This Is My Body: The Choice Between Gift and Grasp

 

Introduction: The First Choice

A Catholic senator defends marriage and votes against labour rights on Monday. A Catholic activist champions the poor while dismissing chastity as repression. An environmental warrior fights pollution while treating sexuality as a private choice.

We have fractured what should not be divided. We speak of sexual morality as one thing and social justice as another. We build entire Catholic identities around these divisions. Left versus right, private morality versus systemic sin, bedroom versus boardroom.

This division obscures a deeper unity.

The Second Vatican Council said it plainly: "Man cannot fully find himself except through a sincere gift of self." From Eden to the present, human love unfolds as a single fundamental orientation: gift or grasp, communion or consumption, an open hand or a closed fist.

In the modern West, we’ve built a civilisation of grasping. Radical autonomy, sexual utilitarianism, and economic acquisitiveness. They’re different symptoms of the same disorder; not identical evils, but echoes of the same refusal; the refusal to give ourselves to others.

Dorothy Day recognised this when much of the Church was overlooking it. In Wall Street speculation, sexual commodification, and sweatshops, she saw a common deformation. The refusal to give, the failure to see one another as gifts. "We have all known the long loneliness," she wrote, "and we have learned that the only solution is love, and love comes with community."

One wound. One healing. One choice.

And the call to unity speaks to us from the altar: "This is my body, given for you."

Part One: Original Unity

In Genesis, Adam sees Eve, and his body knows before his mind can speak. Not just recognition, but exultation. "Bone of my bones, flesh of my flesh!" This unity is the beginning of humanity. This is what we've forgotten.

They stood naked and felt no shame. Not because they were innocent in some childish sense, but because the body revealed the person.

John Paul II called this the "nuptial meaning" of the body. Stripped of jargon, it means the body exists to express love as a gift, freely given, faithful, and fruitful. Sexual differentiation speaks. It says, “I am made for you.”  Male and female signify a communion. They cannot exist in isolation.

We are made in the image of the Trinitarian God, who is communion; His very being is self-giving love. The human person, created in this same image, is constituted through relation and finds fulfilment in self-gift. To be human is not to possess oneself absolutely, but to discover true identity in giving oneself to others.

This revelation points ultimately to Christ, the God-man, whose body makes visible the invisible God. And what does His body do? He gives Himself  - on the Cross, in the Eucharist. The Eucharistic sacrifice reveals what every human body is ordered to express: love as self-gift. His sacrifice reveals not a meaning we invent, but the end toward which every human body is ordered.

This applies to everything. Every encounter, every exchange, every moment of labour asks the same question. Will you give or will you take?

Day recognised this in the scandalous visibility of the poor. In faces in breadlines, needing not welfare cheques but human communion. What John Paul II later articulated theologically, Day embodied, showing how this nuptial meaning extends beyond marriage into every sphere of human relation.

Part Two: The Fracture: The Hand Closes

Then they ate. Then they knew. "They knew they were naked." They hid from God. They turned inward, from truth to self-protection and recrimination.

Shame and blame appear. Vulnerability now feels dangerous. Augustine named it “curvatus in se”  - to curve inward on oneself. Desire, created to flow outward, bends back into a stagnant pool. The open hand closes.

Greed and Lust: Two Sins, One Grasping Hand

The Church Fathers perceived what we separate.

John Chrysostom called avarice "a present hell," akin to lust, because both manifest “pleonexia” - the compulsion to seize more than one's share. The miser who would carve his own flesh before parting with his gold; the adulterer who betrays his wife for an hour of pleasure. Different acts, shaped by a similar inward turn.

Thomas Aquinas identifies carnal vices like lust and gluttony as particularly potent in fixing the soul's attention on sensible pleasure. He systematised this insight. Because money can procure many temporal goods, the appetite for riches becomes a root that nourishes other sins. Greed doesn't cause lust; it furnishes the means and trains the heart in the same posture of acquisition. Distinct sins with different objects and circumstances, yet they flow from the same root, the turn inward to self. And once that turn is made, each strengthens the other's grip.

The miser learns to hoard; the lustful man learns to take. The heart trained in one kind of grasping often finds others easier.

This doesn't mean all ownership is grasping, or that spouses don't rightly "have" one another. Property can be stewardship. Spousal belonging can be a mutual self-gift. But when ownership becomes absolute, when having becomes hoarding, when the other exists for use, the hand and heart close. Exchanging gifts means giving and receiving. Grasp knows only taking.

Augustine traced the root in the City of God: two loves build two cities "love of self even to the contempt of God," and "love of God even to the contempt of self." John Paul II describes this same deformation from self-donation into appropriation. Benedict XVI cautions that, once eros is severed from agapic self-gift, it collapses into “a commodity” and a “consumable thrill.” Pope Francis sees it too in our treatment of the earth; when we forget the givenness of the body, we forget the givenness of creation.

Day's voluntary poverty and celibacy were a concrete refusal to close her hand to others. She was "willing to call nothing 'mine' not even my very rationality and memory and will." Day's life embodies the simultaneous poverty and wealth of divine self-gift, where emptiness receives divine fruitfulness. What the tradition diagnosed, she enacted. Her insistence that "the desire for more is the root of all our wars" echoes Chrysostom and Aquinas.

Greed hoards wealth, lust hoards bodies. Both reject the Trinitarian rhythm of communion, of mutual, life-giving love, the self-emptying movement of love that gives without grasping and receives without possessing.

Part Three: The Echo of Eden

Even amid distortion, something in us resists forgetfulness. Many who stare at a screen at 2 a.m. sense, however dimly, that this is not what desire is for. Many who walk out of an abortion clinic carry a knowledge they struggle to name. Those who betray trust know, even when they cannot yet repent. We feel it in the shame that won't quite go away, in the loneliness that comes after.

French philosopher Fabrice Hadjadj observed, "Man is not only a pervert; he is also a metaphysician." He warns against the birth of a “culture of self‑creation” where modern men and women use the body as an instrument of self-invention. We cannot suppress the memory of what we were made to be, because that memory is written into our nature. Eden echoes in the structure of our being. This is not psychology but ontology: a memory of what we were made to be.

Conscience isn't simply a feeling. It is the voice of our created nature before God, insisting on truth even when we resist it. When we violate the body's meaning, the body itself protests. Not because society conditioned us, but because the image of God hasn't been erased.

The ache for communion resurfaces everywhere. Habit can bury the voice, dull it, rationalise it, but rarely erase it. The shame of using another, the instinctive horror at human trafficking, the universal longing for faithful love. It's why the hardened consumer of pornography feels unease. Why the language of love still reaches for permanence. Sexual betrayal wounds so deeply because it violates not a social contract but the body's promise of faithful love.

The same moral intuition recoils before sweatshop conditions, predatory lending, and the sight of someone searching rubbish for food. Something in us knows that communion has been reduced to consumption.

Even our vices bear witness to the virtues we abandon; pornography mimics intimacy, greed mimics providence. We cannot invent new desires; we can only corrupt the ones we were given, and this corruption bears witness to the good it defiles.

We remember what we were made for. The question is whether we'll return to this. 

Part Four: The Modern Inversion

Dorothy Day witnessed this during the Depression. Her journalism for The Catholic Worker traced how industrial capitalism reshaped not only labour but imagination itself.

What Christianity held together, modernity dismembered. The body became a tool. Work became production. Sex became recreation. The person disappeared behind the utility. By the twentieth century, advertising learned to shape wants, turning longing into fuel for consumption.

Three Spheres, One Logic

Watch how the logic spreads.

In the factory, the worker becomes a production unit. Bodies measured by output, persons valued by efficiency. The dignity of creative labour gives way to the assembly line.

In the marketplace, acquisition becomes identity. We hoard not just wealth but status, security, and control. The neighbour becomes a competitor, the stranger a threat. Solidarity collapses when people are commodities. Predatory lending, sweatshop labour, and the homeless we step over on our way to work. All the fruit of a civilisation that has forgotten gift.

In the bedroom, pornography completes the convergence. It rewires expectations, teaching us to read bodies as consumables. Sensation becomes the governing criterion, with the interior meaning of conjugal union eclipsed. Here's lust, the body reduced to stimulation and image. Here's greed, desire packaged and sold, loneliness monetised, intimacy replaced by transaction. OnlyFans, prostitution, AI "girlfriends." Transactional intimacy runs as a business model. Money buys bodies. Lust trains us to see persons as consumable things.

Three spheres. One logic. The mechanisms differ; the contexts vary. A person can practice marital fidelity while failing in economic justice. But the underlying spiritual posture of gift or grasp forms habits that exert pressure across all our life. The unity isn’t mechanical, but it is formative.

The Prophetic Warning

When Pope Paul VI issued Humanae Vitae in 1968, he identified something decisive: a posture toward the body shaped by control and management. When the unitive is severed from the procreative, we train ourselves in a mechanistic logic that overrides the body’s given ends. Sex becomes technologically controlled, its meaning blocked. The body is no longer received as revelation but treated as raw material to be manipulated.

Contraception teaches the body a lesson: its fertility is a problem to solve, and its natural ends can be technologically overridden. Once learned in the marriage bed, this posture proves extraordinarily transferable. If we can technologically sever procreation from union, why not conception from gestation? If fertility is a mechanism to manage, why not age, why not our sex itself, why not death? The body becomes a project to master.

Paul VI predicted cultural consequences: increased infidelity, objectification, and state control over life. These weren't inevitable causal chains, but tendencies already present and accelerated. The contraceptive mentality doesn't mechanically cause abortion or euthanasia or technological manipulation of human reproduction. It habituates us to a posture: the body as raw material, control rather than reception, engineering rather than gift.

The Other as Icon

Against this, the Church offers a different vision. One rooted in reverence and communion.

The Christian vision sees the other as an icon, a revelation of the divine image, inviting respect, not use. The Eucharist enables us to see this way: the body as sacrament, revealing something beyond itself, calling forth self-gift.

John Paul II offered two complementary visions: the Theology of the Body on sexual love, and Laborem Exercens on human work. Taken together, they reveal a shared anthropology. "Work is for man, not man for work," he writes. The worker is not a production unit. Work expresses dignity through creative action. Likewise, sexuality exists for self-gift. In both, the body reveals the person is made for union.

The question remains the same across every sphere: gift or grasp? Will we receive one another as icons revealing God's image, or reduce one another to instruments of our use? Whether loving, labouring, or serving, the body either reveals the person made for gift or reduces it to a tool of consumption.

Part Five: The Redemption of Eros

Christianity doesn't fear desire. It's not scandalised by the body. No. Christianity says your desire is too small. Your eros isn't too strong. It's too weak. Too easily satisfied with substitutes when it was made for union with the living God, for transformation into agape.

Desire itself isn't the enemy; the body's longing for union is holy. What corrupts it is grasping. The husband desires his wife; that's good, that's right, that's part of the gift. But does he desire her as a gift to be received or as an object to be consumed? Married lovers give themselves, and in giving they also receive. This transforms them. We have each other, but as stewards of a mystery, not masters of a thing.

The Church doesn't teach sexual discipline because the body is dangerous, but because it is glorious. Too meaningful to be trivialised, too revelatory to be reduced to recreation.

Viktor Frankl wrote, "Man's salvation is through love and in love." C.S. Lewis observed, "To love at all is to be vulnerable... The only place outside Heaven where you can be perfectly safe from all the dangers of love is Hell."

Christ doesn't redeem eros by crushing it. He redeems it by offering His own body. "This is my body, given for you."

Not taken. Not grasped. Not seized. Given.

Redemption enters history not through domination. Christ kneels to wash feet. He refuses coercion. He loves to the point of shedding His own blood. God is simultaneously eros, bending down in passionate pursuit of humanity, and agape, a self-emptying gift. The Cross doesn't just exemplify morality. It transfigures desire itself. Grace does not abolish nature but fulfils it, purifying what sin corrupted, restoring what was lost, making possible what exceeds our strength.

In the Eucharist, eros and agape unite completely. Here, the deepest truth of the human body is revealed. A body offered, not seized. A love poured out, not demanded. This is what love was always meant to image: the Trinitarian communion, the total self-giving, fruitful love of God.

The Eucharist is the pattern. We receive the gift of Christ's body and blood, and in receiving, we become what we receive. The Body of Christ given for the world. Love as self-offering, embodiment as gift, communion through vulnerability. "Do this in remembrance of me." Do what? Give your body. Pour out your life. Hold nothing back.

This is what we were made for. To live the nuptial meaning of the body exceeds unaided effort. Grace purifies eros, strengthens fidelity, integrates desire, and transforms fear into freedom. Grace doesn't erase human weakness. It reclaims and restores it, divinises it. Grace doesn’t make it easy. Grace makes it possible.

Conclusion: The Two Stories Before Us

Two stories. Only two.

First story. Eros grasped. Bodies used, hearts closed, the self that curves inward and is alone. Domination dressed up as desire. Consumption masquerading as connection. The closed fist, the hoarded coin, the pornographic gaze, the exploited worker, the ravaged planet.

Second story. Eros redeemed. The body as gift. Vulnerability as strength. Love as the Cross. The open hand, the shared table, the faithful covenant, dignified labour.

Christian sexuality is not just a moral code. It’s a vision of what it means to be human. It proclaims that we discover ourselves not in possession, but in self-gift. It insists that the body, whether in the bedroom, the factory, the breadline, or the altar, reveals the same truth. We are made for communion.

John Paul II's Theology of the Body and Laborem Exercens reveal how the body, whether in love or labour, teaches the meaning of gift. Catholic Social Teaching extends this anthropology to every sphere, insisting that economic justice and sexual integrity share the same source - the dignity of the person made for communion.

The artificial divide between moral and social teaching obscures this unity. Both respond to the same wound, the fall from gift into grasping, and require the same healing.

Dorothy Dy lived this integrated teaching. Her life challenges Catholics of the left who champion economic justice while dismissing sexual ethics. Her life challenges Catholics of the right who defend sexual morality while ignoring economic exploitation. She refuses to let us divide what Christ united.

This is not biology with moral footnotes. It's the recognition that sexuality is among God's most beautiful gifts, so beautiful that it images the Trinity, so powerful that it creates life, so meaningful that it demands our whole person. And because it's so beautiful, its corruption devastates. Pornography and sweatshops both defile the image of God. Both reduce communion to consumption. Both must be resisted with the same fierce love.

The body, our body, every person’s body, carries the memory of both the wound of sin and the promise of glory. How we love in the most intimate sphere shapes how we love in all others.

The person who learns to grasp in the bedroom will find grasping in the boardroom easier. A person formed in marital self-gift is more likely to extend that gift to their community. Vice or virtue doesn’t mechanically transfer from one sphere to another, but the heart learns patterns that shape all our loves.

This choice echoes from Eden to Mount Sinai to Golgotha to the altar of every Mass. The open hand or the closed fist?

Between these two stories, every human life is lived. We are free to choose, but only one love can make us whole.

"This is my body, given for you."