Tag: politics

One body

During the prayer for peace at today’s Mass, which I was attending whilst on holiday in a very Tory-voting part of the country, I found myself pondering the fact that I’d probably be actively campaigning against much that my fellow congregants hold dear in the run-up to June’s election. Isn’t there some kind of tension here? We pray for, express (at the sign of peace), and are given as sacramental gift (in the eucharist) the unity amongst us and yet struggle against each other when Mass is over. I’ve written about this before: I think there is a tension, but I think it is a tension that goes with living in the in between times – between the inauguration of God’s Kingdom in Jesus Christ and its fulfilment at the end of all things.

There is a type of politics, sadly current in Britain and affirmed frighteningly by today’s French presidential election result, which does seem to me as incompatible with Christian peace and unity in the here and now, however. This is opposition to migrants. When I receive the eucharist alongside people of different political allegiances, I take myself to be part of an ongoing human project with them, to be living alongside them, and to be part of a local church with them, in communion with our bishop, and with him with Rome and the church internationally. When an adherent of anti-migrant politics receives the eucharist alongside a migrant they simply cannot take this attitude consistently with their beliefs, which set them in opposition to what that sacrament both signifies and effects.

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Catholic churches in Britain are amongst the most diverse communities in the country. This is as it should be: we are a sign of the coming Kingdom, where people of all races and language worship before the Lamb. Sadly, I suspect, the very clear symbolism of our congregations doesn’t always have the impact it should on the ideas of some of their members. The question is: how do we change that?

The civic religion of Donald Trump

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Today’s gospel reading, Matthew’s version of the Beatitudes might well provide us with an example of a religious text evolving for use in a particular context. Differing significantly from Luke’s version, Matthew may well have crafted the text from a shared source to address his audience and fit into his narrative.

Whatever the truth of the text’s pre-history, its interpretation – like that of any biblical text – is a matter of ongoing reception, conditioned by context. (The Catholic claim is, of course, that this process is guided by the Spirit and at moments manifest authoritatively in the teaching of the Church). A startling case was provided by the use of the text at Donald Trump’s inauguration last week.

It is fair to say that the early days of the Trump presidency have not seemed like the embodiment of the spirit of the Beatitudes. Turning away refugees, advocating torture, barring citizens of Muslim-majority countries from entering the US – if one wanted to point to actions that show how the merciful are blessed this is not where one would look. Yet the incongruity has passed largely without comment. Such is civic religion in the United States that, for all the effusive piety of much of that country’s politics, saccharine-tinged hypocrisy dealt with a leather-bound bible and a broad smile is accepted as the norm from political leaders.

This state of affairs, where God and his word have become rhetorical playthings, ever present in the discourse of public life but used to shore up the power of politicians is, amongst other things, the sign of a Christianity that is too familiar with God. If God is my buddy, if I can invoke him before a business meeting or a football game as though he were some holy performance supplement, if cartoons of Jesus in such situations appeal non-ironically, then I am in the grip of idolatry. I will be all too familiar with the divine, all too sure that I know what God wants (this tending to coincide with what I want). The awe and splendour of the burning bash and Sinai retreats, we are left with just another campaign tool.

 

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America could do a lot worse than a spot of atheism in its civic life. The god of inaugurations is one of those gods from whom we have been set free by the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, who demands that we have no god by him. Indeed, Mennonite theologian Stanley Hauerwas has suggested that the real name of the god of Trumpism is ‘America’. There is a word of caution to be spoken here for those in Europe who mourn the absence of religious talk from most of our politics. Speaking of God is not the same thing as speaking faithfully of God. We are not to take the Lord’s Name in vain.

Luke in an age of Trump

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The gospel at this evening’s mass struck me as timely. It’s an interesting passage from Luke’s gospel for various somewhat geeky reasons. It is appealed to by those who want to date the gospel later than 70AD, describing as it does in some detail what happened to Jerusalem in that year. It also sits comfortably with the idea that Luke was written for a community grappling with the delay of the eschaton. Had they been forgotten? Had God failed to honour his promises? Was their hope in Jesus misplaced?

Throughout Luke the theme of not losing heart recurs; the reader is encouraged to keep on hoping. In this passage, the very collapse of the world as the gospel’s cast knew it is interpreted as a sign of the coming Day. “Now when these things begin to take place, stand up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near.”

The world at the moment is, it is fair to say, in a bit of a mess. The growth in racism and the politics of the radical right on a global scale makes contemporary life a frightening affair. Texts like today’s gospel are appealed to by the religious right who recently helped elect Donald Trump to underwrite a practical nihilism – who cares if the environment disintegrates? That, after all, might just hasten the rapture. Perhaps the “days of vengeance” are to be seen in contemporary Middle Eastern politics. Even if we reject the religious right’s reading as the nonsense it palpably is, isn’t there a danger of the gospel, and other similar passages in Luke, of us being encouraged to turn our backs on the world, hoping for pie in the sky when we die?

Well, there certainly is that danger, but succumbing to it is not compulsory. The thing about fear of the kind that we feel at today’s geopolitics is that it can be paralysing. Things are so bad, it is tempting to conclude, that we may as well just give up. The realisation that history is directed towards an end other than destruction, namely the Kingdom of God, which what Luke wants to instil in his readers, far from dragging us away from the world can give us the courage to remain engaged with it. We should not lose heart, because, after all, Donald Trump does not have the last word.

 

 

The poison of Islamophobia

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It is not a good time to be a Muslim in the Western world. Since 2001, the ‘war on terror’ has provided a narrative in terms of which anti-Muslim hatred can be justified. The racism and scapegoating that was one response to the 2008 financial crisis has made things worse, and the tragic situation of Syrian refugees has provided another opportunity for the intensification of hatred. Across Europe fascist movements have tapped in to this current. Within Britain these have taken the form of groups like the English Defence League and Britain First, along with – more recently – the German import Pegida.

Disturbingly, some Catholics are not innocent here. Talk of ‘Christian Europe’ and vague noise about ‘European culture’ is quite commonly thrown around in Catholic circles on the European continent. Apart from being a stunningly ignorant description of a religious tradition that, even in its Latin form, draws heavily on the African Augustine and the Islamic transmission of Aristotle to Aquinas, this is singularly unhelpful in a context where Europe is increasingly defined against an Islamic ‘other’, which its ruling authorities would seemingly prefer to see dead on its beaches than living in its cities. Altogether more pernicious, however, is Catholic flirtation with explicit Islamophobia. A number of examples spring to mind: I’ve seen inacurrate and offensive ‘translations’ of historic texts in Catholic bookshops which talk of ‘Moslems’ or ‘Mohammedans’. Following a trend from the more decerebate end of evangelical Protestantism, some have wondered whether Allah is the same as God – a question that is silly in the sense of being nonsense, rather than that of being a daft question*. Worse still one Catholic blogger – to whom I refuse to link, but who has a significant following – has more than once expressed support for Pegida.

I suppose I’m writing about this to draw it to peoples’ attention to the phenomenon. It’s imperative that we check it, for human, let alone Catholic, reasons.

It’s worth thinking about what’s going on here theologically. One very obvious point to make is that the Church is very clear what it thinks about Islam. Thus Lumen Gentium:

But the plan of salvation also includes those who acknowledge the Creator. In the first place amongst these there are the Muslims, who, professing to hold the faith of Abraham, along with us adore the one and merciful God, who on the last day will judge mankind.

Given that the Catholic Islamophobes are generally drawn from the ranks of the ill-described ‘traditionalists’ who will take as virtually new revelation anything a Pope once said about sex, their ability to sit lightly to an ecumenical council on this matter is striking.

More fundamentally, though, I see the issue as this: the whole unfolding story of the books of the Old Testament is the realisation by the people of Israel that there are no gods. The one who called them from slavery to freedom, and with whom they exist in covenant relationship, is not one god amongst many – one more local deity in whose name the pillage of rival cults and the suppression of internal dissent can be justified – but God the creator, a reality more universal, whose face we cannot behold and of whom there is no image, other than ourselves, created in God’s image. The mission of Israel is, then, universal – to be a sign of God to God’s creation. Now, the people forget this frequently: hence all those prophets. But this is the thrust of the story. And it is one the Church has inherited. Hence, properly understood, the Church also has a universal mission – to be a sign and instrument, a sacrament, of something more general and inclusive than its visible remit.

Catholic participation in the US ‘culture wars’, which I see as being at the root of the Islamophobic rot, at least in the English-speaking world was a kind of backwards step in respect of this narrative. The idea of ‘Catholic culture’, as something to be jealously guarded against a frightening modern world grew (there was more than a hint of albigensianism here as well). We had our god, who must be defended at all costs, and whose cult furthered in hostile territory. This is nothing whatsoever to do with the opposition John’s gospel describes between the Word and (what John calls) ‘the world’, nor with the kind of Catholic culture that exists in Britain, born out of a history of oppression (although, in the light of these trends, could be in danger of being appropriated for ‘culture’ of the damaging kind). The reactionary kind of ‘Catholic’ culture is born out of fear, and the message of the gospel is that fear is destroyed by love: “do not be afraid”. We do not need to defend our god, because there are no gods: there is just God who is love, and whose love is all-encompassing, more enveloping than our schemes, our loyalties, and our prejudices.

There are no gods, as our Muslim sisters and brothers would of course agree. They need our support at the moment. We should give it to them.

*Because, we could reasonably ask: the same what? Superman is the same person as Clark Kent. Tiddles is the same cat as the cat that is sitting on the mat. God is the same what as Allah? The error here is to suppose that we use the word ‘God’, or Muslims or Arabic-speaking Christians, use the word ‘Allah’ to pick out a thing of some particular kind (a god perhaps?) But whatever the word picks out (which we cannot know), it cannot be that. The question is, uncharitably, read as idolatrous in supposition, charitably read as a case of what Wittgenstein called ‘language going on holiday’. Of course, Christians, having already engaged in our God-talk, through the doctrine of creation, say that the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit are God. But by this we do not mean that they are three of a kind. There are not three Gods. And there are no gods.

The turmoil before the Kingdom

I’ve not written anything for this blog for ages. This is because of the political situation in the UK. As a Labour Party activist, firmly on the socialist left on that party, things are very hectic – the current internal strife is well known, and the surge in racism after horrendous immigration-focused referendum campaigns demandds a response.

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The kind of politics I’m engaged in at the moment involves conflict (in fact, I think this is definitive of politics as such, but that’s an argument for another occasion). I find myself organising against, protesting against, attacking, and proposing motions of no confidence in Party figures. That opposing organised racism similarly requires a certain political aggression is, I suspect, less controversial. Yet notes of disquiet might be sounded about the role of a Christian in all of this. Aren’t we supposed to be beyond all of that? To turn the other cheek, to love our enemy?

I do feel a tension here. And I think it’s a tension that ought to be felt by any Christian who is seriously engaged in trying to transform the world (as every Christian, and for that matter every human being, should be). What follows is a brief apologia for how I see political action. It is not original. My take draws heavily on Herbert McCabe’s ‘The class struggle and Christian Love’ (published in God Matters), and I’ve also learned a lot from things Terry Eagleton has written.

There is some ground clearing that can be done fairly swiftly here. Love is not the same thing as being nice: an elision common in English Christianity – Catholics are mercifully a bit less prone to it than some others, but by no means immune. And a commitment to peace, which for Christians is the eschatological gift of God, is not the same thing as having a perpetually wet, pacific, disposition. Untold damage has been done, holding back oppressed peoples’ capacity to demand better lives, by the preaching of the opposite views – in the scriptural words ‘crying peace where there is no peace’ – often by people whose eagerness to call up militaries and governments to live peaceably is less obvious.

Resolute opposition to wrong is something that is characteristic of those lives that scripture and tradition hold up as exemplars for Christians. The same gospel that contains the Sermon on the Mount also has Jesus call the scribes and Pharisees a ‘brood of vipers’. It is just as well that conflict seems to be part of lives lived well, since it is unavoidable. There has never been a human society which has not contained it, and there will not be until that divinely human society known as the Kingdom is fully established as a reality (which establishment, I should be clear, I believe to be indispensably a matter of divine grace; I do not think socialism is the Kingdom, under socialism we would still fall out, misunderstand one another, grow distant, and die). Our present form of society, capitalism, is premised systematic conflicts of interest: between firms, between bosses and workers, and between workers themselves, competing for work. It also gives rise to conflicts between nation-states in the grotesque form of war.

This is a very good reason to oppose capitalism. Conflict may, to some extent, be unavoidable. But systematic conflict as the very basis for a society is something else. It is a serious barrier to those skills for human flourishing that tradition has called virtues. Conversely, it tends to make us self-interested and competitive, which the same tradition – against the fashionable talk of entrepreneurship – has regarded as indicative of vice. I don’t believe any of this, I should say, because I am a Catholic – to paraphrase something McCabe wrote elsewhere, I don’t think people should be socialists because I am a Catholic, but because I am a socialist. I have a certain understanding of how society works, based on observation, study, and thought. This understanding true just in case society does in fact work in that way. I could be wrong. But if I am not wrong, then I think anyone committed, as Catholics are, to human flourishing ought to seek to do away with our present form of society. And that will involve conflict, albeit conflict aimed at ending a particular, widespread, form of systematic conflict.

And yet, I go to Mass as part of a Church which contains oppressor and oppressed, bourgeois and worker. I receive Holy Communion, the gift of the life of the coming peaceable Kingdom, as part of this Church and therefore both express and cement my fellowship with its members. This is important. Conflict is not the final reality, the unity of the human race in Christ is – ‘I look forward to the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come’. The communion of the Church is a sign of this, and it provisionalises all our struggles and all our plans at the present time. In so doing, it doesn’t devalue them, or give us reason to abandon them in favour of ‘pie in the sky when you die’. Yet it makes them part of a bigger, more universal narrative. And that, somehow, should affect how we view those with whom we, rightly, fight. It’s difficult to say how, exactly, or at least, I find it difficult. It certainly doesn’t motivate a retreat back into the Home Counties gospel of niceness. But at the very least it should give us a sense that bitterness or inflexibility should not be part of our politics, and that – somehow – every human being’s interests need to be ours. Having such a sense will make us better, not worse, agents of change.

The feeling of tension in all of this is, though, unavoidable. Not least because it is a tension that signifies the ‘now and not yet’ reality of the Kingdom. It is, in other words, the tension of the gospel.

Mercy and its pitfalls

Today is Divine Mercy Sunday in the Year of Mercy. It seems as good an occasion as any on which to write about mercy.

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I must say that I’ve always been wary of the Divine Mercy ‘thing’. I’m uncomfortable with any kind of emphasis on special ‘revelations’ to individuals, which strike me as being in danger of detracting from God’s final Word, spoken in the life, death, and resurrection of Christ, and present in the Church, its celebration of the sacraments, and its proclamation of scripture. Then my inner liturgy geek – which, if we’re honest, is quite often also an outer liturgy geek – dislikes the Divine Mercy Novena cutting in to the Easter Octave. And I worry about the, bad, retributional, theology of atonement that seems to be present in a lot of presentations of the Divine Mercy Novena: God has a kind of split personality, his Mercy is at war with his Justice, but if we plead with him enough, Mercy will win out and he’ll not throw us into Hell. (This isn’t just a matter of abstract theology: if we believe that God is best thought of as a temperamental but bribable judge, it will affect our prayer and our action).

I may be wrong about some, or all of this, and I don’t doubt that part of of what’s going on is the devotion not being to my personal taste. In any case, the Church does not (and cannot) require that any of us accept the revelation to Faustina, or to anyone else who has lived since the last apostle died. What I do think, however, is that we certainly need to hear a lot more about mercy,  and that the Year of Mercy is timely.

The reason for this is that we live in a very unmerciful age (the spirit of this age inevitably infects the Church, whose members live in the world, and so the cynicism with which the year has been greeted in some supposedly ‘traditional’ quarters is entirely unsurprising).  This isn’t simply a way of articulating the complaint that people don’t care very much about each other, although that is far too often true, and one aspect of what I’m talking about. What is more insidious is the moralism of the modern world. Far from being the amoral free-for-all at once feared and fantasised about by a certain kind of politician and a certain kind of revivalist preacher alike, it is in fact thoroughly awash with a morality of a particularly damaging sort (and one documented by some of the more perceptive modern ethicists). This morality is founded on prohibition, functions by guilt and exclusion, and reassures a majority of their worth only at the cost of scapegoating a minority, who (we can smugly tell ourselves) deserve it. What does not enter into the picture at any point is human fulfilment, an omission that would have startled genuinely traditional thinkers about the ethical, such as Aristotle and St Thomas.

We see this moralism, of course, in the tabloid press, in moral panics, and political appeals for ‘values’, ‘standards’, and whatever else. It is not the preserve of cultural or political conservatives, though. The contemporary left, a current for which I have the loving disdain only possible for family members, is shot through with it. It is one of the most important gains of recent decades, for example, that we have taken proper account of issues around race, gender, and sexuality. It is both unfortunate and counter-productive that the way in which this is increasingly manifest is a culture of ‘calling out’ individuals: a phenomenon whose actual function is to make those on the right side of the ‘calling out’ feel good about themselves, rather to undo injustice, a cause it actively damages by allowing people who ought to be reassessing their attitudes avoid reflection by wallowing in a sense of victimhood. Here as elsewhere, a lack of mercy is injurious to justice.

What is mercy anyway? Following Luke’s gospel, the Pope has taken ‘merciful like the Father’ as the motto for the Year of Mercy. Whatever we are supposed to be being this year, then, it is ‘like’ what we say of God when we say that he is merciful. Caution is needed here, because whenever we say that any virtue of our own is ‘like’ God we need to add an account of the ways in which our creaturely virtues are unlike the perfect being of God, who is his own fulfilment (the sole exception here being the supernatural virtue of love, which just is the divine life communicated to us).

More of that in a moment. God’s mercy, says St Thomas, consists in his endeavouring ‘to dispel the misery of [an] other as if it were his; and this is the effect of mercy’. This neatly brings together two aspects of what we call ‘God’s mercy’ which might, from a human point of view, not seem to obviously belong together. God forgives sin: appropriately, today’s gospel is the passage from John where the Risen Christ breathes the Holy Spirit on the Apostles for the forgiveness of sins. God also cares for us in a more general way: wanting us to be fulfilled, to heal our ills, and to co-operate with his loving plan for us. There is a danger of tying these two together under the theme of ‘mercy’ in a way that makes individual suffering a kind of punishment for individual sin (a view that John has earlier rejected). Once we realise, with the Catholic tradition, that sin is an absence of human flourishing, and therefore a form of misery, the thomist understanding nicely captures the dual aspects of mercy without giving in to this temptation.

Thomas considers the objection that God cannot be merciful since mercy is a relaxation of justice, and God cannot go against his own justice. Against this, he says that God in acting mercifully does not go against his justice, but beyond it. He not only gives us what we deserve (as justice demands) but gives us gifts we do not (and could not) deserve, out of sheer love. Indeed, for God, who is perfectly simple, justice and mercy are one. It is of God’s very nature to go beyond himself in love. Not because God is compelled to do so, either by anything outside, or by anything internal – like an emotion. God does not have emotions; indeed St Thomas stresses that God’s mercy, unlike ours, is not a matter of being ‘sorrowful at heart’. Against the kind of soppy theology that insists on attributing feelings to God – a faddish movement which, ironically, undermines God’s identification with genuinely human feelings in the Incarnation – God doesn’t show mercy because it just feels too bad to live with our hardship, but out of the sheer gratuitous love that is his very being.

Now, we are not God (we need reminding of this from time to time). Empathy is our characteristic route to mercy. That is no bad thing, but it comes with dangers, in particular that of mercy collapsing into sentimentality. More treacherous, however, is the fact that justice and mercy are not one in us. We are, by virtue our human nature, unable to live in a fully human way without living justly, and we can come to realise this by purely rational reflection upon our life together. We are, moreover, by the divine nature in which we participate by baptism, unable to live in a way that reflects our new creation without living mercifully. Yet no more than nature and grace are the same thing are justice and mercy, for us, the same thing. There is a temptation, from a Christian perspective, of running justice and mercy together, of speaking of what is properly a matter of justice as a matter of mercy

A bit of this has happened in the response to the Pope’s call for a Year of Mercy. I’ve noticed this particularly in church responses to the sufferings of refugees. In rightly demanding that governments provide asylum and housing for refugees, Catholics have (perhaps naturally, given that mercy is ‘in the air’) used the language of mercy. Understandable though this is, it is a mistake. Providing for peoples’ basic needs is not an imperative of mercy, but of justice: it is providing what is owing to them in virtue of the basic fact of their humanity. The danger of talking about the refugees in terms of mercy, other than it somehow sounding patronising and condescending, is that once we do that as Christians, we inevitably talk in theological terms – mercy is what God shows us in the history narrated in the Bible. We thereby rule out the possibility of a natural, purely human, conversation about the refugees with all people of good will. This is urgently needed.

We are called to be both merciful and just. In so doing we will show ourselves to be children of the Father, sharing by adoption in the life of the one who is the first child of the Father. He is the model for living out mercy and justice, and if nothing else it is appropriate that we celebrate his mercy on the day when we recall his Risen Body bearing the wounds inflicted when, out of mercy, he allowed himself to fall victim to our twisted ideas of justice.

 

Almsgiving

I spent yesterday at the Las Casas Institute conference A Poor Church for the PoorIt was an excellent, thought-provoking event. Hopefully recordings of the talks will be available at some point. Time at the event was divided between plenary sessions and a variety of afternoon session based around group discussion of a topic. I went to a group on Catholic Social Teaching. To make the issue more concrete, we were looking at the question “Food Banks: Charity or Injustice?” Well, I don’t think food banks are an injustice, but I certainly think that they are a sign of injustice. And the question might arise whether in going along with them, we are tacitly helping to perpetuate that injustice.

“Justice, not charity” is a slogan I’ve heard more than once. In recent years, under the auspices of the Big Society, collective provision of services on the basis of needs has been cut back in favour of uneven, local, and voluntary alternatives. This might well play into the suggestion that there is a tension between efforts for social change and charity, in the everyday English sense of the word ‘charity’. This is no bad thing, since there clearly a tension between efforts for social change and immediate work to alleviate suffering, at least to the extent that all of us have only a finite amount of time and energy. If I spend my spare time campaigning against cuts to a local hospital, I can’t also spend that time laying on a meal for the homeless. But now there’s an apparent problem: what we do during Lent under the auspices of ‘almsgiving’ falls broadly under the heading of charity. Is our almsgiving incompatible with fighting for a better world?

McCabe’s wonderful catechism tells us that whilst it is good to alleviate suffering, it is better to do away with suffering. This is clearly right; the virtue of caritas (‘charity’ in an older, theological, sense) involves love of our fellow human beings for the sake of God. When I love someone, I will their good. And it is not good for someone to be kept radicallydependent on my gifts when they could be provided with their needs in a more secure and equal fashion. It follows that charity demands that I ensure my neighbours can flourish in a fashion that is not radically dependent. This, of course, is not the same thing as complete independence, something that is humanly impossible, capitalist ideologues notwithstanding). Anyone who thinks that this will not involve radical social change might find their outlook challenged were they to leave their house from time to time. As Terry Eagleton once put the point, ‘The most blatantly naïve form of idealism is not socialism, but the belief that, given enough time, capitalism will feed the world. Just how long do you let such a view run before judging it discredited?’

Yet there’s something troubling about the enthusiastic activist. I do not mean the, undoubtedly disturbing, phenomenon of people enjoying activism, failing to realise that social movements exist, as does the Church from a longer-term perspective, only for the sake of a day when they are no longer necessary. Instead, a few decades of engaging in left-wing activism – an engagement which is ongoing – leave me fearful of the monomaniacal political animal, for whom the cause is everything. The human beings, whose fulfilment is the ultimate point of all the activity, vanish from view as the urgency of the latest campaign or event takes centre stage. The end justifies the mean, and in the meanwhile there is no time for sentiment. What is missing here is a sense of something Catholic Social Teaching has insisted upon, the dignity of the human person. This is similarly absent in the attitude towards political opponents. Do not confuse matters here; conflict, struggle, is a necessary part of political engagement in an unjust world. The challenge is to still see the humanity, even whilst fighting.

It’s here that I think the discipline of almsgiving is helpful. In giving, we acknowledge the here-and-now humanity of those in need. Giving, I think, means more than giving money in a general way to an organisation (not that there’s anything wrong with that). It really ought to be a giving of self. I think it’s better to give food, money, or whatever to someone face to face, and to give ourselves in friendship, conversation, and so on. Unless we have these kind of things in our life there’s a real danger of becoming hardened. I struggle with them, and find Lent a helpful annual reminder.

Justice or charity? I think the two are complementary. Activism without giving becomes inhuman. Giving without activism becomes a cover for injustice. Although I don’t agree with the Catholic Worker movement on everything (in particular, pacifism), I like what this guy says about resistance and works of mercy: