But, sometimes, few of us are sufficiently faithful to this spontaneous gesture of freedom, and giving becomes a duty dictated by economic norms or social rules. In other words, giving and business become two variants of the same process.

Let's start with the obvious: It's not easy to deny that capitalism and its market system can distort the act of giving. Yet, capitalism in itself cannot fully determine giving as such, since sometimes we feel that the goodness of a gift surpasses economic prejudices. Durkheim makes this point in general terms thus:

The philosopher Kant tried to conflate the notions of the good and duty. But this reduction is absurd. The good has its own light, we cannot violate it [or hide it]; it must explode before our eyes; it has to reveal itself to us spontaneously, and as something desirable; it must speak to our hearts, so we can follow it even in moments of passion. Thus when we act morally, we rise above ourselves. In this sense, the good surpasses us. That is, we cannot represent morality as a set of rules or commands.

Of course some may contend that the kind of "spontaneity of the good" that Durkheim's describing here is only evident in some archaic cultures whose economy is organized around reciprocity and compassion. Whereas in our capitalistic societies, giving becomes nothing but a moneymaking ritual, heavily appropriated by commerce.

Let's consider this. In practical terms, capitalism is a formidable institution: for one, it can be a way out of poverty and injustice; a way to grant rights to all members of a society; to consolidate the idea, tacit at least, that justice must be based on human rights, not on charity or the casual kindness of some Good Samaritans. For another, capitalism is very useful, especially when we don't want our relationships to become too personal – as the burden of a market debt is much lighter than that of a favor or a gift. But in our own time it has become rather normal to talk of capitalism as a "threat" to our sociable and cooperative instincts.

To clarify: capitalism in itself is incapable of fully determining our relationships not only with those we love, but also with those strangers we encounter in life, because capitalism is a neutral establishment; it has no independent power to nourish our lives.

In view of this, my freedom lies precisely in being able to choose the type of person I want to be, for capitalism can only degrade the goodness of giving after it has corrupted my soul.

So, there's something about giving that seems to transcend social obligations and moneymaking rituals. If not, why do we often say: "Oh, thank you, dear ... there was no need to worry about the gift," as if we were trying to "free" the act of giving from any burden of duty? By contrast, for example, bosses often tell their employees (and professors their students): "You must do this or that, because it's your duty." What this shows us is that giving opposes the mechanistic methods of duty and obligation as if, to rephrase Durkheim, giving had its own light.

Perhaps this can be best illustrated with a trivial example. Imagine we buy tickets to see Norah Jones in Brussels. In exchange for the price we pay, we expect a good performance. So, we say there's a value contract between artist and audience. Yet, we also have the feeling that that's not all. Why? Suppose the concert is outstanding. Then we applaud and request bis. In turn, the cheering of the crowd gives the artist something extra; something not included in the contract. Then she plays a couple of extra songs, giving us something more too; something we didn't pay for. Note that, as far as the contract goes, she's not obliged to play extra songs either. We say, then, that both "extras" – the crowd's reaction and the artist's encore – are spontaneous acts of goodness.

Of course, as time goes by, this spontaneity may become a burden. It's in this light that we say capitalism tends to institutionalize the "extras" of giving, transforming it into a ritual of reciprocal obligation. But again, if Durkheim's right, giving can't be reduced to a mere sense of duty: the good must speak to our hearts, so we can follow it even in moments of passion. What's more, if obligation prevails, there we shall "bury" the holiness of giving, for the goodness shall resign itself and bend over to capitalism.

My point: true giving comes from itself and gives itself in a spontaneous act of freedom. It's not the giver that gives; the giver simply follows the gift; she's carried away by this "mystery" of life. Giving is a mystery because, in giving, we abolish the void between ends and means. Or should we deny that "true giving" comes always with a sense of excitement and wonder? Should we deny that giving is a moment of disclosure that has its own light and meaning, as if we were taking part in a reality that transcends the ordinary?

So, the act of giving offers both the giver and the receiver the certainty of belonging to a community. This is to say, then, that giving, far from restricting us as noble creatures, far from atrophying altruism, spontaneity, generosity and cooperation, allows us to overcome our limitations, to become the virtuous persons we can be.

On this picture, then, we say that giving is a crucial social experience; it's the very foundation of human commitment; it becomes that which binds us to our communities; for giving has the power to break the shackles of economic rules and cultural obligations. Or, in Marcel Mauss' words, giving becomes a "total social phenomenon."

What we need is a paradigm shift: Instead of focusing on the dangers of capitalism – that it turns people into self-absorbed, egoistic homo œconomicus – we'd better focus on giving. Instead of asking: "what's it that prevents us from giving", we'd rather ask: "why do we give, even though we're egoistic beasts, and even though we tend to rely on giving rituals dictated by the market system?"

This may sound quite naïve, I agree. But if I'm allowed an analogy: once upon a time in the universe of Physics, great minds kept asking the same question: "why do bodies move, when inertia is their natural state?" For centuries, their task was then to explain the laws of motion. Needless to say, their various theories differed drastically and explained nothing. One day a gentleman decided to reformulate the problem thus: every object will remain in motion unless acted upon by another object. So, he reversed his predecessors' question to this: "What's it that causes a moving body to stop?" Ironically, only then the laws of motion were finally clarified.

Likewise, by focusing on giving instead of value, we may begin to appreciate, in the spirit of Durkheim, that the act of giving has its own light; we cannot violate it, for it surpasses us.

All that said, this spontaneity doesn't come too easily, I'm afraid. It seems to be the outcome of a long, voluntary process. Indeed, on this picture, giving resembles the freedom of the Zen master whose "openness" only arrives after a laborious period of reciting sutras and silent meditation. But this is, I suppose, the normative character of giving.

In short: giving is a virtue, and as with any other virtue, we acquire it ourselves, as part of a moral training that demands good intention, discipline and self-criticism – a true act of heroism. On this point, though, I can only rephrase the French philosopher Merleau-Ponty: "What is required here is silence, for only the hero lives out his relation to men and the world accordingly, and it's not fitting that others speak in his name." |