At 76 years old, Jim Halstead can no longer move between the lecture halls of DePaul University or preside at Sunday mass like he once did. But his days are still rich with meaning, reflection, and connection—albeit quieter and more interior than the decades he spent as a priest, professor, and pastoral leader.
Jim grew up in Grand Blanc, Michigan, and has called Chicago home since the 1960s, when he was sent by the Augustinian order to study theology. After earning his doctorate in Belgium, he returned to Chicago to teach philosophy and religious studies at DePaul for more than 40 years. He also served his community through countless weddings, funerals, and parish gatherings. His weeks were full—five and a half days at the university, one and a half days at the parish. “My mentality was very frequently, and I’m not proud of this, ‘What do I have to get done next? Check,’” says Jim.
His ALS journey began with small signs: losing his balance, falling off a bicycle, needing to sit to put on pants. Over time, the losses mounted—mobility, independence, and the public expressions of his priestly work. But with those losses came unexpected gains. “I spend time being thankful for what has been,” Jim reflects. “Now I have time to think about the deeper significance of the lives of others and my own.”
Jim now leads from his living room. He meets monthly with a long-standing men’s group made up of parish friends and dialogue partners. He’s the treasurer of his Augustinian province (a Catholic religious order), continuing his leadership via Zoom. And more than ever, he uses the phone to talk with people—about life, about change, about what matters.
What grounds him most is the same thing that guided his life before ALS: a commitment to truth, beauty, goodness, and friendship.
Over the years, Jim has taught more than 40 different courses across the world—from the U.S. to France to Japan—and officiated hundreds of funerals. “Funerals were especially poignant moments for me,” he says. “You’re dealing with the mystery of human significance—what did their life mean? That’s sacred work.”
That same mystery now colors Jim’s own outlook on life and death. He often turns to cosmic perspectives, quoting astrophysicist Neil deGrasse Tyson: “Quit thinking about the last year or two. Think about your life in a broader, cosmic perspective.” Jim imagines the journey ahead as one where he will lose control over his body, yes—but also one that opens into a new dimension of reality, beyond what the human mind can imagine. “I have been grasped by goodness and beauty,” he says, his voice quavering. “And I’ve tried to live in beauty and goodness and friendship and generosity. I must be continually searching and reveling in them.”
Even amid physical decline, Jim’s spirit remains strong. The prayers he’s said for decades now hold new meaning. The psalms of lament he once taught now move him to tears. And the academic texts he once analyzed for theology classes—the ars moriendi, or “art of dying”—feel more relevant than ever. “Some of those spiritual things and social things they talk about are important. I have the time and motivation to do them now.”
That’s not to say there aren’t moments of grief. “There’s going to be a time where you’re going to lose bladder and bowel control and be horribly humiliated,” Jim says frankly. “But it’s going to be okay.” He expands further on his message for others living with ALS: “Tell me what’s going on inside you. Let’s talk. It’s going to be rich and rewarding, and it’s going to have suffering and loss. But we are in this together.”
“The Les Turner ALS Foundation, I have to tell you, Michelle [Shaker], she is remarkable,” he says, remarking on one of the coordinators that make up the Support Services team. “Out of the blue comes something like Les Turner, which I’ve had no previous relationship with. The way they’ve stepped up to be helpful — that’s part of this journey.”
Looking back, one moment that still surprises Jim is the time he donated a kidney at age 70 to the wife of a parishioner he barely knew. “How the hell did I get into this?” he laughs. But after decades of preaching the New Testament, he realized: he actually believed it. “It wasn’t a decision,” he says. “It was just a response to a human being in need.”
He jokes that the person who received his kidney is probably surfing the beaches of Southern California. “Maybe it has some spontaneous awareness of enjoying the beaches more than Chicago winters.” Jim’s life has been marked by what his friend and fellow priest Fr. Bob Oldershaw once called “joyful fidelity.” It’s a phrase Jim takes to heart. “Joyful—I’ve really enjoyed my life. Fidelity—I’ve been faithful to the search for truth, beauty, and goodness, and to the people who’ve entrusted their lives to me.”
When asked about legacy, Jim doesn’t mention titles or accomplishments. Instead, he says: “I hope my students felt moved to feel and think more deeply about the wondrousness of life. I hope I helped us move in friendship and hope as we pursued truth and goodness.”
And even now, in the stillness of his living room, he continues to do just that.
Support from the Les Turner ALS Foundation has been a meaningful part of Jim’s path — you can help provide that same care by making a gift today.
