Charity Today

8 downloads 0 Views 115KB Size Report
is wrong. And, in the same way, we love our partners, our friends and those with whom we share our lives.1 But, first and foremost, we love ourselves. We are, by.
This text was published in: Christopher Garbowski et. al. (ed.), Catholic Universities in the New Europe. Lublin (Wydawnictwo KUL) (ISBN 83-7363270-0), p.293-308

Charity Today

Paul van Tongeren KU Nijmegen (NL) and KU Leuven (B)

1. Introduction When a philosopher starts explaining things, they can become more complicated than they seemed before he started. What charity means seems to be clear enough. I do, however, want to ask some questions with regard to it, This is, after all, what philosophers do: they ask questions, even if they cannot answer them; and they always ask more questions than they can answer; they might even question the answers other people give instead of answering their own questions. The title of my paper reads ‘charity today’. This suggests that charity is something that changes over time. In a certain sense this seems to be obvious. For the word ‘charity’ usually refers to charity organisations, i.e. organisations that raise money and spend that money on particular projects. And since the world is changing, the way money is raised, and certainly the way it is spent, will obviously change as well. Moreover, the projects on which charity organisations spend their money can often, if not always, themselves be characterised as charitable projects. And again, since people’s circumstances and needs change over time, these projects will be different in different times. To give just one example: much of what used to be done in the name of charity (and what was often done by sisters of charity) is now, at least in some parts of the world, being done by the state or by public institutions. In our part of the world, healthcare, for example, was for a long time a charitable activity, whereas nowadays it is considered to be something we buy, directly or indirectly, through insurance and taxes. The same is true of education and social welfare. In this sense, charity does change over time. But these changes also point to something that remains the same: regardless of how the money is raised, and regardless of whether it is spent on hospitals, primary schools or universities, on religious congregations or lay organisations, the ‘charitable’ character of these organisations and of what they do does not change. I am saying this in order to draw our attention from charity as a name for a particular type of work and organisation to that which qualifies their work as charity work. In other words, I will not deal with the money, nor with the projects on which it is spent, but about the charity that qualifies this particular kind of money raised and spent. In this sense it is less obvious that charity can be said to change over time. In fact, I do

not think it does: it is the same charitable quality that makes organisations spend their money in different ways and on different projects in different times. The same is probably true in another sense: for instance, whether healthcare work or the education of underprivileged youngsters is done by sisters or brothers of charity, or by public institutions, in both cases the work should at least be carried out in a spirit of charity – even if those who do the work are hired and paid to do it. The spirit of charity which is needed is no different in either case. And it is on the meaning of this spirit of charity that I would like to reflect a little more. What does this qualification ‘charity’ mean today? What did it mean in the past, and what will it mean in the future? 2. Charity is a particular kind of ‘love’ a) The distinction between eros (amor) and agapè (caritas) Charity is the love that the apostle whose namesake I am said is the most important love of all. I’m referring of course to the familiar passage from Paul’s First Letter to the Corinthians (I Cor. 13) – the passage that begins with: ‘If I am without love, I am a sounding gong or a clanging cymbal’ and ‘If I have no love, I am nothing’, and ends with ‘There are three things that last for ever: faith, hope and love; but the greatest of them is love.’ One might perhaps argue that this passage refers to ‘love’ and not ‘charity’. But the English text is misleading. Paul didn’t write in English of course, but in Greek. The Greek uses the word agapè (αγαπη). In Latin, this is translated as caritas, and this in turn is translated into English as ‘charity’. Agapè and caritas are words for the kind of love that is to be distinguished from eros (ερωσ) and amor – distinguished, although not separated, and therefore the New English Bible is right to translate St. Paul’s agapè as ‘love’. What is this love from which works of charity derive their name, and, in particular, against which their identity will be continually reviewed? To elaborate on this, I’d like to discuss the relationship between eros and agapè, though I want to emphasise the difference between the two. b) Eros or amor: ‘natural’ love of ourselves and others By nature, we are inclined to love ourselves and those close to us. Normally, parents love their children and children love their parents. If they do not, we know something is wrong. And, in the same way, we love our partners, our friends and those with whom we share our lives.1 But, first and foremost, we love ourselves. We are, by nature, inclined to care for ourselves. And there’s nothing wrong in that. On the contrary. Without a healthy love of ourselves, everything else, including the love of others, would be impossible. For love of ourselves is also implied in our love of others. In loving others I love myself: I enjoy others, I take pleasure in their enjoyment, and I ask for love in return.

1

The love that binds, or should bind, sisters and brothers to one another in religious communities is probably something different: it is a realisation of the love of one’s neighbour (see later) in the form of natural love. And that is precisely why it is often so difficult!

2

From an evangelical perspective too, there is nothing wrong with loving ourselves: it is not for nothing that the injunction to love thy neighbour requires us to love our neighbour as we love ourselves. But this does not detract from that fact that the love of one’s neighbour is also something completely different from the natural eros of ourselves and others; neighbourly love is love in the form of caritas or agapè. c) The distinctive feature of agapè or caritas: it is not natural and not my choice The difference between the two can perhaps best be demonstrated in the following way: in the case of eros there is always a natural or elective bond; nature or choice elevate that love into something unquestionable. I don’t need to be told that I should love my children. It’s obvious. Perhaps I should sometimes be reminded what that entails. But that I love them, goes without saying. And it’s apparent for example the moment something happens to them. And the fact that, when something happens to them, I am unhappy again shows how in loving them I am also loving myself. I myself have chosen my partner. I myself said ‘yes’. Perhaps I should be reminded of this too from time to time; but, however you look at it, it was my choice to have her and no one else as my partner. In the case of neighbourly love, in the case of agapè, caritas or charity, the situation is different: in principle, everyone is my neighbour, whether or not I feel a natural bond with them, and whether or not I want them to be. I need only open the door and they’ll be standing there. And those neighbours whom I have not chosen and with whom I am not bound by natural ties, I should love them as I love myself. Of course, I can’t love everyone to the same extent – in the literal sense of the word; let alone do for everyone everything that that love entails in equal measure. I can’t be everywhere at the same time, and what I give to one I cannot give to another. Sometimes, I’ll simply have to choose. But, nonetheless, in principle, there is nothing for me to choose here. Neighbours present themselves; I do not choose them. I do not decide who they are. Again: sometimes I’ll have to choose. If I have just one coin, and two people ask for it, I can give it to only one of them, even though both of them would like to have it. Of course, I realise that even though charity organisations will usually have more than just one coin, an important aspect of their work consists of making choices, and that they must therefore have considerable powers of discernment and a capacity to choose. At the same time though, in principle and fundamentally, given the injunction to love thy neighbour our freedom to choose is only a relative freedom. d) The seven works of charity: the uncertainty of caritas Jesus says that anything we do for one of his brothers, however insignificant, we do for him. This saying is cleverly illustrated in a fine painting that can be seen in the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam. It is a seven-panelled polyptych dating from 1504 and painted by the anonymous ‘Master of Alkmaar’.2 It illustrates the seven works of charity. Each panel is devoted to a scene illustrating one of these works. But apart from the central protagonists the painter has also included small groups of onlookers. Among those anonymous onlookers, Jesus himself is depicted as discreetly as possible in each panel. Obviously, to make clear what he intended the ‘Master of Alkmaar’ had to make Jesus recognisable. But he did so in a way that also ensures he remains inconspicuous – that the figure could have been anyone.

2

The painting has been ascribed to Cornelis Buys.

3

I’d like to suggest the following preliminary conclusion: charity is a love that makes no distinction. And insofar as we cannot avoid making a distinction (whether between people whose needs are greater or lesser than those of others, or between groups who appear to abuse our generosity and others who really do depend on it, or – as in the title which is the subject of my talk – between ‘Catholic leaders’ and others), in making this distinction we will be treading a most uncertain path. How should we do that then? Where can we find the support and guidance that we so badly need? To try to answer this, I’d first like to make a short detour. 3. Love as a virtue; there are two different kinds of virtues St. Paul mentions love along with faith and hope. These are the so-called ‘theological virtues’. In ethics – my discipline – there has been a renewed interest in recent years in the old tradition of the ethics of virtue. And I do believe that this tradition is of undiminished importance for the world today too. What do the ethics of virtue teach us about charity? As we’ve said, charity is one of the theological virtues. To understand what those virtues are, we must first look at the ‘ordinary’, or ‘natural’, virtues. a) Natural virtues are the optimal realisation of our natural emotions. Virtues are perfect or optimal realisations of our natural abilities and emotions. In shaping and practicing my natural ability to acquire knowledge properly, I’m developing my intellect in a virtuous way, and I’m forming within myself so-called ‘intellectual virtues’. In properly shaping and cultivating my natural emotions, I’m developing a virtuous character and forming so-called ‘character virtues’. For example, I can cultivate my natural response to a threat in different ways. I can become someone who retreats in the face of danger (a coward), or I can become someone who actually courts danger (we’d be likely to call him reckless). Both ways are problematic. The best way is probably one in which I’m continuously making an accurate assessment of the seriousness of the threat and of the importance of what is at risk, and in which I’m then able to effectively resist that threat if and to the extent the risk warrants my doing so. We would call that courage; and so that is a virtue, the virtuous form of one’s natural response to danger. b) The natural virtues of love: friendship, kindness and philanthropy Since Plato, these natural virtues have normally been subsumed under the so-called cardinal virtues (from the Latin cardo, meaning ‘hinge’: these are the central virtues, which all other virtues presuppose): prudence, justice, temperance and fortitude (or courage). Although love does not appear in this list, there is a virtue of love at this level: there are actually different virtues of love within the group of ordinary or natural virtues, quite apart from the theological virtues about which I’ll be talking later. You can see this in the fact that we have a natural love for other people: for some people in particular, who are very close to us, but also for people generally. We can develop and cultivate these natural feelings virtuously too, by which I mean to their 4

maximum potential. Aristotle, the father of the ethics of virtue, called these virtues ‘friendship’ and ‘kindness’.3 Another point – and this is not unimportant in our context – is that generosity is a virtue that needs to be mentioned here. Aristotle said that it is part of natural love and situated somewhere between the love of one’s family and the general love of mankind. You give everything to your children; to your neighbours you give more than you do to strangers. But even very distant fellow citizens in serious need can count on the generosity of those who have cultivated their humanity virtuously. It is important to note this because of the question of the relationship to and difference from love as a theological virtue. So far, we have only been discussing the ‘ordinary’ virtues, as formulated by the Greek philosophers; the virtues of love referred to by ‘philia’ (we see this word in philanthropy, literally the love of man). Ever since the advent of Christianity in culture, and more especially since the time of St Augustine, Christian thinkers have argued that these general virtues of love as ‘philia’ are important, but not sufficient. c) The virtue of love requires cultivating or ‘empowerment’ These ordinary virtues are instilled in us as the result of our upbringing and education, and by practising our natural abilities. It is the same with everything in nature: if you lovingly tend the seed, it might well blossom into a beautiful plant; if you look after and train your body, it will achieve its maximum potential. If people are given a good upbringing and a good education, they can blossom into a life of virtue. This is one meaning we can give to ‘empowerment’: contributing to an environment in which the seed of love can develop to full maturity. 4. Theological virtues are necessary because the gospel demands more of us This is where Christian commentators start to criticise the Greek philosophers. However much they accept the importance of this virtuousness, it is not enough. I can’t go into the background to all this here (suffice it to say that it’s related to a more distinct sense among Christian commentators of sin and evil which we do not find among the Greeks). What is important is that the Christian commentators agreed that ordinary virtues are not enough for us to achieve the perfection that the gospel asks of us. I’d like to give two examples here: one relating to faith, and the other to love (I won’t be going into ‘hope’, the third theological virtue). a) Faith shows that one cannot acquire the theological virtue; it is bestowed However much I improve my natural desire and ability to acquire knowledge, I will not achieve faith, nor achieve the knowledge of God that one achieves through faith. Even if, based on what I know, I were to decide that ‘something like a God’ should 3

Friendship is the perfect, virtuous form of the natural sense of having a bond with certain people (and never more than a few); kindness is the perfect cultivation of the love we feel for all people, regardless of who they are. This is something we might easily forget in a period replete with hate and enmity. The fear of Muslim terrorists and the hate and powerlessness we feel when we see how they kill others in the name of Allah make it difficult for us to feel any sympathy let alone love for them. But we can all appreciate that those hate-filled individuals are not really what they seem, and that we, as people, are still closer to them than to other creatures. This very basic bond that we share with all mankind can be cultivated; its perfect form can be seen, for example, in an attitude of kindness.

5

exist (and this is something that philosophers in the past and today have argued is possible; indeed only very recently a celebrated mathematician appeared in the newspapers after publishing a book in which he shows mathematically that the probability God exists is 67%), even then, even if I were to decide that ‘something like a God’ should exist, I would not have the knowledge that only faith can give. I cannot acquire that knowledge through greater learning, or by trying even harder to do my best. It is something that can only be bestowed on me. If God does not reveal Himself to me, I can try as I might but I will not get to know Him. I will not achieve faith. Faith is a virtue, but unlike the ordinary virtues it is not one I can acquire; it is a virtue that is either bestowed on me or not. This does not mean I can do nothing about it. I can work with God. I can be open and receptive to God’s revelation of Himself, in the same way that I can shut myself off to it. I can devote myself to studying what people call ‘His word’, or I can leave His book unopened. But ultimately it is not my efforts that determine whether or not I achieve faith: God determines that. It is not my work, but the work of God. And that is why faith is not a natural but a theological virtue: it is not made, but received. b) Charity is the theological virtue of love; the injunction to love thy neighbour is paradoxical According to St. Paul and later Christian theologians, the same is true of hope and love, love as agapè, caritas or charity. And now it’s clear what the difference is between natural love (however perfectly expressed) and this love as a theological virtue. Theology puts it this way: natural love always remains bound to the self. This is not a bad thing, as we’ve already seen. But nor is it enough. By carefully cultivating this natural love, we can ensure that the self does not stand in the way of real love: I can shape myself – empowered by others – in such a way that I no longer regard others as a threat, but as part of myself, as inseparable from myself. So their good fortune also enhances mine. But there is also a love possible that lets go of or transcends the self, and that is not a love we can cultivate. Again, that has to be bestowed on us. That love is a work of God: a theological virtue. This form of love is neighbourly love, or charity. And thus the injunction that says we should love our neighbour as we do ourselves is also a paradox typical of the gospel. It combines two radically different forms of love: neighbourly love is not the type of love the self exhibits naturally, whereas love of self is. c) An example to show how difficult that love is In talking about love as a theological virtue, we don’t need to think of it in terms of Christ’s total dedication and self-sacrifice, though that is, of course, the ultimate example. We can translate it into our everyday experiences, experiences shared by everyone. Let me give you an example. Where I live, there are a number of beggars. One of them, a woman, has a permanent spot at the railway station. Whenever I go to the station, or leave the station, she’s there, and she asks me for money. She is not always there though. Probably because she’s an addict, and there are times when she’s simply in no state to beg. How do we respond to someone like her? We can give her some money, without thinking about it too much. This certainly gets rid of our problem: she’ll stop bothering us. It will also help her; but it is not caritas. 6

Sometimes, we help because we’re touched by her plight. But if we see her there again the next day, the next week, the next month, we’ll be inclined to wonder whether what we’re doing makes any sense; or we’ll begin to realise that she’s using the money to buy more drugs, and that she’ll only be worse off. We might realise that we could actually do her more good by not giving her anything. Let’s assume we’re right about this. This is where the difference between generosity and caritas becomes clear. Generosity is characterised by the cardinal virtue of prudence. Caritas is not influenced by considerations of prudence. It offers help, even if there is no point in doing so: seventy times seven. You might be feeling a bit uneasy about this; you might be thinking that we can’t be expected to love without prudence, to help without prudence! No. That won’t be my conclusion. But it is problematic. Before I suggest the conclusion that I believe should be drawn, I’d first like to discuss one further aspect of this caritas. d) In this love, God is central Just as man, as a knowing creature, cannot achieve faith on his own, but only by having it bestowed on him by God, by God ‘empowering’ him as it were, so man, as a willing creature, cannot achieve caritas on his own, but only if God moulds his will to do so. Like faith, caritas is also a gift from God. And as, in faith, God is not just the source but also the object, so in love is God both source and object. In the case of natural love, we love people: all people a little, and some a lot. But the self continues to play a central role in this. In caritas that central role is reserved for God. The real object of caritas is God. Thomas Aquinas explained this by saying that we can love everything and everyone with that caritas love because everything is in God and we can love God in everything. Of course, some creatures are closer to God than others, but it’s not easy to make that distinction. Again, let me quote what Jesus said: ‘… anything you did for one of my brothers here, however insignificant, you did for me’. And let me refer again to the painting by the Master of Alkmaar, who so discreetly included Jesus among ordinary people. So our conclusion should not be that we must not be prudent in our caritas love, nor that we must not make distinctions. Our conclusion should be that it is very difficult to make distinctions, and that we can’t simply rely on our own prudence nor that of others. So what can we rely on then? Let me repeat the question I posed earlier: where can we find the support and guidance we so badly need? 5. Conclusion Perhaps there’s only one possible answer: just as this love does not emanate from within us, but from God, and just as it is not us but God who is the recipient of this love, so ultimately God, and not us, is the only one who can guide and direct this love. This love is created by that vocation, and it must therefore always be guided by that vocation. As a rule, whoever is called is called to love; and those who devote themselves to charity can only do that successfully if they are called to do it, and if they keep in contact with the voice that calls them. Catholic theology wisely tells us 7

that people can and should work with God. What this means firstly is giving people an opportunity to hear God’s call; secondly, it means helping people to do what God asks of them, out of love. To do this, what we probably need more than anything else is not to want to take the initiative ourselves, not to map out routes, or make plans. That sort of thing. But instead to listen to, to look at, to anticipate and to digest what others give us to hear, to see, or to taste; others, in which the voice of God can perhaps be recognised, or in which, as in the painting by the Master of Alkmaar, perhaps the face of Jesus is briefly reflected.

8