AUGUST 22, 2007
Acts of Charity
WHEN A PRIEST IS SENT to exercise his ministry in an economically depressed area, his first duty is to alleviate the poverty of his flock through acts of charity. Those acts will earn the gratitude of his beneficiaries, and, in due course, open the gates of heaven for him. He should remember, however, that poverty will not (alas!) be eradicated by the donations that his conscience, his vocation, and the directives of his superiors oblige him to make. Although charity may effectively address a temporary crisis or a specific case of need, it is not a long-term solution. Its provisional nature means that it has to be renewed over time, in the form of a continuous flow of material goods, for which a source must be found. The clergy, backed up by an institution that has, over the course of its millenary history, accumulated ample resources, is more than capable of meeting the demands of charity. But it should also be kept in mind that the minister of divine consolation has to live as well, with the dignity appropriate to his office, and the comforts that his upbringing and habits have rendered indispensable. These arrangements cost money, money that could, and really should, be used for charity. There has to be a balance, and common sense, combined with the priest’s good judgment and sense of propriety, will find that balance and maintain it. And yet it remains the case that the less a priest spends on himself and his relatives, the greater the means at his disposal for helping the needy, and the closer he will be to obtaining the corresponding heavenly reward. And this, on reflection, may prompt a suspicion: isn’t the exercise of charity shadowed by self-interest, pride, and vanity? Aren’t the poor being used as stepping-stones to sainthood? The suspicion is justified, and easy to confirm, but dangerously corrosive like all doubts, and finally paralyzing, because the alternative would be an egotistical indifference to the suffering of others. Here again, prudence, tempered in this case with trust in divine providence, will determine the right course of action.
The aforementioned problems — how to balance personal expenses against charity, and how to avoid the vanity of the self-admiring benefactor — can be avoided by following the example set out below.
The priest begins by recognizing that he is a visitor passing through a world in which poverty and need are permanent fixtures. He will be replaced by another priest, who will be faced with the same dilemmas. And he realizes that a good way to practice charity is to ensure that it will not be discontinued in the future. This is not only a precaution but an act of humility as well, if the person acting charitably in the present deliberately gives up piety points in favor of his successor. In other words, and to be more specific, it’s a matter of taking the money that might have been given to the poor today and investing it in amenities that will be enjoyed by the next priest assigned to the parish, so that he will be able to use his whole budget to protect the needy against hunger and cold.
Motivated by this reasoning, which might seem rather unusual, but has a solid logical base, the priest arranges for a house to be built as soon as he arrives to take up his new position. The existing house, which is his to live in, is old, small, uncomfortable, and dark. The roof leaks, the floors are bare gray cement, and there are no shutters on the little windows. It’s surrounded by a patio full of weeds, a ruined chicken coop, and swampy scrubland. For him, it would be fine. He doesn’t need luxuries, not even modest ones. His vow of poverty implicitly or explicitly enjoins him to share life’s hardships with the least fortunate of his fellow men. And the money at his disposal would make a difference to many of those who live nearby: doing his initial rounds, getting to know the flock that has fallen to his care, he can see for himself the terrible poverty afflicting those helpless families, victims of unemployment, ignorance, and distance from major cities. It would be easy for him to play the role of benefactor, beginning, for example, with the most desperate situation (although it would be hard to choose among so many pitiful cases) and providing a remedy that would seem nothing short of miraculous. So acute is the deprivation that what he and his relatives would consider a trifle — literally: the price of a dessert — might keep those poor people in food for weeks. Then he could move on to other families, and others, his action spreading like a drop of oil, finally earning the love and respect of everyone in the area. . But he would leave a minefield for his successor, who’d be tempted to look after himself rather than his neighbors, especially since he’d be able to say: My predecessor did so much for others, he was so self-abnegating; he left the priest’s house in such a ruinous state, it’s only reasonable for me to do something for myself, and for my successor. The poor, meanwhile, as well as having been spoiled by the largesse of the first priest, would find themselves without food, shelter, or medication.
So, although his heart is bleeding for the pitiful condition of his flock, he pays no heed, but hires architects and builders, buys bricks, cement, marble, and wood. And he embarks on the construction of a large modern house, equipped with all the latest conveniences, built to last, with the finest materials.
Under the innocent, admiring gazes of barefoot children, teams of builders brought in by a developer work in shifts to erect a worthy abode. The priest has discussed the plans at length with the architect. Every step of the way he thinks of his faceless, nameless successor, who may still be unborn, but is already foremost in his thoughts. The house is for that future priest, after all; it has been designed so that he will find it splendid and welcoming, so well suited to his taste that there will be nothing for him to do, besides devoting his days to the exercise of charity. But with a stranger, there’s a lot to cover, if you’re trying to cover it all; where there’s a choice between two possibilities, you have to allow for both rather than choosing one. So the priest finds himself obliged to opt for a magnificence to which he is not accustomed, and yet he forges on without fear of excess, regardless of the cost.
In matters of taste, of course. . And alterations are costly, sometimes even more costly than building. So he has to figure it out as carefully as possible at every step. But tastes don’t differ all that much, and in this case the differences are limited because he’s designing the house for a priest like him, a pious man, devoted to his pastoral duties. So all he has to do is identify with his successor, imagine a version of himself transported into the future, for whom the previous incumbent has smoothed the way by leaving him a fully prepared and furnished dwelling, so that he won’t have to worry about setting up house and will be able to focus entirely on spiritual matters and helping his neighbors. He is guided by his own taste, stretching it here and there to accommodate any unexpected idiosyncrasies. When in doubt, he opts for a Solomonic solution, but instead of dividing, he duplicates. With the bathrooms, for example: he knows that some owners prefer en suites, while others find them repugnant and hold that bathrooms should give on to a hallway. So he decides to have two main bedrooms, one with an en suite bathroom, the other with the bathroom next door, but opening off a hall. This problem solves itself as the plans are worked out and the bedrooms and bathrooms multiply: they can be disposed in a variety of ways to satisfy not only the eventual owner of the house but all his guests and visitors as well. When it comes to the kitchen, however, there’s a choice that can’t be avoided by multiplication: should it be an “open” kitchen, giving on to the everyday dining room, or a “closed” one, with a separating wall? It’s hard to know, because, really, it’s up to the woman of the house, who will be the main user of the kitchen, so all the priest can do is speculate. Some women, he thinks, might want more privacy, less interference when they’re cooking, while others would prefer not to be cut off from the other members of the family, who might be chatting or enjoying some game at the table in the dining room. A sliding door would seem to be the synthesis that overcomes this problem, but, on due reflection, there’s no need for a synthesis: all one has to do is make the kitchen large enough to include a dining area, should one be required, and have a separate dining room as well.