CLOSE-UP
at the heart of our need

The PERIPHERIES of existence
going out of ourselves in order
to understand who we are

by Luca Doninelli

It is hard not to note how many times Pope Francis uses the word “periphery.” Most of the time he does not use it alone, and speaks of the “periphery of our heart,” the “periphery of existence,” or the “periphery of the world.”
These are precise words and fortunately need no particular interpretation. In his invitation to young people, he reminds them that “it is good to go out of yourself, to the periphery of the world and of existence, to bring Jesus.” When he was Archbishop of Buenos Aires, in 2009, he said, “The service of charity is the same as the announcement of the Word, the celebration of the sacraments, and it is the inalienable expression of the very essence of the Church.”
I will try, without getting too theoretical, to offer the reader some images of these peripheries, a few snapshots, starting from what may appear more external to reach that extreme periphery that actually is much closer to our heart than it would seem.
It is said that every city has a center and a periphery. But perhaps it is more correct to say that in the world there are some centers and that entire parts of the world, entire continents (I’m thinking of Africa) are made completely of peripheries, are all peripheral. You feel you are in the center when you stroll along the Champs Elysées in Paris, or Covent Garden in London, or along Fifth Avenue in New York.
The center is found wherever the fate of the world is decided, in all senses. These places are few, and we like to be there because we like to be under the reassuring, protective gaze of Power. Those who live in the compounds of power do not understand the world. They organize vacations in exotic resorts, buy necklaces in the multicoloured markets of North Africa, and send videos of their vacations around for others to see. They might contribute to financing some humanitarian organization, but if they are intelligent they know that it’s not enough to delegate, even if the money is certainly welcomed. Instead, as the French philosopher and writer Fabrice Hadjadj said, “charity demands closeness, to the point of boxing.” There are immense parts of the world where women and men are completely alone, abandoned to themselves, extraneous and indifferent to the projects of renewal, struggles between politicians, the turmoil of high finance. Take a walk in the center of Kinshasa, or Adis Abbeba: what manner of “centers” are these? Visit the foreign embassies in those countries and, in that exaggerated luxury, so strident in its context, you will realize that colonialism has never died and that even though times have changed, the rich continue to live off the blood of the poor.
“Some have called me a Communist, a revolutionary. Let them read the Church Fathers, let them read Saint Jerome and the Fathers of the second, third, fifth centuries. They were very harsh on this point,” said Bergoglio years ago. In many contexts, the Christian missions and the humanitarian associations, which are often the only source of assistance, are like a drop of water in the desert–very precious but dramatically insufficient. The whole problem turns, fatally, to each of us.

The poor. In a university lesson, I read descriptions of two poor neighborhoods, drawn from two marvelous texts.
In the first, The Spinoza of Market Street, the Jewish writer Isaac Bashevis Singer describes the Warsaw ghetto on a summer night. The general dire poverty is analyzed and divided into a multitude of representative individuals: the thief, the prostitute, the bartender, the plum seller, the students of the House of Prayer, the beggar, the fire builder. All of them have their road to travel, their destiny, no matter how despicable. In the second text, the novel Conversation in the Cathedral by Mario Vargas Llosa, the description of abject poverty does not encounter any personal destinies. In the desolate periphery of Lima there are no recognizable faces, the jobs (when there are jobs) are all temporary, there are no destinies, everything mixes in an indistinct waving, in a chaos made up of exhaust  fumes, rotten teeth, organic odors, shacks, empty eyes, and insubstantial memories. In this second text, we encounter a type of poverty that we do not see in the first. Maybe there’s something to eat, but human dignity is humiliated by the lack of any kind of project. One gets out of bed without knowing why; one lives for the day.

Movement of the heart. Speaking of the Fathers of the Church, then-Cardinal Bergoglio indicated their harshness “on this point: the preferential option for the poor, for those who have no job. Work is for man, for all men. The Christian anguish for those who cannot reach this dignity, who cannot live, who have been deprived because of the idols of power, of wealth, of ephemeral pleasure, and of all the idols that we encounter in the supermarket of national and international consumption. What barbarism, poverty!”
The questions that arise from this painful movement of the heart have nothing to do with moralism: “How does this barbarism enter into your life? How does it change your life? How does it irritate your life? How does it touch your heart? Does it bring you to tears; does it bring you to change your lifestyle?”
Poverty, pain, unemployment, prison, disease, unease, need, entreaty, cry. With these signs, what we call “reality” presents itself, that which cannot be reduced to all our discourses, and that does not let us stay still. Certainly, beautiful things are equally “realities” but it is more difficult not to reduce beauty to our measure, such is the falsity that permeates us. The pain of man evokes in Christ a painful and at the same time practical passion, as the Gospel of Matthew (9:36) reminds us: “At the sight of the crowds, His heart was moved with pity for them because they were troubled and abandoned, like sheep without a shepherd.”
This is the ultimate image of “periphery.” The Pope uses it in speaking of Jesus and the Apostles. While the Lord’s heart is full of compassion for the entreaty of those people, this is not so for His friends. Some of them use the poor as the pretext to give voice to their own ideology, like Judas when he is scandalized by Mary of Bethany pouring perfume on Jesus’ feet: he says it would have been better to sell the perfume and give the money to the poor.
On this extreme point, there’s no use hiding behind a discourse, no matter how beautiful. It would be hypocritical. In fact, any discourse, even a resolute one, that does not involve true exposure of our “I,” would in any case belong to the existential periphery. It is certainly this way for those who work with words, such as intellectuals, journalists, theologians, priests, and others, and therefore Paul’s warning is always wise: “Whoever thinks he is standing secure [or understands the center] should take care not to fall” (1 Cor 10:12).  I would venture to say that one has to stay there on the existential periphery. If we think (deluding ourselves) that we are at the center of things, then it is better to take a walk on the periphery, so that at least we understand better who we are.

That sign of the cross. Among the so-called “Catholic” writers, three of the most noteworthy are Eliot, Péguy, and Chesterton. Notwithstanding a certain flaunted Anglo-Saxon arrogance, Chesterton is one of the most tragic writers of literature. Even when he is defending Catholicism, he does not take one step outside the fiercest drama, does not ever come to a resolution of elegy or consolation.
Well, Chesterton’s housekeeper recounts that every time he sat down to work at the table, before beginning to write he always made the sign of the cross with his pipe. What profundity we can find in this simple image!
Chesterton, just like Kafka (whom he resembles more than appears at first sight), knew that the task of all of us is to go to the heart of things, but that this is impossible unless, Chesterton adds, one encounters it. That sign of the cross meant this: God, let me encounter You now, in what I am doing.
Of course, this does not happen unless, as the Pope says, we “go out of ourselves.” Risk is required, just like that of the Prodigal Son who took no risk in leaving home, but risked everything (including his fascination as a free man, a free thinker) when he began the return trip home.