“Blessed are ye poor, for yours is the kingdom of God” (Luke, 6:20); so begins the account of the Beatitudes in Luke’s gospel. The phrase itself seems to be a blatant contradiction. A kingdom is a mighty possession, a sign of prosperity and wealth. So how can it belong to those who are poor? What does it really mean to be poor according to the gospel?
The saints have often interpreted the scriptures quite literally when it comes to the beautitude of poverty. From the earliest centuries of Christianity, men and women of all conditions would give up their possessions to live in the desert in pursuit of God. St. Benedict, the father of Western Monasticism, strictly prohibits his monks from owning anything at all and instructs the abbot to inspect the monks’ beds regularly to catch any infractors. St. Francis, the son of a wealthy merchant, gave everything up to marry “sister Poverty” and was faithful to her for the rest of his life.
There is ample justification for this literal interpretation of poverty. We all know the parable of the wealthy young man (Mark, 10:21-22), who went away sorrowful when invited to discipleship by Our Lord, for “he had great possessions”. This story, along with Our Lord’s following admonishment (“It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God”) warns us that a life of wealth can be a serious obstacle in our path to holiness.
Yet not all saints lived in significant material poverty. There is the case of the canonized kings and queens, such as St. Louis IX and the Holy Roman Emperor Henry II. Although these saints were often very generous with their almsgiving, they still lived in a way befitting their state, which means that they didn’t give up all their material goods to follow Christ.
We must also consider that the Church has always affirmed the right to private property as a good to be upheld by civil society. Likewise, all forms of socialism and communism have been repeatedly condemned by the Church, most notably during the pontificate of Pius XI in the encyclical Divini Redemptoris. The very obligation we have to almsgiving, so important in the life of a Catholic, implies that there are alms to give, and thus material goods legitimately owned by the faithful.
All of this leads us to conclude that there is more to the virtue of poverty than initially meets the eye. Indeed, we find a hint of this larger interpretation in the gospel of St. Matthew, where Our Lord says that “blessed are the poor in spirit” (Matthew 5:3). The qualifier “in spirit” gives us a new perspective on the matter.
So what does it mean to be poor in spirit? We find a good explanation of it in one of Leo the Great’s homilies on the Beatitudes. The saint says that “the kingdom of heaven must be assigned to those who are recommended by the humility of their spirits rather than by the smallness of their means.”
So it is the humble who are the true poor who will inherit the kingdom of God. Humble people are poor because they see themselves rightly. They know they are simple creatures made from nothing who depend totally on God. They know everything they possess is just borrowed from God and that they are called to be righteous administrators of the goods entrusted to them.
If they have nothing, they thank God anyway and expect all that is necessary from His Providence. If they have riches, they handle them wisely and generously. They don’t cling to them covetously. With their eyes firmly directed upwards, they give to those in need and build up the Church.
Either way, their heart is detached from the things of this world and free to be filled with heavenly treasures. That is why, paradoxically, they are rich with the kingdom of God. Poverty is the precursor to true and everlasting wealth, the inheritance of the children of God.
This kind of interior detachment from worldly goods is something all Christians are called to, whether they possess things or not. That is not to say that material poverty is meaningless. Christianity is the religion of the Incarnation. We are not gnostics. Everything we do with our physical bodies matters. The food we eat, the clothes we wear, the place we live in; it is all a help or a hindrance on our way to holiness.
That is why St. Leo, in the same homily quoted earlier, stresses that “it cannot be doubted that this possession of humility is more easily acquired by the poor than the rich: for submissiveness is the companion of those that want, while loftiness of mind dwells with riches”.
All of that means it’s easier to cultivate this detachment from worldly goods if we are living on modest means. As I said earlier, this is because our physical existence matters. It’s easy to nurture lofty ideals of detachment and to think ourselves truly indifferent to riches when we’re living comfortably. The real test is to see what would happen if all of our wealth were taken away. How would we react? Would we have the patience of a saint or throw a temper tantrum?
All that being said, I’d now like to deepen this little analysis on the virtue of poverty by talking about my personal experience in the monastery. This is because I think that our Christian ideal of “detachment” merits a deeper clarification. It’s an easy concept to misunderstand and abuse.
Let me preface this by saying I have never experienced true material poverty. I mean the kind where you wonder when your next meal will be or if you’ll be able to keep a roof over your head. I was born in a rich Western nation and I enjoy all of the benefits of that state.
However, I’m also not naturally inclined to exorbitant material desires. It’s just my temperament. Compared to some of my peers, I’d say I’m reasonably frugal. I don’t care about the latest iPhone. I don’t buy expensive clothes. All in all, I’m a pretty low-profile Westerner. So I thought I was “doing well” when it came to the detachment required by the virtue of poverty.
It was only when I entered the monastery that I realized I had a lot to learn about this virtue. It wasn’t that I was now required to make great sacrifices concerning material goods. They gave me everything I needed. Plentiful food, reliable heating, a nice room all to myself. It wasn’t a dramatic change from my suburban lifestyle.
It was rather seeing the way the nuns treated the possessions of the monastery that broadened my perspective. In particular, I realized that detachment from worldly goods doesn’t mean carelessness about what material possessions you do have.
For example, one of my first appointed tasks was to mend socks. I had never mended a sock in my life. To be honest, I’d never even thought of such a thing. If I happened to find a hole in one of my socks, I just threw it away and bought a new pair. And here were these nuns diligently mending socks that had torn three, four, even five times; they were more patches than original fabric yet nobody thought of throwing them away.
This made me realize that I was accustomed to a careless sort of wastefulness when it came to material possessions. I didn’t think twice about buying new things if the old ones were even a little bit damaged. How far I was from the spirit of St. Benedict, who entreated the monks to handle the monastery’s utensils as if they were sacred vessels.
Another eye-opening moment came while washing dishes. I was tasked with putting away leftovers into plastic containers and then handing the empty plates and platters to a sister responsible for washing them. I thought I was doing my job well until my superior noted that I was leaving quite a lot of food on the plates. It wasn’t that I was being sloppy, I just didn’t consider all those little bits to be of any importance. Again, my privileged birth and upbringing shone through clearly. I was simply used to living wastefully.
Once I became aware of the problem, I slowly got used to switching my perspective. I would ask myself, “What would a poor person do in this situation?” This question helped me to develop better habits and to stop taking things for granted. Although I eventually went back to living in the world, the lessons I learned about poverty have remained deeply ingrained in my soul.
I have come to appreciate that the virtue of poverty has two faces, and they complete each other. On the one hand, having a spirit of poverty means cultivating a definite detachment from earthly goods, an inner freedom that cannot be crippled by lack of means and comforts. This happens when the heart is set on possessing heavenly goods instead of material ones.
On the other hand, having a spirit of poverty means cultivating a profoundly grateful heart and administering the goods of this world with care, as gifts given to us by Our Creator. It means not being wasteful with the things we have, just like those who are actually poor. The hungry don’t waste food. Neither should we, even if we are well-off.
In short, our detachment from worldly goods shouldn’t come from the carelessness that results from abundance. It should come from a deep confidence and trust in the Providence of God. It is precisely because material things have value that giving them up is a real sacrifice. If they were worthless, what merit would there be in living in voluntary poverty?
As with many things in Catholicism, there is a lot more to the virtue of poverty than initially meets the eye. It too comes with life-giving paradoxes that we must inhabit. The poor are really the most wealthy, the detached are the most caring. We must embrace these paradoxes if we want to learn the secrets of this virtue and practice it as the saints did. And what a journey that will be!
St. Francis, true lover of poverty, pray for us.
Tu Es Vita 