begin. The cook and a couple of helpers dished out the food to two or three servers who would take it to the tables. The menu included meat two or three times a week and vegetarian meals the other nights. It was a full-course dinner, including vegetables, bread, coffee, and sometimes even dessert. Persons off the street could be invited in to eat by the house person if there were leftovers.
One quantitative indicator I should have collected was my own weight. The only times in my life that I have lost weight have been at Catholic Worker houses. This was not because the food was of poor quality—on the contrary, it was often excellent. Rather, it was because at a Catholic Worker house you become painfully aware that every bite you take could be going to someone who is a lot hungrier than you. That second piece of chicken you want could be a meal for someone looking for leftovers. Sociologically, this points to the difference between face-to-face interaction and more abstract interaction. It is always true that the food I eat could feed someone who needs it more. However, it is only in the face-to-face situation that this fact affects my eating habits. The Catholic Worker places you in a situation of face-to-face contact with the poor where matters of distributive justice are as concrete as the food you eat.
Harry Murray is a professor emeritus of sociology at Nazareth University in Rochester, New York. He spent two years at Unity Kitchen in Syracuse in the late 1970s. He ran the Saturday meal and St. Joseph House in Rochester for over thirty years and was incarcerated in the Salvation Army with Peter DeMott for three months for protesting the Gulf War.
Coming up next week: Harry Murray on the process of sheltering the homeless at St. Joseph’s House.
Read Part I Here:
