Change Everything To Change Nothing

I was recently in a discussion about the Church's role on earth, specifically how the Church can be in the world but not of the world, and what this means for the Church as an institution. The person I was discussing with made the point that the Church has to "incarnate" the faith throughout time, and that this requires at least some institutional structure. Of course, he would also say that this "incarnating" is not primarily institutional, but also cultural, charitable, etc. I thought this was an interesting point, and it perhaps allows me to make some peace with the Church as an institution, even if it is an imperfect peace.

In reading about Danilo Dolci, I again encountered this idea of "incarnating":

Of the Sicilian clergy Vinay has said: 'They are souls of their traditions and of their past. They are unable to understand that the task of the Church is to incarnate the words of God in the life of the people—are unable to understand. They are keeping, saving, preserving—and personally I think that the greatest sin of the Church is the sense of preservation; where there is preservation there is not faith.

...

Vinay was not surprised to learn that I [James McNeish, Dolci's biographer] had to work in Cammarata anonymously, chiefly because the priests—and therefore the ruling clique—considered Dolci a militant Communist. 'It is the same in Riesi,' he said. 'It is easier for the clergy to condemn Communism than to incarnate the faith they profess.' (McNeish 78, 247)

I'm putting aside Vinay's argument about "preserving" (because I think that preserving orthodoxy and orthopraxy is one of the Church's central roles, although I agree with Vinay's basic point that the Church should not be entangled in social structures that manipulate people). But the primary aspect of Dolci's life that strikes me is that he did incarnate his ideas. He may not have had all the right ideas, and he may not have always made the right practical decisions, but he was a man of action. And perhaps just as importantly, he was a man of action in his specific context. He did not have to go halfway around the world to find a cause; instead he found it in his own country. Moreover, his cause did not depend on a future (or a past) that could never be realized; his immediate objective was the building of a dam, which was a realistic goal. Gandhi, too, is an example of dealing with what is right in front of you.

In my last blog post I asked what are we to do in the present moment, when we can neither recover the past nor live in a future that cannot be realized in our lifetime. Danilo Dolci's life helps answer that question. In an earlier blog post I quoted Kelly S. Johnson's summary of John Milbank's argument that "Gift can only really flourish within the confidence of 'marital fidelity,' for there the delay and inequality inherent in gift exchange do not become injustice" (Johnson 170-171). The act of marriage is a limiting act; the spouses limit themselves to one person, but in doing so they participate in a relationship in which they are always giving themselves anew as gifts. Without first limiting themselves to one person, they could not take part in such a limitless relationship. In the context of the Samaritan vocation, I think Dolci illustrates how limiting yourself within your own life's context is necessary in order to even begin serving others. Whether it's the man in front of you on the road to Jericho, the Sicilian woman whose infant child dies of hunger, or the "untouchables" of Indian society...that is where your service must begin.

One of the difficulties with men like Dolci and Gandhi, however, is that even in limiting themselves to one cause, it becomes extremely difficult for them to have true relationships. Dolci's father upbraids him for taking care of others when he has a family of his own to take care of. Gandhi expresses regret at his own failures as a father. These two men limited themselves...but did they limit themselves enough? It could be argued that the solitary hermit in his cell is shunning relationships...but I think what the hermit is really doing is going as far as a person can go in limiting himself to one relationship (i.e., his relationship with God). The more people an individual seeks to serve, the more difficult it becomes for him to form true Samaritan-Jew relationships. Dolci and Gandhi, as individual persons, could serve others in a way that an institution never can...and yet, did they themselves not become sort of institutions of their own? They became symbols for others, they were the glue that held others together; even people who did not know them personally would rally around them. This brings us back to Lewis Hyde's point that beyond a certain limit, the personal dimension of community is lost. Dolci disagreed with Don Zeno for turning people away from Nomadelphia, but perhaps Don Zeno understood that there are necessary limits to community. The "global village," perhaps, is not just imaginary, but also a threat to true community.

This issue of limiting one's self interests me in light of globalization. Consider, for example, the earthquake in Haiti. There was an outpouring of global aid after the earthquake. The assumption behind appeals for money is that we have an obligation to help the people of Haiti. And I think many Americans do feel compelled to give money in such situations. And I think part of the reason why is because they see it as a global effort. We want to save the world. But the more local and individual the need gets, the less urgent it becomes. We have a vague obligation to "the homeless." But the individual beggar on the street is not as much of a concern, because we help "the homeless" in general. We will send money to the earthquake victims of Haiti, but it would never occur to us to help Haitian immigrants in our own state. This is really a thorny question to answer. What obligation do I have to the beggar on the street if I donate money to charities for the homeless? What obligation do I have to the earthquake victims in Haiti if I help the beggar on the street? If I limit myself to face-to-face Samaritan-Jew relationships, am I still being my brother's keeper? What about my brothers who I will never meet face-to-face, but whom I am still able to help (e.g., through monetary donations)?

What I take from Dolci and Gandhi is that these questions are impossible to answer. We will always have to live with the tensions and uncertainties of what it means to be my brother's keeper, what it means to be a Good Samaritan. The only thing we can do is define our starting limit: it may be the slumdwellers of Sicily or the "untouchables" of India. It may be the mentally retarded. It may be homeless women. It may be the person sitting next to you on the train. These chosen limits may grow, and you may need to eventually draw back the limits. But if you never define a limit, then you will never get started. Dolci liked the quote, "Change everything to change nothing." I'm not sure what it means, but it sure sounds like what happens if you never define a starting limit.

Such As She Was, Such As She Would Become

The issues surrounding the Samaritan vocation are, I would say, primarily personal. That is, they have to do with personal relationships as well as ways of living in our own lives. One of these issues is community. But what connection does community have with society? I don't think you can turn the Samaritan vocation into a social vocation...but the more I read, it seems unavoidable that the Samaritan vocation will have social implications.

In "The Gift," Lewis Hyde explores various societies that were small enough so that "community" and "society" were synonymous. But as he points out:

...A group formed on ties of affection could, perhaps, be as large as a thousand people, but one thousand must begin to approach the limit. Our feelings close down when the numbers get too big. Strangers passing on the street in big cities avoid each other's eyes not to show disdain but to keep from being overwhelmed by excessive human contact. When we speak of communities developed and maintained through an emotional commerce like that of gifts, we are therefore speaking of something limited in size. It remains an unsolved dilemma of the modern world, one to which anarchists have repeatedly addressed themselves, as to how we are to preserve true community in a mass society, one whose dominant value is exchange value and whose morality has been codified into law. (Hyde 116)

Rosemary Haughton asks some questions that help frame how we might approach what Lewis is discussing:

What is it that gives "ownership"? Is it simply paying for, owning a piece of land in the legal sense? Is it feeling responsible for it? Is it feeling oneself part of the history of a place, a group, a nation? Surely it has, at least, some quality of choice, of not being constrained but able to decide, to be there because one feels it matters. (Haughton 63-64)

Communities like those of the Catholic Worker, like Wellspring House, like l'Arche, like gift societies, are held together by intentional act. In other words, Dorothy Day could only build community because it sprung from her own sense of a personal vocation. Modern "society," however, (and I am contrasting that word with "community"), is held together by the state. I am an American, not because I chose to be (like Dorothy Day chose to be in her communities); rather, I am an American because I was born between the Canadian and Mexican borders. The question that Haughton poses is whether this is enough to sustain a society. I am reminded here of Robert Frost's poem, "The Gift Outright":

The land was ours before we were the land's.
She was our land more than a hundred years
Before we were her people. She was ours
In Massachusetts, in Virginia.
But we were England's, still colonials,
Possessing what we still were unpossessed by,
Possessed by what we now no more possessed.
Something we were withholding made us weak.
Until we found out that it was ourselves
We were withholding from our land of living,
And forthwith found salvation in surrender.
Such as we were we gave ourselves outright
(The deed of gift was many deeds of war)
To the land vaguely realizing westward,
But still unstoried, artless, unenhanced,
Such as she was, such as she would become.

"Such as she was, such as she would become." But what is she in the present moment? Hyde discusses the past at length. Haughton has a vision for the future. But what are we do at this present moment? Is it possible for me to be an American when I live in a "society" and not a "community"? What relationship do I have to other Americans? How does one relate to his own countrymen as brothers, when he has no basis for community with them other than the fact that we were all born between the Canadian and Mexican borders?

We hear a lot about "communities" in America. People speak of the "black community," and so on. They usually lay the stress on the first word ("black," etc.)...but it occurred to me recently that the common factor among all these groups is the word "community." People form community in America, first, by separating themselves from the larger "society," turning themselves into an other, and uniting around that common otherness. There is a sense here that community provides a common purpose, a common worldview, a common starting point, and that these form the basis for each individual's participation in society. Politicians pander to as many groups, as many "communities," as possible, because a politician can win many individuals by appealing to the "communities" that they identify with.

The problem I have in seeing my "Americanness" as being part of a community, as "possessing" the house that is this nation (to refer back to Haughton and Frost), is that I do not have a starting point on which to base that "ownership." I have no particular attachment to American political philosophy. I tend to agree with Illich's general criticism of Western civilization. I certainly have major qualms about contemporary politics (not only in the solutions offered...I don't think society even knows what the problems are, so its solutions are missing the point). Basically, I have neither a philosophical, nor a political, nor a moral or religious basis to unite me with America (or, rather, I only have these in parts). If we say that the Samaritan vocation has social implications, then it is hard for me to see what those implications are when being an "American" is just a geographical and political fact. In other countries, identity is rooted in a people, not in a government or a constitution. Those countries may have a constitution, but that is not the basis of their identity. This is why coups d'état in Latin American countries do not destroy collective identity...the people there identify as peoples united by common origins, not by a specific political system.

The more I read and think about modern society, the more I am convinced that the only way to truly change society is to rebuild from within. There is really nothing we can do about the structures on which our society is built (because society is too committed to and too dependent on those structures), and trying to find a common identity under those structures seems futile to me. Of course, we cannot completely ignore the existing structures...that would require us to leave the earth, which is impossible. But perhaps identity can only be found in "community," not in "society," and that may be why Americans try to identify as separate "communities" apart from the larger identity. Perhaps the only solution we have at this moment is to ignore the existing structures and try to build community on the small scale. But how can this work in a pluralistic society? As I suggested before, the basis of community is having a common starting point. But in building mini-communities from within, are we reinforcing the sense of "the other" whom we shut out? Obviously we cannot agree with everyone, not even with everyone in our own community. But what is the balance between community and otherness, and what implications does the personal vocation of the Samaritan have for these larger social questions?

I think I'm more confused than when I started.

Not Against Flesh and Blood

In reading Rosemary Haughton, I've been thinking about what I discussed in my previous post, about my own desire to be among those without homes. I do like Haughton's usage of "home" as a larger symbol for how we should build society. But I would be interested to read a study of how the idea of "home" has shaped Christian perceptions. Illich would take ideas like contingency or the theology of icons, ideas which he agreed with, but he would argue that those ideas paved the way for future social perversions of ideals.

Although I haven't done the research that Illich would put into his arguments, I can see how the idea of home may have functioned in a similar way as those ideas that Illich discussed. Part of the reason why the early Christians met in private homes, obviously, was that they were being persecuted, and so private homes were the only places where they could meet. But could there have also been a more positive reason for meeting in each other's homes? The later construction of churches gave Christians homes for their worship, but it also created property which the Church would have to protect and preserve. In other words, it settled the Church in society. When you have property to protect, you can't really live the kind of radical life that the early Christians lived, because such a life will only ensure your martyrdom and loss of property. When you become settled in society, you lose the sense that "here we have no lasting city, but we seek the city which is to come" (Hebrews 13:14); instead, you commit yourself to trying to build a lasting city.

For these reasons, I cannot entirely get behind Haughton's emphasis on home. I do think there is a valuable role for hospitality houses and similar ventures, but I think that it needs to be complemented with a theology of itinerancy. I say "itinerancy" rather than "homelessness" because I think that you can create a sense of home even in itinerancy. I think that Haughton tries to interpret the Gospel as a call to build a lasting city, and it seems to me that the Gospel is just the opposite. Haughton sees the Gospel as a means to build up society, but I see the Gospel more as a guide for how to lose life and property. Itinerancy was, I think, essential to the ministry of Christ and the Apostles.

One of the things that seems to be lacking in Haughton's "Song in a Strange Land" is a sense of each person as a moral subject. Haughton has some valuable insights into sociostructural and institutional traps, but she tends to reduce people to products of these structures and institutions. Her philosophy of hospitality is rooted in the idea that you can change individuals through radical changes in social structures and institutions. This is true to a certain extent, but I feel like she does not put much emphasis on the mystery of iniquity at work in each person. I get really annoyed when Christ is depicted as a sort of philosopher/social prophet who gave Christians a blueprint for a just society. There is nothing uniquely Christian about building a just society, and if that is what Christ came to teach us, then what has he really taught us that we could not learn from pagan philosophers? When I read the New Testament, I see a radically personal message rather than a social message. I see Christ challenging people to confront the mystery of iniquity at work in their own hearts. The community that Christ brings together is an eschatological community (the Church), not a civic community.

Haughton's theology is stagnant in some ways, because she is so rooted to the idea of home. One question I have is: if we model ourselves after something like Wellspring house, then what becomes of the "Go, therefore..." (Matthew 28:19) of the Great Commission?

In my opinion, Haughton's feminist theology illustrates an important reason why Christ chose only men as Apostles, and why the Church has never ordained women. The Church is inherently hierarchical. But once the hierarchy begins to settle into a "home," once the Church begins to settle into an institution, then the hierarchy functions through some of the manipulative power structures that Haughton dissects. The leaders of the Church are supposed to be proto-witnesses to Christ, they are supposed to exemplify the "Go, therefore..." of the Great Commission. This drive to generate is uniquely masculine. I do not see that active dimension in Haughton's theology, and part of that seems to be because she is a woman. Just as the drive to generate is uniquely masculine, so the nurturing of home is uniquely feminine. We sometimes see this contrast in habits of Church attendance. The modern Church has been criticized for not appealing to men. The "church lady" role allows some women to turn the parish into a sort of home. Men need something more active, they need to be leading and working toward something; the model of "parish-as-home" is too confining, too domestic. That is one of the reasons, I think, why Christ chose only men to lead the Church, because the primary image of the Church is not a home, but a Body (the Body of Christ). A body implies living movement, and the male leaders of the Church are supposed to keep that living movement going, so that the Church does not settle down and try to build a lasting city (which is not the Church's mission). When the Church does become a stagnant institution, then it becomes like the Wife of Bath: the Church's authority ceases to be about radical witness to Christ and instead it becomes about maintaining control over the home, like the Wife of Bath wanting to rule her roost. For women to lead the Church would compromise the essential "Go, therefore..." of the Church's mission, and it seems to me that the institutionalization of the Church is a sort of effeminazation, because it turns the Church into a home-model and deadens the hierarchy's sense of "Go, therefore..."

In some ways, the Wellspring model is too confining and too domestic for me. I feel a need to be with people in the streets. I feel a need to confront the violent and the sinful, because it is the mystery of iniquity at work in them that is also at work in me. As I said before, I am not against the idea of hospitality houses, and I think that they can do much good. But I would note that the Samaritan brings the injured Jew to an inn, and then the Samaritan goes on his way. An inn is not a home. There is a sense of "...to be continued" in the Samaritan story. In other words, after their encounter, each character has to step back out into that "Go, therefore..." in order to repeat that Samaritan-Jew encounter again and again, because the context for that Samaritan-Jew encounter is on a dangerous road to Jericho, not in a safe house in Gloucester. Haughton has valuable insight into how to address broken social structures and institutions, how to build society as a "home." But no matter how you build society, the mystery of iniquity will still be at work in each person's heart. I thought Haughton's philosophy lacked a necessary emphasis on a moral witness which actively goes out and confronts the evil that is at work in our hearts. Mother Teresa once wrote:

If I ever become a saint—I will surely be one of "darkness." I will continually be absent from heaven—to light the light of those in darkness on earth.

A theology of itinerancy, or perhaps we could call it a theology of the gutters, draws me more than a theology of home, because a theology of itinerancy has a strong emphasis on moral witness. Haughton tends to victimize those whom she works with. Granted, she does have valuable insight into social victimization, but I think that she lacks a necessary emphasis on the mystery of iniquity that is at work in each person; she tends to reduce people to victims of social structures. When Mother Teresa speaks of being a saint of darkness, she seems to be recognizing the mystery of iniquity in herself, and thus her going out into the darkness is a form of solidarity with all men, because every person labors under the mystery of iniquity. An emphatic recognition of the mystery of iniquity opens up a radically free, radically equal, and radically universal relationship between me and "the Other," because we both recognize the same problem at work in each other. That problem is primarily within our hearts rather than in social structures which we may or may not be able to change.

It seems to me that Gandhi had a stronger sense than Haughton of the moral witness involved in serving others. Gandhi understood that the conversion of society could only happen after the conversion of individual hearts (this included the hearts of the oppressed as much as the hearts of the oppressors). I don't see much of a theology of martyrdom in Haughton, and martyrdom was essential to the lives of the early Christians. Martyrdom requires a deep sense of "Go, therefore..." and a deep sense of "here we have no lasting city" (Hebrews 13:14).

In reading about people like Haughton and Jean Vanier, I think about what form my own service to "the Other" would take. I can imagine blending the ideas of "home" and "itinerancy" while sharing in the lives of those in the streets and gutters. Perhaps I could sleep in a tent as a symbolic "home" amidst itinerancy. But whatever I do has to be rooted in witness to the person of Christ; I am not given to trying to build a lasting city. Haughton, as I understand her, is trying to create a new society. This is admirable in some ways, but the Gospel as I understand it is about something deeper than building a temporal society:

For we are not contending against flesh and blood, but against the principalities, against the powers, against the world rulers of this present darkness, against the spiritual hosts of wickedness in the heavenly places. (Ephesians 6:12)

I feel like martyrdom is at the core of what Christians should be doing. If our service is not putting us at risk for martyrdom (or at least at risk for persecution), then we need to reconsider what we are doing. But, perhaps my own understanding of the Gospel is as biased as Haughton's. Am I justified in making so sharp a distinction between the Gospel and temporal society? Perhaps I am projecting myself onto the Gospel (a possibility which bothers me greatly, because the Gospel is not ours to manipulate). I will have to think more on this.

Become All Things To All Men

A common theme so far in my reading has been the idea that we fear "the Other" because they disturb our sense of ourselves. As Edward Gannon expresses it in his essay "Eschaton and Existence: A Phenomenological View":

Second, if others keep their distance from me, they will not get their sticky fingers into my life. Better I be unknown. If they know me, they may spot things even I prefer to ignore. (Many of us have more of a fear of being understood than of being misunderstood.) The other (Latin: alter) is a threat precisely because if he knows me I might have to alter myself. (Gannon 196-197)

In "Strangers To Ourselves," Julia Kristeva discusses Freud's similar idea that "the Other" dredges up aspects of ourselves that we have suppressed, and that in response we either avoid "the Other," or else we try to get rid of him (e.g., by killing him, by "civilizing" him in our image, etc.).

Kristeva's discussion resonated with me because in my experience (which is the only experience I can speak for), it is precisely a fear of personal change that drives the fear of "the Other." When I see a homeless man on the street, I do not feel particularly moved by his physical condition. Sure, I feel sorry for him. But that is not what gnaws deep down at my soul. What bothers me is not so much that I am unable (or unwilling) to feed him, but that I am not him. I feel the sorrow of the Rich Young Man in the Gospel, whom Christ invites not merely to feed the poor, but to become the poor. The homeless man whom I pass on the street reminds me not so much of what I have (food, home, family), but of what I am not: a Saint. The homeless remind me that I do not have the courage of a St. Francis, of a Dorothy Day, etc. Looking at the homeless is, for me, like looking in a mirror, except that the reflection I see is a reflection of what I should be rather than what I am.

Sometimes when I am walking home on a cold night, I dread the approach to my house. I know that inside the house I have precisely what the homeless lack: warmth, food, family, a soft pillow. Yet stepping into the house, I have a strange feeling of being a stranger. It is, perhaps, what Kristeva discusses as Freud's idea of "uncanny strangeness." I have nothing against having a warm house. But I know that my place is not in the house, it is out in the cold air on the deserted streets.

I had a similar experience at a beach in Honduras last summer. I was enjoying the day with family and friends. Nearby sat a man who was obviously drunk, barely conscious of his surroundings, in need of a shower, and slurping Chinese food. Eventually an employee from a nearby restaurant asked him to leave (which he did, only after stumbling over himself). What bothered me was not that I was there and able to enjoy a day at the beach with family and friends, nor that the man probably did not have family and friends. I could not change the circumstances of my life or his. But at that moment, without changing the circumstances of our lives, I could have transcended them. I could have simply invited the man to sit and enjoy the day with us. It was not my place to invite him over, being a guest myself, but I could no longer feel connected to the group I was with, even though they were friends and family. If my place was not to bring the homeless man to our group, then was it not my place to form a new group where he is at the head of the table? But, of course, I just watched him until he stumbled away, and I felt as much a stranger there among friends and family as I do on cold winter nights.

I'm not sure what to make of Freud's idea of "uncanny strangeness," except to say that it resonates with my own experience. I think that Kristeva and Freud are getting at something very important about our relationship to "the Other."

As Gannon points out, "the alter" forces us to alter ourselves. Christ says to "love your neighbor as yourself" (Matthew 22:39). If "the Other" changes our "self" by forcing us to undergo an alteration, then every time we encounter "the Other," we are able, in a sense, to become a new person. In this light, "love your neighbor as yourself" takes on even more significance than we might realize, because our "self" is always being remade in the encounter with "the Other," and so in loving ourselves we are in fact loving "the Other" who has given us a new "self" in that encounter. In other words, the love does not extend in a linear fashion from us to "the Other." Rather, the love is generated in a reciprocal manner, because we must first receive a new "self" from the other in order to love that "self," and in loving that new "self" we can love "the Other" who gave it to us. This, perhaps, helps us better understand St. Paul's injunction to become all things to all men:

For though I am free from all men, I have made myself a slave to all, that I might win the more. To the Jews I became as a Jew, in order to win Jews; to those under the law I became as one under the law — though not being myself under the law — that I might win those under the law. To those outside the law I became as one outside the law — not being without law toward God but under the law of Christ — that I might win those outside the law. To the weak I became weak, that I might win the weak. I have become all things to all men, that I might by all means save some. I do it all for the sake of the gospel, that I may share in its blessings. (1Corinthians 9:19-23)

If "the Other" gives us a new "self," then in a certain sense each encounter with "the Other" is a dying to self. We can never exhaust this dying to self, and so for Christians, encountering "the Other" becomes a means of deepening our participation in the mystery of Christ's death and resurrection. The reason why Christians can die to self and become all things to all men, being "remade" in the image of each "Other," is because it is not our personal identity that remains constant in us, but rather it is Christ who remains constant in us. As St. Paul writes, "I have been crucified with Christ; it is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me" (Galatians 2:20). In each encounter with "the Other," are are remade in their image; and of course, Christ identifies as "the Other," so that in each encounter with "the Other," we are really being remade in the image of Christ. When we resist "the Other," we harden our hearts to that possibility of alteration, of becoming more and more like Christ.

Entertaining Angels Unawares

In my previous post I suggested that the Samaritan vocation is not about healing wounds, but rather about the encounter with Christ that takes place in the encounter between Samaritan and Jew. I also criticized Edward Gannon's humanistic emphasis; though I should point out that his essay is not specifically discussing the Good Samaritan, so I used the essay somewhat out of context. But if the Samaritan vocation is eschatological, as I suggested, then what do we make of the earthy aspects of the parable (e.g., the healing of wounds)? Am I dismissing these earthy aspects without giving them any real significance? Am I artificially supernaturalizing the encounter between Samaritan and Jew?

In Illich's reading of the Samaritan vocation (a reading that I find convincing), the parable is about a new kind of love made possible by Christ's Incarnation. One might argue that Illich in general ignores the "real world" with his idealistic ideas. In this criticism, Illich's reading of the Samaritan vocation would be another example of his ignoring the "real world" (i.e., he would be turning a simple parable about man-helping-his-fellow-man into a supernaturalized parable about Christian love).

I think it might be useful to distinguish the parable of the Good Samaritan from some of the other Biblical passages on hospitality and being-your-brother's-keeper. I see the Samaritan vocation as being more so about supernatural encounter, rather than about natural hospitality. That does not mean that there cannot be a theology of hospitality, it just means that the parable of the Good Samaritan is addressing something more specifically Christian (the love made possible by Christ's Incarnation). The difference is much like the difference between a wedding and a wedding reception. The two events are closely connected, but the actual wedding is about encountering, whereas the wedding reception is about receiving. The Samaritan vocation (like a wedding) is about a supernatural encounter between two people, whereas hospitality (like a wedding reception) is about a natural reception of "the Other."

But can a Christian even speak of a "natural" reception of "the Other"? For a Christian, "the Other" is always to be seen and served as Christ himself. This, perhaps, is where the border between the Samaritan vocation and natural hospitality ceases to exist. Yet Christians remain conscious of the tension between the two, because it is a tension between the Eschaton and the present world. In an article for The Catholic Worker, Colin Miller narrates an example of this tension:

About a year after starting the breakfast fellowship [with a group of homeless people], I started asking [my wife] Lisa if she would ever be comfortable letting someone [homeless] like Concrete ("Crete" for short) sleep in our spare room. This was especially pressing in the winter when it was cold. After all, these were, in some way, our friends. Her initial reaction was that she'd have to work on it. [...]

The hesitation in inviting a homeless man to live with them is understandable. The man may be unpleasant. He may be violent. He may rob them. He may take advantage of their hospitality. He may even kill them. No doubt, Colin and his wife see Christ in the homeless. But would the two of them hesitate to invite Christ into their home? It seems to me that Colin and his wife are already practicing hospitality through their breakfast fellowship. But to invite a homeless man into their home would be going beyond mere hospitality. It would require them to treat that man with the same faith that they bear toward Christ. And what faith is that? The faith of martyrs. Inviting a homeless man into your home is no more dangerous than being a disciple of Christ. Both require a willingness to risk being beaten, robbed, spat upon, even killed.

In her book "The Fear of Beggars: Stewardship and Poverty in Christian Ethics," Kelly S. Johnson summarizes some ideas of John Milbank's on the nature of gift-giving:

Gift can only really flourish within the confidence of "marital fidelity," for there the delay and inequality inherent in gift exchange do not become injustice. ...Where the giving moves in only one direction, offerings may actually be about domination of the weak under another name. In spite of this danger, marital confidence can maintain its trust because it rests on a deep foundation of mutuality. Only that context of friendship makes possible Christian sacrifice, the gift of grace that receives no adequate or evident return. It is the privilege of this intimacy to live with such unevenness. There gifts can be exchanged without the self-protection necessary in an economic order of strangers. (Johnson 170-171)

This idea of "marital fidelity" works well, I think, in understanding the Samaritan vocation. Natural hospitality does not require "marital fidelity." The laws of natural hospitality dictate that you are invited to my house, but you are also expected to notice when I yawn (your cue to leave). Spouses do not relate to each other in such a way. If they have something to say to each other, they say it. There are no social conventions between them; they are completely open with one another. That is an essential aspect of their marital fidelity.

To try to bring this back to where I started: am I artificially supernaturalizing the Samaritan vocation? I think the idea of marital fidelity is important to answering this question. Marital fidelity is sexual. It would be wrong to marginalize the significance of the conjugal act in marital fidelity. Likewise, the Samaritan's physical healing of wounds is not incidental to the parable. But I think it would be an error to say that the meaning of the parable is about being a nurse, just as I think it would be an error to say that the meaning of marriage is a sexual relationship. Philosopher Alice Von Hildebrand has some useful thoughts on this topic:

The marital embrace should make the spouses more loving and more generous not only toward each other, but superabundantly toward their neighbor, whoever he is. Granted that not being able to conceive is a legitimate source of profound grief, this should in no way eliminate the fruitfulness and fecundity of their loving embrace. It can and should superabundantly bear fruits, be it in adopting unwanted babies, in taking care of orphans, in having the great blessing of having spiritual children, or simply by radiating goodness and generosity. The beauty of the marital embrace is meant to benefit not only the spouses themselves but all those related to them. This spiritual superabundance definitely belongs to the meaning of marriage. We dare say that a marital embrace between two saintly spouses that for reasons not under their control cannot possibly lead to procreation justifies our claim that God is glorified more by the embrace of these two than by the embrace between two practicing Catholics whose love is less deep, in whom tenderness has not yet totally eliminated concupiscence, who are less conscious of God's presence as witness of their union. ("The Meaning and Purpose of Marriage")

The healing of wounds is, in a certain sense, the physical "consummation" of the "marital" relationship between Samaritan and Jew. Just as conception "proves" that a sexual relationship has taken place between husband and wife, so Christ asks the lawyer who "proved" neighbor to the Jew (Luke 10:36). The Samaritan "proves" his neighbor-relationship with the Jew by the physical "consummation" in the act of healing his wounds. But the healing of wounds does not define the meaning of their relationship, anymore than procreation defines the meaning of marriage. Von Hildebrand argues that procreation is an essential "end" of marriage, but that procreation is also distinguished from the "meaning" of marriage, for if procreation were the meaning of marriage, then the spouses would be using each other as means to an end, rather than loving each other as ends in themselves. This distinction between meaning and end, I think, is at the heart of the idea of "marital fidelity" as applied to the Samaritan vocation. The healing of wounds is an essential aspect, an end, a task, but it is not the meaning of the relationship between Samaritan and Jew. Von Hildebrand also, however, rejects contraception precisely because it blocks the physical union of the spouses, and it reduces each of them to a "means" toward the other's pleasure. The Samaritan without the physical healing of wounds is like a contraceptive relationship: the Samaritan ceases to be an extension of the Incarnation of Christ, and the relationship between Samaritan and Jew cannot lead to grace and life.

Hospitals (one of Illich's targets of criticism) have the healing of wounds as both their meaning and end. Does anyone want to die in a hospital? I have an uncle in his 50s who was stricken with polio as an infant, and has been mentally like an infant ever since. He spends all day in a crib, in a room in my grandmother's house. He does nothing but smile. The only way to communicate with him is to caress his skin, to hold his hand, etc. He often claps in glee at this. Maybe he would receive better "care" if he were institutionalized. But what my family does for him is not about "care." It is much more personal than "care"; he is a member of the family. My father once remarked to me that he thinks it is not a person inside his brother, but an Angel. This is the Samaritan vocation: "Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares" (Hebrews 13:2). Note that the "hospitality" here is not about earthly matters, but about opening yourself up to the possibility of entertaining Angels. Physical care is essential to the Samaritan vocation; physical care is, in a certain sense, the temporal "end" of the Samaritan vocation. But the "meaning" of the Samaritan vocation is to be found in the Angels (the word "Angel" literally means "messenger") whom we entertain, the "messengers" who announce the presence of Christ to the Samaritan in the guise of "the Other," and to "the Other" in the guise of the Samaritan.

My thoughts on this blog will explore the borderlands between the eschatological Samaritan vocation and the natural hospitality/care of this world. I will look at the Good Samaritan from different perspectives, not just theological (and obviously not all of my thoughts will be intended as a commentary on the parable itself, which has its own objective context in Scripture). But it was useful for me in these first two posts to define how I see the broad theological context of the parable.

Celebrating Faith For No Purpose At All

Edward Gannon's essay "Eschaton and Existence: A Phenomenological View" raises some interesting questions for me about the purpose of the Samaritan vocation in the parable.

Gannon makes a good point about the solidarity that the Gospel makes possible:

Early Christianity won the day in Rome because it told the slave woman, daughter of a slave, watching her slave child dying in vain, as it had been born in vain: "Jesus, the Son of God, died in agony on Golgotha so that you should not have to face this agony of yours alone." (Gannon 189)

The question that Christ asks the lawyer in the parable is not about the Samaritan's deeds. Rather, he asks about the relationship between the Samaritan and the Jew. Christ asks who "proved neighbor to the man who fell among the robbers?" (Luke 10:36). Unlike other roles, "neighbor" is a shared role. In the role of "mother," for example, even though it is a relational role that implies children in a complementary role, only the mother fills the role of "mother." With the role of "neighbor," however, both neighbors fill the same role toward one another. While a relationship such as that between "mother" and "child" implies unique functions and obligations for each role, there are no distinct functions and obligations between Samaritan and Jew, because both persons are filling the same role.

If there are no unique functions and obligations between Samaritan and Jew, then what becomes of Gannon's suggestion that "man is to be made man by men" and that "my goal should be the full freedom of my fellow man to enrich his own life, for his sake, not God's" (Gannon 189)? What I mean to question here is whether there is, in fact, a "goal" in the Samaritan vocation, or whether, as Ivan Illich suggests in his book "Celebration of Awareness," Christians celebrate their faith "for no purpose at all."

Is the Samaritan attempting to humanize the Jew? This, I think, would turn Samaritan-Jew into a functional relationship, like that between mother and child. Rather, it seems to me that the relationship between Samaritan and Jew is transcendently non-functional. It has no purpose. Christ is Emmanuel, literally "God-with-us." The relationship between Samaritan and Jew is a being-with. In the Gannon excerpt above, he correctly notes that Christ's suffering means that the slave does not have to suffer alone; but I would also emphasize that Christ does not free the slave from slavery. Christ is "God-with-us." The Samaritan vocation is not about healing wounds, but about being-with. And neither, I think, is the Samaritan vocation about humanizing "the Other." There is an ancient expression that God became man so that man might become God. Christ did not come to humanize us, as Gannon suggests (and I am not completely dismissing Gannon's point). Rather, Christ came to divinize us. If the Samaritan is seen as representing Christ, then that sheds even more light on the Samaritan vocation: the vocation is not about humanizing "the Other," but rather it is about divinizing him.

If the Samaritan vocation is not at all functional but rather purely relational (that is, if it is not about healing wounds but about divinizing man), then is the Samaritan vocation ethically obligatory in the sense that we usually think about a "Good Samaritan"? Gannon makes interesting reference to the Gospel story of the Rich Young Man, which may shed some light on this question:

The Eastern Church for a time revered the rich young man of the Gospels as a saint. He had observed the commandments from his youth. Christ wanted him as an Apostle, and was hurt when he declined. His life from then on did miss something. But he somehow made the hagiography. The last lines about him in Scripture are that "Christ loved him." (Gannon 192)

Christ calls the Rich Young Man to sell everything and follow him; this is a total calling. Christ does not command the Rich Young Man so much as invite him; yet Christ does command the lawyer in the Good Samaritan parable, telling the lawyer to "go and do likewise [as the Samaritan]" (Luke 10:37). Why does Christ command the lawyer but not the Rich Young Man?

It seems to me that the Samaritan heals wounds, not to humanize "the Other," but because that is what he can do at that moment. Paul Goodman has some useful thoughts on the importance of the present moment:

Paradise is the world practicable. I do not mean happy, nor even practical so that I can make it work, but simply that I can work at it, without being frustrated beforehand. A task to wake up toward. If I work at something, I am happy enough while I am doing it—I don't think about whether or not I am happy. And if I have worked at it, if I have tried, I sleep well even if I have failed. ("Beyond My Horizons—Words")

If the Samaritan's vocation has a purpose, a goal, then I can't see what it is in the parable. We have no idea what becomes of the Samaritan or the Jew. We only know that the Samaritan helps the Jew, and promises to return to give payment to the innkeeper...which I find interesting, because the Samaritan doesn't drop his business and found a medical institution for robbery victims. He goes on his way to finish whatever business he was headed toward before he encountered the Jew. He does what he can at the moment, and leaves that moment in that moment. Perhaps there will be another moment when he returns, but he will enter that moment when it arises.

Goodman's advice reminds me of another incident in the Gospel:

And a scribe came up and said to him, "Teacher, I will follow you wherever you go."

And Jesus said to him, "Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests; but the Son of man has nowhere to lay his head."

Another of the disciples said to him, "Lord, let me first go and bury my father."

But Jesus said to him, "Follow me, and leave the dead to bury their own dead."

(Matthew 8:19-22)

Notice how the first man wants to give up everything, and Christ tells him just to worry about finding a place for Christ to sleep. The second man wants to do something tangible and human (bury his father, perhaps comfort his mother), and Christ basically rebukes him for being concerned with such things. Which man correlates to the Samaritan? They both do. Like the first man, the Samaritan is not called to heal wounds for some grand purpose or goal; he is merely doing what he can at that moment. Like the second man, the Samaritan is not going about the business of humanizing, but rather about the business of divinizing (contrary to Gannon's humanistic emphasis).

I think Christ commands the lawyer to do likewise as the Samaritan because the Samaritan is merely acting for the moment; he is like the man who provides a place for the Son of Man to lay his head. The healing of wounds is not the purpose or the meaning of the Samaritan vocation; it is rather the means to that vocation. Christ does not give the Rich Young Man a means, he merely says "come, follow me" (Matthew 19:21). The Samaritan's actions can be practiced by anyone, because they are concrete actions; but healing wounds does not mean that a person is fulfilling the Samaritan vocation, anymore than finding the Son of Man a place to sleep made that man a disciple. Christ commands everyone to do what the Samaritan does, I think, for much the same reason that Goodman focuses on the task of the present moment. If you can't do this basic task, then you certainly can't follow the true vocation which is not to be found in the task itself. The vocation of the Rich Young Man cannot be commanded in the same way, because his vocation does away with the "task" of the Jew's wounds, and goes right to true content of the Samaritan vocation: to encounter Christ and be divinized rather than humanized. This is a supernatural calling, not a commandment to some hands-on action.

To return to my question: is the Samaritan vocation obligatory? I believe that it is; Christ says that those who neglect the corporal works of mercy will be sent to hell:

When the Son of man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him, then he will sit on his glorious throne. Before him will be gathered all the nations, and he will separate them one from another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats, and he will place the sheep at his right hand, but the goats at the left.

Then the King will say to those at his right hand, "Come, O blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world; for I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you clothed me, I was sick and you visited me, I was in prison and you came to me." Then the righteous will answer him, "Lord, when did we see thee hungry and feed thee, or thirsty and give thee drink? And when did we see thee a stranger and welcome thee, or naked and clothe thee? And when did we see thee sick or in prison and visit thee?" And the King will answer them, "Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brethren, you did it to me."

Then he will say to those at his left hand, "Depart from me, you cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels; for I was hungry and you gave me no food, I was thirsty and you gave me no drink, I was a stranger and you did not welcome me, naked and you did not clothe me, sick and in prison and you did not visit me." Then they also will answer, "Lord, when did we see thee hungry or thirsty or a stranger or naked or sick or in prison, and did not minister to thee?" Then he will answer them, "Truly, I say to you, as you did it not to one of the least of these, you did it not to me." And they will go away into eternal punishment, but the righteous into eternal life.

(Matthew 25:31-46)

Do-gooders might soften their consciences in reading this account. But they forget Christ's words at the Sermon on the Mount:

On that day many will say to me, "Lord, Lord, did we not prophesy in your name, and cast out demons in your name, and do many mighty works in your name?" And then will I declare to them, "I never knew you; depart from me, you evildoers."

(Matthew 7:22-23)

No doubt, corporal works of mercy are essential to the Samaritan vocation. But corporal works of mercy are not the purpose of that vocation. I began by noting that the same role of "neighbor" is filled by both the Samaritan and the Jew. In Matthew 25, we see Christ identifying with "the Other," a role filled by the Jew in the Good Samaritan parable. And the Samaritan can be seen as representing Christ. Furthermore, the parable of the Good Samaritan is prompted by a question about identity: "And who is my neighbor?" (Luke 10:29). The vocation of the Samaritan is not ultimately in the corporal works of mercy, but in recognizing Christ in both the Samaritan and the Jew. The parable is not about humanizing a human person. Rather, it is about being divinized by a Divine person (i.e., by Christ), and this divinizing begins when you recognize the person of Christ, whether you are looking at him from the point of view of the Samaritan or from the point of view of the Jew. In other words, the Samaritan vocation is about being and encountering an icon into the Eschaton. The Samaritan sees Christ through the icon of "the Other," and "the Other" sees Christ through the icon of the Samaritan.

The Parable of the Good Samaritan

And behold, a lawyer stood up to put him to the test, saying, "Teacher, what shall I do to inherit eternal life?"

He said to him, "What is written in the law? How do you read?"

And he answered, "You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength, and with all your mind; and your neighbor as yourself."

And he said to him, "You have answered right; do this, and you will live."

But he, desiring to justify himself, said to Jesus, "And who is my neighbor?"

Jesus replied, "A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and he fell among robbers, who stripped him and beat him, and departed, leaving him half dead. Now by chance a priest was going down that road; and when he saw him he passed by on the other side. So likewise a Levite, when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side. But a Samaritan, as he journeyed, came to where he was; and when he saw him, he had compassion, and went to him and bound up his wounds, pouring on oil and wine; then he set him on his own beast and brought him to an inn, and took care of him. And the next day he took out two denarii and gave them to the innkeeper, saying, 'Take care of him; and whatever more you spend, I will repay you when I come back.' Which of these three, do you think, proved neighbor to the man who fell among the robbers?"

He said, "The one who showed mercy on him." And Jesus said to him, "Go and do likewise."

(Luke 10:25-37)