“Our prosperity can make us blind to the needs of others, and even make us think that our happiness and fulfillment depend on ourselves alone. In such cases, the poor can act as silent teachers for us, making us conscious of our presumption and instilling within us a rightful spirit of humility.” – Pope Leo XIV, “Dilexi Te,” No. 108

The list of charitable donations in our monthly budget is long: My husband and I have signed up to donate recurring amounts to many worthy organizations and charities that feed and shelter people and advocate for justice, among other works of mercy. Our contributions do not cause us any real hardship. Some of them even give us a tax deduction. Our money supports important work and helps us feel like we are making a small difference.

But just giving money is not enough. The only necessity for donating money is a bank balance. But it is a faceless task. We don’t have to see the people our money helps. Our compassion is at a safe remove. Our bubble of comfort stays intact.

We are called to do more.

I write from a place of privilege, as a retired person with free time and a pension. My husband and I have both benefited from being born white boomers in the United States. We have worked and raised a family. Now we get to be grandparents. We are reasonably sound in body and mind, thanks to Medicare. We can probably coast to the finish line from here. But we keep in mind one of the things Jesus said that makes us uneasy: “Much will be required of the person entrusted with much, and still more will be demanded of the person entrusted with more” (Lk 12:48). We know we have been entrusted with much, as have many folks of our generation. Whatever resources we have, money or time or just available hands, we are meant to contribute for the good of everyone.

So we write a check (O.K., boomer!) to our local food bank, but we also volunteer there. My husband has joined their board. We pack up boxes of food for the people who come to the food bank. We distribute the approved amounts of perishables and nonperishables according to the size of each household. We chat with people. We meet the kids who are antsy to get going and slip extra fruit roll-ups or juice boxes into their boxes. We worry when the expected shipments of meat or cheese or other staples don’t arrive from the government. We want all these folks who have taken the time to wait in this line to be fed.

These few hours a month do not make us saints. On the contrary, we do not do nearly enough for our community. But the fact that we are members of a community means that we are able to form the needed links of the virtual chain of communal caring. We figure if we do our small part, and others do their small part, and we all cover for each other when we can, maybe someone else’s suffering is alleviated. 

The money we donate is beneficial. But it is the human interaction of participating, of paying attention, that feeds our souls. Spending time with people in need is in keeping with living our faith. When we care what happens to strangers, we get a little clue about God’s kingdom. As Greg Boyle, S.J., of Homeboy Industries says in his book, Cherished Belonging, “We must include every single person in our circle of belonging.” Radical kinship is the key to what the book’s subtitle calls “the healing power of love in divided times.”

I was thinking about the first time I went into a state prison as a Catholic volunteer. I was on edge, alert to any threat. I clutched my volunteer badge and my “personal alarm device,” which looked like a garage door opener and whose button I was ready to trigger for protection. After taking part in two Communion services on two different yards with the Catholic chaplain, however, my heart was fully tenderized. I had seen too many prison movies; these scary prisoners were just men who came to the chapel expecting the Eucharist and some singing and maybe a decent homily, reasons many Catholics go to church. My subsequent years of experience as a prison volunteer and as a state worker in the prison library could fill a book. (Reader, they did, in fact: See Overdue, from Liturgical Press). 

The people we meet as we go about God’s work are more important and more life-changing than any amount of money we could donate. The men I worked with opened my eyes, educated me, challenged me to see and hear their stories, expanded my heart, sometimes broke my heart and changed me deeply. I am a better person because they befriended me. I am also better able to advocate for prison reform and useful rehabilitative services, to stand against the death penalty and life-without-parole sentences, and to tell others about the kinds of social injustices that, among other things, can lead one man to years in prison and another man accused of the same crime to a less punitive outcome thanks to a decent or well-paid lawyer. Money helps causes, but money can work in destructive and unfair ways in our society, too. I was blind to so many real-life injustices until I met those men.

My husband and I are old bleeding hearts raised on protest songs, but don’t get me wrong: We are not all that altruistic. We look out for the well-being of our own kids before other people’s kids. We’re currently spending a chunk on updating our kitchen, and it occurs to us that this money could have gone to more charitable causes than new countertops. We try to strike a balance between doing good and doing well, and we don’t always nail it. 

That said, I am buoyed by what our new pope, Leo XIV, has just written about almsgiving, an old-fashioned but never-more-relevant word. “It is always better at least to do something rather than nothing,” Pope Leo writes. “Whatever form it will take, almsgiving will touch and soften our hardened hearts. It will not solve the problem of world poverty, yet it must still be carried out, with intelligence, diligence, and social responsibility. For our part, we need to give alms as a way of reaching out and touching the suffering flesh of the poor” (“Dilexi Te,” No. 119).

Whatever form it will take. I ponder that phrase. Alms for the poor are more than money. Our presence matters. Our advocacy matters. Our embrace matters. For our part, we give up an afternoon. We donate a warm coat. We join a protest. We write our representative. We smile and give the guy with the dog a dollar. “Small things with great love,” St. Teresa of Calcutta reminded us. Our cash helps sustain noble causes, but our love and respect for our brothers and sisters, our silent teachers, are the more valuable gifts.