In such a climate of opinion, one hesitates to ask, "But what do we mean by capitalism?" For even if one does so in the meekest, most non-aggressive manner manageable, one runs the risk of being withered with scorn as a defender of the status quo, a supporter of the affluent establishment, an apologist for the multinationals, if not indeed a running dog of you-know-what. And yet, I am afraid the risk must be run; the question must be asked.
What do we mean by capitalism? I hope we do not mean by it simply and solely what current Marxist or Maoist literature says it is. That would be to match the naiveté of the man in Newman's parable, who proudly showed the lions all the various ways in which the king of beasts was depicted ― with some distortion, obviously ― in human art: in heraldry, in architecture, and in the carved legs of grand pianos; and who was somewhat taken aback by the lion's dry comment at the end of the tour that "lions would have fared better had lions been the artists."
On the the other hand, I take it that we are not using capitalism merely in its original and basic meaning, a system of society in which private persons or groups set aside a portion of the wealth produced by human labor and ingenuity and use it for further production within a framework of free enterprise. If that were all capitalism is, there would scarcely be any objection against it. But it is not.
As capitalism has existed and operated in our county, so it is claimed, it has become a system almost completely opposed to free enterprise; a system in which the vast majority have very little real freedom and even less enterprise; a state of society in which wealth is indeed set aside, but for the conspicuous consumption of a very few; an underdeveloped state strikingly similar to that described by Goldsmith, "where wealth accumulates and men decay," rapidly degenerating, by population increase, to that even more underdeveloped state which called for Chesterton's parody of Goldsmith, "where men accumulate and wealth decays."
Moreover, capitalism as we now understand it embraces not only a system but an ethic. Whether the ethic generates the system, or the system the ethic, is a disputed point. The fact remains, or at least the generalization, that they are found together, and that the ethic is even more objectionable (if that were possible) than the system. For what is that ethic? The primary value around which it seems to be built is "rugged individualism": a term of praise when it was first coined, denoting self-reliance, but which has since revealed itself in its true colors as self-interest, self-seeking, self-satisfaction, self-aggrandizement; selfishness, in short, unfeelingly unconcerned with the needs and rights of others, and eventually deprived even of the power to perceive them. An ethic which, imbedded in the program of instruction of the capitalist school system, mass-produces the priest and Levite of the parable of the Good Samaritan, adding, for good measure, a sprinkling of management experts completely convinced of the existence of Adam Smith's "hidden hand," that, namely, which miraculously makes sure that private self-interest cannot but contribute to the common good, and who can thereby calmly claim that "what is good for General Motors is good for the country."
Such, it would seem, is the consensus concerning capitalism at which we have arrived.
One indication of this consensus is the increasingly sympathetic interest that socialism is arousing among Christians in this country. To have dipped into Marx ― without, of course, ploughing through Das Kapital from cover to cover ― has now become a sure sign that one is "with it." Every account of a guided tour through Maoist China, even those published in Le Monde, is read with avidity; as for China News Analysis,...by the way, what in heaven's name is China News Analysis?
It will, of course, be remembered that even in the Bad Old Days before the New Society a Christian Socialist Movement surfaced briefly in the seething swirl of Philippine party politics. One recalls a caucus in a smoke-filled hospital room during which the founder of the movement was rendered for a moment immobile on his bed of pain by the question, "Why Christian? Why not simply socialist?"
Why, indeed. Our man on the hospital bed was convinced that there was a Christian way of being socialist. But is there, really? Between the pre-Vatican II thesis seminarians defended, "Socialismus, etiam moderatus, reiciendus est," and the stark statement made not long ago by an ex-priest, "I decided that, as things are, the only way to be a Christian is to become a communist," what judicious Newman can be found to chart a via media?
But should we really bother to chart a via media? It seems that we should. There is much in socialism as an ethic that appeals to the Christian conscience. And first, its unequivocal commitment to the masses; the anonymous, disadvantaged, disenfranchised masses; the masses of whom someone has said that God must love them, he made so many of them. A commitment that cannot but remind the Christian of Christ's own statement of his mission: "to bring the good news to the poor, to proclaim liberty to captives, ...to set the downtrodden free" [Luke 4:18] And then, there is socialism's emphasis on the primacy of the common good, and the norm of social responsibility which that primacy establishes: "from each according to his ability, to each according to his need." A norm not too far removed from Paul's "There is a variety of gifts but always the same Spirit; there are all sorts of service to be done, but always to the same Lord; working in all sorts of different ways in different people, it is the same God who is working in all of them... The parts are many but the body is one. The eye cannot say to the hand, 'I do not need you' " [1 Corinthians 12:4-6, 20-21].
Clearly, there is much in the socialist ethic that appeals strongly to Christians of today. It is when we come to consider the various systems associated with that ethic that difficulties arise. One difficulty concerns personal freedom and human rights. The exaggeration of the capitalist ethic are at least exaggerations of a basic truth, that the individual human person is sacred, and has rights which the state has not given and cannot take away. Unalienable, as the American Declaration of Independence puts it: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness." Incidentally, the English philosopher John Locke had earlier said "life, liberty, and property"; it is surely to the credit of the bourgeois ilustrados who framed the Declaration that they preferred the pursuit of happiness to property.
But the tendency in socialist systems, especially those under totalitarian dictatorships, is to disregard these human rights in practice, and even to deny their existence in theory. The tendency is to instrumentalize the individual to achieve the purposes of the common good; that is to say, in practice, the purposes of the totalitarian state as defined by the dictator and the oligarchs he has gathered round him. This instrumentalization of the human being the Christian finds difficult to reconcile with a "first principle and foundation" of which one statement, or manifesto, is familiar to us all: "El hombre es criado para alabar, hacer reverencia, y servir a Diós nuestro Señor, y mediante esto salvar su ánima; y las otras a cosas sobre la haz de la tierra (including, one supposes, governments, whether totalitarian, authoritarian, liberal, martial, smiling, or grim) son criadas para el hombre, y para que le ayuden en la prosecución del fin para que es criado" [Sp. Ex., n. 23].
There are other, perhaps more formidable difficulties the Christian finds in the theory and practice of socialism, particularly in its most developed systems, the Marxist-Leninist and the Maoist. Why, for instance, are socialist governments invariably dictatorships, and military dictatorships at that? Why is our hope that Red China will not engage in imperialist aggression based mainly on the calculation that she needs most of her army divisions to exercise surveillance over her proletariat? Is the dictatorship of the proletariat, then, a dictatorship by the proletariat, or over it? And by the way, whatever has happened to the theory that wherever socialism triumphs the state "withers away"? Give three examples of such withering away? Russian tanks in Hungary, perhaps? Cuban troops in Angola? Chairman Mao smilingly signing treaties of friendship with non-communist governments, while maintaining brotherly solidarity with subversive groups dedicated to the overthrow of those governments? Will not even Machiavelli stand in awe of the political cynicism which so noble an ethic inspires?
Unable to give whole-hearted acceptance to either socialist or capitalist ideologies, Christians are now wondering about the possibility of a tertium quid: a specifically Christian ideology to which they can commit themselves without reservations. Is the classic reply to a dilemma ― datur tertium ― valid here? That seems to be the question at which we have arrived. But before we get down to it, if we ever do, let us not allow the term "ideology" to be introduced in this sneaky fashion. Switching off the conveyor belt, let us stop this portmanteau word at the customs barrier and pronounce over it the ominous formula, "Have you anything to declare? No? Open it up, please."
I would say myself that the term "ideology" includes the two elements we considered in discussing capitalism and socialism. As I see it, an ideology sets forth at least the main lines of a system of social organization, as well as the ethic, that is, the scale of values and the pattern of behavior, by which that system is energized and which the system in turn elaborates and inculcates. I would add a third element. Besides being a system and an ethic, an ideology is also a rhetoric. It is designed and proposed not only simply to inform or to enlighten but to get things done: to move men to action.
That is why the analysis which an ideology makes of the situation in which action is called for is seldom a detached, disinterested analysis. It is, almost always, both interested and argumentative; biased, if you wish. It does not have for its model Von Ranke's "bloss sagen wie es eigentlich gewesen ist" ― simply to tell what really happened, or what is really happening. Rather, its object is that of the lawyer's brief or the speech in parliament: to present a case, to prove a thesis.
This is not to say, of course, that an ideology necessarily misrepresents the facts. Not necessarily. But it does not select them. It picks out those features of the situation which are ― to use a much abused term ― relevant, that is, which have a bearing on the action proposed. Having done this, the ideologue then organizes and presents his material in such a way that the action proposed will in fact be taken.
It will not be a balanced presentation; of course not. An ideology cannot afford to be what a colleague of mine, speaking of a recent work of scholarship, characterized as a rather dull series of "on the one hands" and "on the other hands." For what is likely to result from the delicate balancing of views and options is not action but hesitation: "to let 'I would not' wait upon 'I should,' like the poor cat i' th adage," [Macbeth I, 7]. Make no mistake. Works of scholarship are necessary, however dull. They are especially necessary as a control on ideologies. But we must not expect an ideology to be a work of scholarship. An ideology is not an academic exercise. It is a call to action. It will disregard all those qualifications, reservations, and nuances which, as Hamlet soliloquizes, "puzzle the will" and cause " the native hue of resolution" to be "sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought"; for only by this highlighting will it ensure that "enterprises of great pith and moment" do not "their currents turn awry, and lose the name of action" [Hamlet III, 1]. In short, an ideology is, in part at least, a rhetoric: a saying of something to someone so that he (or she) will not just stand there, but do something.
Well, then, do we, in this country, at this time, need a specifically Christian ideology, and if so, how do we go about putting one together? First, as to need. There can be little doubt that contemporary Philippine society suffers from structural and procedural defects which effectively interdict a large number of our people from rightful access to the material and spiritual resources of our country. Something will have to be done about them, and if what is done is to go beyond temporary, "band-aid" remedies, it will have to be a radical revision of the system itself. This revision will have to be undertaken by Filipinos ― a "critical mass" of Filipinos ― convinced both as to the ethic that inspires it and the situation analysis that gives it direction. In other words, we stand in need today of an ideology of radical social reform.
Should that ideology be specifically Christian? But first, can there be a "specifically Christian" ideology? There is a Christian faith; there is a Christian ethic; but a Christian ideology? I would tend to doubt it myself, since my understanding of ideology, as I have tried to explain, includes an analysis of a concrete social situation and the proposal of a concrete social structure which, being historically conditioned, are not logically deducible from the Christian faith and ethic. There can, of course, be an ideology conceived and fostered by Christians: Christians who reflect on their experience of the realities of their society in the light of their faith, and who act for justice within it in the light of their ethic. But we cannot claim either permanence or universality for such an ideology. We cannot say that all believing and practicing Christians are bound to accept it, whatever the social situation in which they find themselves. Its validity is limited to that portion of space and time in which it has taken shape.
But is an enterprise so conditioned and circumscribed worth attempting? I think it is. If it gives our people hope, hope of a better life in this world and the next, it is worth attempting. Many minds and hearts will have to take part in shaping this ideology, and so it is going to assume some funny shapes. We expect that. We will attempt a Ming vase, but may have to settle for an Apalit pot. People, as distinct from artists, prefer to make things serviceable rather than merely decorative. A camel is a horse put together by a committee; yes, of course. But, after all, what's wrong with a camel? A king with a desert to cross does not shout, "My kingdom for a horse!" He appoints a committee to put a camel together. Or else ― a somewhat more complicated operation ― he sends his secretary of state to negotiate with OPEC for a camel with a Mercedes-Benz oil-injection hump.
Be that as it may, the fact remains that our particular enterprise, if it is thought to be worth attempting, must call upon a very wide range of knowledge and experience to provide the solid groundwork of its analysis of Philippine society. And that analysis itself must call upon a variety of disciplines ― mathematical, sociological, philosophical, even (it must in fairness be added) historical ― for the necessary analytical tools. The analysis must then be submitted to theological reflection, and the results of that reflection shared with everyone on the camel committee ― yes, even with the economists ― in a continuing dialogue that may exhaust even the patience of a camel.
And all this carried on in an atmosphere of prayer. For all our data-gathering and analyzing, all our conscientization and speculation, all our thinking and acting must, sooner or later, come face to face with mystery. Where, in this concrete historical situation about whose salvation, temporal and eternal, we are so concerned, is the Holy Spirit working? And how do we join him where he is at work? Obviously, he won't tell us unless we ask him; and I suppose that is what prayer means.
Such an enterprise can be attempted by almost any group almost anywhere: by hunted men around a camp-fire in the Sierra Madre; by technocrats in a summer palace beside the Pasig; by village elders on the papag of a barrio sari-sari store, with some lively participation, one hopes, from the village fool. But it might be suggested that there are certain advantages in its being carried on also in a school of theology that happens to be on the campus of a university. I will not rehearse these advantages, you know them better than I do.
Let me just say this. We who live and work in university campuses have been told that we dwell in an ivory tower far removed from reality. We have been told this so often that we have begun to believe it. We have half-accepted the stereotype imposed on us, that we are idealists after the definition of H.I. Mencken: idealist: "One who, on noticing that a rose smells better than a cabbage, concludes that it will also make a better soup." It is perhaps time for us to show that the first thing one learns in a school of theology is that a rose smells different from a cabbage, but not necessarily better. And the second thing one learns in a school of theology is that to be able to say that something smells "better" than something else, one must have a norm that is to say, an ideal, of what a smell should be. And similarly, that one cannot say that cabbages make better soup than roses without asserting, or tacitly assuming, some norm, or ideal, of what soup ought to be.
This, then, might be the modest contribution people in ivory towers could make to our common enterprise: to enable the rest of us to distinguish between the varieties of experience, an ability sometimes called discernment, and to make us sensitive to the meaning of experience, a sensitivity sometimes called wisdom. But discernment and wisdom are words too high-falutin' for realists like Mencken; so let us just say that the mission of the Christian university today is to sharpen the sense of smell of the hounds of God; to remedy, as Chesterton says in the Song of Quoodle, the noselessness of man.
They haven't got no noses,
The fallen sons of Eve,
Even the smell of roses
Is not what they supposes;
But more than mind discloses
And more than men believe. . .
The brilliant smell of water,
The brave smell of a stone,
The smell of dew and thunder,
The old bones buried under,
Are things in which they blunder
And err, if left alone. . .
And Quoodle here discloses
All things that Quoodle can,
They haven't got no noses,
They haven't got no noses,
And goodness only knowses
The Noselessness of Man.
― Fr. Horacio Luis de la Costa y Villamayor, S.J.
Delivered at a lecture at the opening of the
Academic Year of the Loyola School of Theology.
Quezon City, 14 June 1976
Delivered at a lecture at the opening of the
Academic Year of the Loyola School of Theology.
Quezon City, 14 June 1976
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| Kargador by Cesar Legaspi Torrente Oil on canvas. 1982. Paulino and Hetty Que Collection. |
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