Triumph in Failure

I had my first visit with a pastor yesterday in Grant Park. Kelly Fryer heads a church (Christ the King Lutheran Church - www.chicagolooplutherans.com) of only about 20 members, with no assets, no building, no long-range plans, no Christmas decorations with blonde-haired baby Jesuses, no bell-choir. Though raining, they insisted on having their service (capped by an animal blessing) outdoors, with wet hymn books, bulletins, and fogged-up eye-glasses. But oh, would it that all churches could be so bathed in Spirit they were! Not only was the pastor interested in helping out IWJ but so were many others in the congregation. The secretary, a smiley woman named Sandra, had actually TALKING to people in the days leading up to the service saying how excited she was that I was coming that day to talk about how they might get involved with our mission. And I even got a hug and a cup-cake for coming.

Then, on the bus back, I saw the strikers going round and round the front of the Congress Hotel. The Spirit said 'Get off' and I did. I sent a text to my girlfriend saying I'd be home late, said 'hi' to the co-ordinator, grabbed a picket sign, and joined the fray, full of memories the 1000+ people who'd mobbed the place the week before and another satisfying round I marched this past Friday. But today was different.

Nobody wanted to shout. Nobody wanted to sing. Even the picketer who Friday had blown his police whistle so loud it cracked the concrete vases didn't want to bother today. Making it worse, the exit way was crowded with up to 10 - 20 angry guests checking-out and checking-in - cars almost running into the picketers a few times. One man, surpassing his fatness only by his arrogance, even shouted at a group of three picketers:

'If you lazy m0therf-rs would get off your asses and get real jobs you wouldn't have any money problems to begin with!!'

Though the man easily equaled all three of them in weight and size they quickly ganged up on him, surrounding him, and started shouting him down with whatever English they knew, shaking their arms and fists and signs until he took refuge - hmm - behind his wife. The couple then shuffled off to the street, where they eventually fled via taxi.

The subsequent rise in the blood felt good, but within a few minutes the old lethargy came back. One picketer kept talking on the phone the entire time he marched, another only talked about how she wanted me to get water for them, and the others looked little more than apathetic - the only upside being the 6 hours of strike pay they would get from the union. There was no energy, no optimism, no happy chatter and laughing. Just the sad truth that so many have worked so long and so hard but with no result.

Yet they keep coming, every day, Monday - Sunday, from 6 am to 9 pm. Without fail, even though the strike - after five long years - has yet to bring about any change in working conditions or wages for any of them and has, in essence, failed. So why bother?

At a conference Arundati Roy spoke once spoke about people who strive for dreams 'in which failure is feasible, honorable, sometimes even worth striving for'...

'There are plenty of warriors that I know and love, people far more valuable than myself, who go to war each day knowing in advance that they will fail. True they are less successful, in the most vulgar sense of the word, but by no means less fulfilled. The only dream worth having... is to dream that you will live while you're alive, and die only when you're dead.'

And that's what I saw this day. For all their fatigue, frustration, uncertainty, they will never quit - even if it is only indifference and inertia that keeps their steps from becoming too heavy and painful, even if deep down they really don't care anymore. They are alive, and they aren't giving up. Ever.

It was a good day.