Thomas Merton’s No Man is an Island found me at the best possible moment in my life, when the monk’s highly reflective theology could seep into the cracks of my soul and find places where I could be better made whole. I’ve had the pleasure of enjoying many authors in my life, but Merton was the first author I found who I needed right as I was reading the text. As Merton sat in my hands for the first time, I had been slowly reconsidering the Christian way of life: whether I had it, whether I could ever hope to have it.

I had begun to worry that my tiny dorm room was full of too many possessions. I spent hour upon hour going through them, throwing out or giving away what I could and blaming myself because, ultimately, I couldn’t part with very much. The voice of Christ in the Gospel rang in my ears, sternly commanding that I leave all my wealth behind so I could find and follow Him. I had turned to Merton in my desperation, hoping that the monk could help me cut myself free from my false needs.

The chapter in Merton’s text entitled “Asceticism and Sacrifice” begins as a passionate defense of a life tied to the flesh of Christ, “above human nature itself.” However, Merton demonstrates why my obsession to give up was ultimately as false as an obsession to gain. “The saint … is sanctified not only by fasting when he should fast but also by eating when he should eat … Our self-denial,” he writes “is sterile and absurd if we practice it for the wrong reasons or, worse still, without any valid reason at all.” The real work of the aesthetic is not to hate the things of the world, Merton argues, but to find their real meaning, “to disclose the difference between the evil use of created things, which is sin, and their good use, which is virtue.” I had devised my plan in a spiritual vacuum, become so dedicated to it that I could not let in the goodness and happiness which God put in the world. From Merton, I learned quite powerfully that “[a]sceticism is utterly useless if it turns us into freaks.”

What distinguishes voluntary poverty, that which the Catechism calls the “poverty of heart” (2544) which brings us to Christ, from the poverty which enslaves man to the earth, which forces so many to beg and leaves so many hungry, in danger and alone? In the most fundamental part of our conscience, we know that a world in which three billion people live on less than two dollars a day is a world far distant from the Kingdom of Heaven and its complete goodness. How, then, can Jesus possibly tell us that the Kingdom of Heaven belongs among the poor?

Voluntary poverty is a type of living, not a state of being. It is active, not passive. It is desired, not abhorred. It is sought but never truly found. Most significantly, it finds its end not in itself but in the proper pursuit of the Kingdom.

Catholic social teaching rejects both pure capitalism and socialism as presenting false versions of the human condition and lacking a fundamental respect for the human person. The distributist economic framework is designed to keep economic actions in close proximity to humanity’s natural place in the family and community while maintaining a respect for all of God’s creation. Unlike in capitalism and socialism, distributism considers man’s nature and end as founded in God, not founded in the material. Most importantly, however, it ensures that all economic policies, not merely some, are designed with respect for the needs of the poor in mind – the virtue of mercy.

The essence of Catholic social teaching’s vision of the human community is described in the phrase “the preferential option for the poor.” As Christians, we acknowledge the inherent dignity of each human person as part of God’s creation and reflective of God’s will and design. In close correlation with that dignity is a natural human equality: the rich are no more modeled on God than the poor, nor do the poor share a greater proximity to God’s plan than the rich. Catholic social teaching asks us not to make policies for the poor because they are the poor, or because poor men and women in particular deserve support. Rather, it calls us to exhibit preference for the poor because they are human persons in need, members of the community whom we can help.

Those of us who are economically secure admit (correctly) that we will never understand what it is like to live paycheck-to-paycheck, to forgo a meal in order to feed our child, to sleep away a cold night with only the protection of cardboard or newspaper. The biggest mistake I made was assuming that in throwing away a few things I never used, I would somehow feel what poverty was like, that I would sacrifice some amount of physical or emotional wellbeing. I was born lucky enough, with a wide enough safety net, that such understanding will never happen.

What, then, is understanding if not knowing? In working to fight poverty, the US bishops wrote in 1986, we aim to increase social solidarity, to draw “together all citizens, whatever their economic status, into one community” (Economic Justice for All, 187). As reflection of the mercy which God shows to all of us who sin, we must show mercy to those in need and cultivate a true sense of communion with them. John Paul II writes that acting on this social solidarity brings us the mindset necessary to show the understanding we need. “[L]ove makes itself particularly noticed in contact with suffering, injustice and poverty … It is precisely the mode and sphere in which love manifests itself that in biblical language is called ‘mercy’” (Dives in Misericordia, II.3). Making this contact is one of the heaviest demands of our spiritual life.

How can I understand when the beggar is a source of scorn? When I walk past the man with his hand out on the street, mumble that I have no money and walk on, how do I live in contact with poverty? In that momentary glance comes a torrent of questions: Should I give him the money? Will he spend it on drugs? Is he trying to rob me? These questions are all legitimate ones, grounded in our flawed sense of the true nature of the world. At the end of the day, we may even find that a well-discerned monthly check to the food bank or a few hours of time on a Saturday make more impact then what we derisively call a “hand out.” Ultimately, however, these responses do not answer our persistent spiritual question.

On Lent, when we are asked to fast in part to join in the immense suffering of Christ, we feel even more powerless to understand. In the face of this problem, Jesus does not call us to spend our lives mourning at the foot of the cross. Instead, He calls us to a relationship with Him through which we can grow in understanding and love. “I no longer call you slaves,” Jesus tells his disciples, “I call you friends” (Jn 15:15). In the same way, we show love grounded in mercy not by lamenting the conditions of the poor but by being with the poor, by treating them with the human dignity to which they are entitled and joining them as members of the human family. When a soup kitchen’s volunteers eat the food they make, and devote significant time to greet and chat with their clients, they emulate the proper model of service to the poor. When a woman offers the smallest gestures of eye contact, a smile or simple courtesies to a homeless person or a beggar, she shares in the work of the disciples and helps mend the tear in the seamless garment which connects the human community.

To live in the spirit of social solidarity, then, is to live with the poor, to live amongst the poor, to know the poor. If I knew the beggar for who he was, I would never have to ask myself those troubling questions. If I knew the beggar as a person, the kind who deserved a home, I would know if he had one. If I knew the beggar as a person, the kind who deserved to live a life with full pockets in place of empty ones, I would know if he had enough for his daily bread. Indeed those questions in themselves would disappear. The questions which come to us in that moment, in that glance, are themselves just that: glancing, momentary, brief. They are questions which nag us when we are ignorant.

The definition of this mission is well encapsulated in Dives in Misericordia by John Paul II: through “evangelical poverty … the God who is ‘rich in mercy’ has been made still more clearly manifest” (Dives in Misericordia, VII.14). I had tripped and fallen in my early attempts to fulfill the command of poverty because my poverty had no dimension outside of itself. Ironically, perhaps paradoxically, I had lost Christ completely in my quest for Him, had gone so far down the road of poverty itself that I could no longer find or relocate the path to the Kingdom. Evangelical poverty, poverty which preaches the gospel, is a far more radical notion, one which demands something unique from us.

We can imagine how different the national debate would be if economic policy was not merely considered a mechanism for exercising self-interest, but instead a mechanism for mercy and love. Economic debates are marked by a notion of fairness which says that a taxpayer ought expect that his money is not “wasted” on classes that are thought not to deserve it. Accordingly, these classes are given names – illegal immigrant, welfare mother, freeloader – which declare that they do not enjoy membership in the same humanity as you and I. This false philosophy tries to convince us that a system which apportions wealth only to those who can easily make it is a system of justice.

Such an argument is a perfect example of how justice is often abused. As John Paul II writes, an improper understanding of justice is easily overcome by “spite, hatred and even cruelty. In such cases, the desire to annihilate the enemy, limit his freedom, or even force him into total dependence, becomes the fundamental motive for action; and this contrasts with the essence of justice, which by its nature tends to establish equality and harmony between the parties in conflict. This kind of abuse of the idea of justice and the practical distortion of it show how far human action can deviate from justice itself, even when it is being undertaken in the name of justice” (Dives in Misericordia, VI.12). As the Holy Father argues, Christians must bring to this false notion of justice an ethical dimension founded on the respect for each person’s right to belong in the human community. To establish this harmony, we must be willing to part with the false doctrine of fairness: to look with mercy, with preference, on the plight of the poor. We must be willing, as St. Ignatius prayed, “to give without counting the costs.”

What of the freeloader, then? What has he earned? Those who abuse justice will quickly ask this question. Because of the freeloader’s “reliance” on the State, he is lazy or, worse, a swindler. He has earned nothing, the answer comes back: earned nothing because he violated the rules which the winners can safely argue after the fact they followed. Surely, however, none of these winners would be as swift to ask the same question before Jesus, who tells us to find Him in caring for the “least of these” (Mt 25:45). In asking such a question before Jesus, we would have to answer it of ourselves. We find in the presence of Christ that we have earned nothing, nothing which can justify His opening the Kingdom of Heaven to us. And while I believe that Jesus will judge me on my works, I do not believe He will ask “What have you earned?” but rather know who I am. Like all human beings, I am the Father’s child, whom He loves unceasingly. In return for that love, it is hardly unreasonable to be asked as all God’s children to treat one another as brothers and sisters: not by what we’ve earned, but by who we are.

I knew before I began my struggle that a persistent giving was the goal. Even if I didn’t really follow the goal, I was determined to try, to push myself down the path towards giving unceasingly, giving as a lifestyle, giving for itself. I was sure that the first step was to give those things which I had already. Indeed, this seems an obvious step. Yet, my mistake was in attempting to give unceasingly without first being willing to take on my more pressing need: praying unceasingly.

Depending on the Gospel account, Jesus says the Kingdom of Heaven belongs either to the poor (Lk 6:20) or the poor in spirit (Mt 5:3). Our spirit seeks nourishment, regardless of whether or not we give it the proper direction. The hardest spiritual nourishment to seek is the nourishment of the Lord: it is difficult precisely because we will never fully attain it until the last day. It is far easier to find spirit in material goods. Through our material goods we can receive a constant stream of temporary satisfactions, reflect on our own glory and always be occupied in the task of earning more. Most obscenely, however, our material goods can cause us to lose sight of those around us, lose sight of the poor, lose sight of their human needs.

As I discovered, it is just as easy to be caught up in a way of being not grounded in God’s plan for our lives. It too promised the temporary satisfaction of each thing removed from my sight. It too allowed me solace in what I had done. Such a mindset caused me to act as though only my sacrifice mattered. I was, ultimately, just as dependent on material things if giving them up was my shibboleth to a more spiritual life. In evangelical poverty, however, there are no easy shibboleths: only action which is defined exclusively through prayer.

Thanks to Brother Merton, I now look at my possessions as a unique privilege and responsibility, with potentially good and bad ends. I know that I have the ability to use my property to preach the Gospel, to bring myself and others to a greater appreciation of the joys God gives the world and to consecrate my life to a vocation which seeks to bring an end to social injustice. At the same time, I must try to keep in mind that, if my property could see better use among the poor, that is where it belongs. As Jesus commands, I must truly be willing to give up everything if doing so is in accordance with His will. I am not fully ready yet. I pray some day I will be.

Evangelical poverty is not simply about giving up our possessions. Evangelical poverty is about releasing the mindset which tells us we need to possess and exchanging it for a mindset of mercy, moving from concern about our own needs and desires to concern about the common good. In evangelical poverty, we give up both our property and our idolatry of property itself and find ourself poor in spirit, yearning only for the Lord.

“Happy the poor in spirit, theirs is the kingdom of God.”

How many times in our life have we heard or seen this verse? Over and over – during Mass, or at funerals. How many times has this theme been expressed in prayer or discussion groups and we’ve thought of someone else? There are people living on the streets, friends who have lost loved ones and children who have been neglected and abused around the world. These are truly the poor in spirit, right? Not me. With so many others suffering in the world, how could I dare think of myself? I have everything I need. I have family, friends, a house, food, clothes, etc. etc. Yeah I have bad days and my life isn’t perfect, but that verse should be kept for the people who are really bad off (and I hope it comforts them too!)

In my second semester at the John Paul II Institute, my ideas of poverty have greatly been expanded. As much as material poverty is apparent in many cities or countries throughout the world, my program of studies continuously associates poverty with childhood. Many great theologians speak of the ideal ‘form’ of poverty, as that of a child. In almost every course, the meaning and beauty of this innocence resurfaces, stressing our undeniable position as children of an often abandoned and forgotten Father, God.

Intuitively, we can accept that children have many disadvantages in the spectrum of life. Depending on their age, they must rely on others (especially their parents!) for virtually everything. They don’t understand the world yet. They must constantly take orders from others on how to act and how to be. They are not physically able to take part in many things and their voices are often overlooked. To add to this, they ride a rollar coaster of emotions due to their constant wants and needs.

But we, as adults, have been there and done that. We know how the world is. We don’t have to depend on anything or anyone anymore (okay, maybe on our laptop sometimes). But we surely don’t have to depend on God, especially in America. Compared to the rest of the world we’re by no means in poverty and we’re especially not poor in spirit. We have a blast almost all the time. If and when we are down for some reason, we have enough distractions to help us forget about it.

Despite our apparent self-sufficiency we still remain children of God. Not only are we all still children of God, most of us are still children of our parents as well (despite our life changes in which we’ve moved as far away from them as we possibly could for the time being) How can this be? Do we always have to remain children? Can’t we just accept adulthood and be done with childhood forever?

This is one of those things that can’t be changed – its the way things are. We will always have come from God (like we will always have come from parents). Since we are not God, we will always be limited in how much control really we have, how much we really do know, and what we really can do. We must recognize the many poverties existing within us come from being little people in a big, eternal world (or in other words, from being human). We all still want candy, that cool new toy, and our mommies (okay so in different forms!) Sometimes we want good things like to serve God, to be married, to have friends, or to have meaningful work.

As a Catholic, and as a newly married Catholic, I am eager to become pregnant. My husband and I knew before tying the knot that raising a family would be one of the most exciting and important tasks we would be able to do together. The day after the wedding, I was mentally ready for it to happen. After seven months, it has not. Is not being pregnant a poverty? “But you’ve only been married 7 months!” people laughingly tell me. “Be thankful for this time together as a couple” friends with children knowingly advise. “It’ll happen in God’s time.” And they’re all right, no doubt. I am so blessed just being married, and it’s still early, and children are a pain . . . and I don’t need to worry about this.

When all the voices fade (including my own), I realize that this desire will not go away. I realize that like many couples, even many single people, I desire to share in the joy of bringing a new life into the world. Am I impatient like a child? Yes. Are my husband and I financially “grown-up?” Probably not. Yet, through faith as hope I know that God will fulfill this desire, and in an even grander way than I could ever imagine - whether I get pregnant tomorrow, in 5 years, or never. As Pope Benedict explains, “Faith is not merely a personal reaching out towards things to come that are still totally absent: it gives us something. It gives us even now something of the reality we are waiting for . . . ” (Spe Salvi)

So, maybe I’m not the only one denying that I am poor or needy in any way. Maybe I’m not the only one limiting the word “poverty” exclusively in reference to other people, a specific population, or anyone but myself. Not to say that there aren’t people much worse off than myself who have more pressing desires than say, to get pregnant. Could it be that their poverties aren’t what I’m assuming them to be? Are they looking at me and saying “poor one”?

In a way, I hope that they are. I am poor in so many ways (when I actually take time to think about what I want but don’t have). This state of being is clearly something we all share as poor, needy and unfulfilled children. The verse, “Happy the poor in spirit, theirs is the kingdom of God” really can include us all, as we know it should. In this way, we can appreciate the blessedness of having a Father in heaven who loves and cares for us, and offers us among the many worldly desires, the ultimate hope - that of eternal life.