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by Crina Gschwandtner, Public Orthodoxy
Compassion is the highest virtue! proclaims Gregory Nazianzen in a
homily on illness and poverty. Embrace the sick without fear of
contagion—leprosy in his case—and care for the poor, for they are Christ
to you. Therefore, “Let us visit Christ, let us heal Christ, let us
feed Christ, let us clothe Christ, let us welcome Christ” in the person
of the poor and suffering.
He does point out that in caring for the lepers his listeners should
“accept the evidence of science as well as of the doctors and nurses who
look after these people,” even as he calls them to “extend a helping
hand; offer food; give old clothes; provide medicine; bandage wounds;
ask after them; counsel fortitude; offer encouragement; keep them
company.”
The current crisis presents an extraordinary situation of medical,
social, and economic need. Gregory already recognized the link between
illness and poverty that is made glaringly obvious in a different way by
the current pandemic. While the virus itself may infect rich and poor
alike, in fact the repercussions are far greater among poorer people who
cannot afford to stay away from jobs, are unable to work from home, and
live in close quarters without the option of social distancing.
Christians have engaged in acts of charity and compassion for
centuries. Many in the tradition exhort us to welcome strangers, care
for the poor, and heal the sick. We are often encouraged to increase
such efforts during Lent or other fasting periods: not just refrain from
indulgence and luxury but contribute actively to helping others.
There are even stronger voices. John Chrysostom was run out of his
congregation in Constantinople because he was too vocal about their
luxuriant lifestyle. Basil of Caesarea condemns any accumulation of
wealth: “Those who love their neighbors as themselves possess nothing
more than their neighbors.” Even the last piece of bread should be
shared with the starving.
He calls anyone a hypocrite who wears fancy jewelry or stores food in
barns, but claims to have nothing left over for others: “The bread you
are holding back is for the hungry, the clothes you keep put away are
for the naked, the shoes that are rotting away with disuse are for those
who have none.” Symeon the New Theologian even goes so far as arguing
that not feeding the poor, if one is able to do so, is tantamount to
murder.
And poverty does kill. People of color and those in poorer
neighborhoods are infected by the virus and die at a disproportionally
higher rate than members of more privileged communities. Currently, the
death rate among Latinos and blacks in New York City—especially in
Flatbush and the South Bronx—is double that of whites.
They are least likely to have reliable health insurance or to be near
good hospitals. They are far more likely to be among the millions who
have lost their jobs in the last month. Many of them no longer know how
to pay their rent or feed their families. Or they have the sort of jobs
that pay very little and expose them far more to the virus—like grocery
store clerks or cleaning staff—and cannot afford to stay home even if
they are in fragile health.
This is a structural problem of injustices that are deeply embedded
in our economic and political system. More than thirty million people
have lost employment within six weeks without a social safety net,
sustainable unemployment benefits, and health care that is not tied to
employment. Something is seriously wrong with a system in which many
children only eat regular meals when they can rely on school lunch
programs, where whole families become homeless because rents are
unaffordable, and a small handful of people hold more than half of the
wealth of the entire country.
The current crisis has pushed an already unsustainable system to the
breaking point and revealed its deep injustices even more glaringly. Our
economic structures are designed to support an enormously unjust
distribution of wealth. The level of inequity is infinitely larger than
anything imaginable before the modern age.
This situation cannot be addressed or relieved by personal acts of
charity regardless of how generous. Our theology of compassion is deeply
problematic if it extends only to individual handouts, if it never
addresses the sources of injustice, if it does not challenge the
structures that perpetuate and entrench poverty.
The call for charity in the tradition is often linked to personal
salvation. Almsgiving is counseled as an expression of piety. We are
told to store up wealth in heaven, rather than on earth: to trade in a
higher economy. Basil argues that pursuit of wealth pampers the body but
shrivels the soul. Therefore we should contribute to the health of our
soul by giving generously to others.
Treating the suffering as if they were Christ, we are assured,
increases virtues and brings us closer to God. It contributes to
personal holiness and opens the gates of heaven upon death: Gregory
imagines the poor at those gates, welcoming their former benefactors.
Some aspects of the ascetic tradition can give the impression that the
highest goal is the personal pursuit of sanctity—and that this can be
accomplished on an individual basis, between the solitary individual and
God.
Yet, these are ultimately rather self-serving reason for helping the
poor. If the sick person becomes merely a means for me to work out my
own salvation, then the other is expendable—any poor person will serve
the purpose as well as the next. This provides no rationale for
addressing the causes of poverty and suffering or challenging the
structures that reinforce and increase them.
But others are not a tool for working out our own salvation, they are
part of us and we are part of them. Our redemption is bound up with
theirs. Gregory says that “we are all one in the Lord, rich or poor,
slave or free, healthy or sick in body.” The suffering person “is part
of you, even if he is bent down with misfortune.” He reminds us that the
leper is “human just like you”—a claim to human equality that was
radical at the time.
Throughout the liturgy God is frequently invoked as philanthropos,
the lover of all people. Christ does not come simply to save us
personally, but to redeem humanity as a whole—and all of creation. When
we celebrate Pascha, we rejoice not in personal redemption, but we feast
Christ’s overcoming of the very structures of death, destruction, and
disintegration.
The current crisis presents an opportunity—indeed, an urgent call—to
rethink our legacy of compassion in broader and more fundamental terms.
To challenge our economic order built on exploitation and on enormous
inequities between rich and poor. To overhaul an unjust and expensive
health care system, so it genuinely provides high-quality, affordable,
and equal care to everyone. To rethink a political order that
disenfranchises people of color and gives no voice to the poor.
If we truly believe in compassion, we should be at the forefront of
creating such change. We must move beyond private acts of charity to
address the deep social, economic, and racial inequalities that
perpetuate poverty, homelessness, and disproportionate rates of illness
and death. There can be no “spiritual” salvation that ignores the
suffering bodies of the poor.
Crina Gschwandtner is Professor of Philosophy at Fordham University.
Public Orthodoxy seeks to promote conversation by providing a forum for diverse perspectives on contemporary issues related to Orthodox Christianity. The positions expressed in this essay are solely the author’s and do not necessarily represent the views of the editors or the Orthodox Christian Studies Center.
