St. Benedict the Moor Parish

Chapter 4 of Dilexi Te turns from historical foundations to a sober diagnosis of the present: sin does not merely lurk in private hearts; it becomes embedded in economic systems, political calculations, and cultural mentalities. The document draws on Medellín and Puebla to insist that poverty is not accidental but “structures of injustice” — a “social sin” requiring systemic conversion, not pious hand-wringing. The text condemns ideologies that enshrine “absolute autonomy of the marketplace,” producing a “dictatorship of an economy that kills” and widening the canyon between “those happy few” and the many for whom dignity remains theoretical. Crucially, it rejects the catechism of laissez-faire hope in “invisible forces” that will allegedly deliver justice if only we wait long enough. Salvation postponed is oppression prolonged.
 
Yet the exhortation refuses to render the poor as objects of elite rescue. Echoing Latin American pastoral theology, it affirms that the poor possess “unique insights indispensable to the Church and to humanity.” They are not scenery in a morality tale; they are subjects of history and evangelizers of the Church. Their cries are not ambient noise but prophetic summons. Thus, charity is not sentiment but “a force for change in history,” calling for political dialogue capable of addressing “the deepest roots” of exclusion. The implicit paradox: the Church must be poor to learn from the poor, powerful enough to confront power, and humble enough to receive the truth voiced from the margins. The fundamental question: will the Church risk being taught by those it claims to serve, or continue performing charity without conversion?

The characteristic of our times is fractured discourse and ideological echo chambers. In response to this, Christ calls us to a radically different mode of engagement—one rooted not in winning arguments but in embodying Him. At the heart of virtuous conversation lies perspective-taking, a practice that reflects the very nature of the Incarnation and transforms how we encounter others.
The Apostle Paul's exhortation to "rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep" (Romans 12:15) establishes empathy as a foundational Christian duty. This command transcends mere emotional mirroring; it demands that we enter authentically into another person's reality, bearing their burdens and celebrating their joys as though they were our own. Such empathy is not weakness but rather an expression of charity—the theological virtue that compels us to love our neighbor as ourselves. When we take another's perspective, we acknowledge their full humanity, their dignity as image-bearers of God, and their complex interior life that extends far beyond what we can immediately perceive.
 
The Incarnation itself models this practice at the cosmic level. God did not remain distant, shouting corrections from heaven or condemning humanity from afar. Instead, Christ entered fully into human experience—feeling our hunger, our exhaustion, our grief, and our temptation. This is perspective-taking at its most profound: the Creator assuming the viewpoint of the creature, the eternal entering time, the infinite embracing limitation. When we practice perspective-taking in conversation, we participate in this incarnational pattern, making ourselves vulnerable enough to see through another's eyes.
 
Yet the practice of perspective-taking faces a persistent pitfall: moral superiority. How easily we slip into the posture of the Pharisee who stood in the temple and prayed, "God, I thank you that I am not like other men" (Luke 18:11). When we approach conversations from this elevated position, we dehumanize others, reducing them to categories—"sinners," "heretics," "the deceived"—while congratulating ourselves on our enlightenment. This posturing betrays the gospel itself, which declares all equally in need of grace.
 
Moral superiority transforms conversation into performance, where we display our virtue rather than extend it. The other person becomes a prop in our self-righteous narrative rather than a fellow traveler worthy of genuine understanding. We listen only to identify errors, not to comprehend experiences. We speak to correct, not to connect. In doing so, we become the very obstacle to grace that Christ condemned most harshly in the religious leaders of His day.
 
True perspective-taking requires the humility to recognize our shared condition before God. It demands we approach every conversation aware that we too are beggars telling other beggars where to find bread. This humility opens space for authentic dialogue, where understanding precedes judgment and charity tempers critique.
 
In a world that rewards the loudest voice and the quickest condemnation, Christians must model a better way. By embracing perspective-taking as spiritual practice, we embody the incarnational love of Christ, creating conversations that honor human dignity, foster genuine understanding, and point beyond ourselves to the One who first took our perspective and redeemed it.