The Face of the Neighbour. A Theology of Relationship in the Trial of the End of Life

“In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth” (Gen 1:1) . From its very first verses, the Bible teaches us to listen to Someone other than ourselves. Otherness is the crucible of all creation: it permeates every relationship with reality. It is indeed in the light of God that it becomes possible to receive creation as a gift and, thereby, to enter into relationship with the Creator and all creatures.

This reminder is not trivial. It constitutes a structuring principle of existence and points to the very meaning of sacred history, the history guided by God up to the present day. For, ever since the first sin, humanity has tended to substitute for this divine beginning a self-centered beginning: “ in the beginning, me,” “my fatigue,” “my concerns,” “my judgments,” “my successes and my failures.” This self-referentiality traps the human being in a logic of withdrawal that makes them less open to welcoming the other—whether it be God, the Wholly Other, creation, or the face of one’s neighbor.

Faced with the end of life, this shift can be particularly acute: suffering, pain, fear, and loss of control can present themselves as self-referential shortcuts, reasons for withdrawal, and lead to decisions that risk undermining the recognition of the infinite dignity of all human life. These temptations lie in wait not only for the patient but also for the caregiver.

Like Job, we too can move from the question of the “why” of misfortune to that of the “for what”—or rather, the “toward what”—and thus rediscover the gift of creation. It is in the midst of distress that, in this book of wisdom, God’s challenge resounds: “Where were you when I laid the earth’s foundation? ” (Job 38:4). The dialogue with Job then consists in retracing the gift of creation. This appears as a space where, more profoundly than through suffering, humanity is reborn to life: a path of access to the Creator and the Savior. The original gift always precedes every event, particularly human suffering. We are called to see it anew. In the same vein, Pope Francis said of tears that they are “glasses to see better2 ”.

The opening verses of Genesis thus invite us to rediscover, at every moment in history, the gift of creation. Even in the darkest moments, it is a matter of welcoming time, space, and creatures—even the face of the other—as a unique gift.

Entering into this disposition is a matter of ongoing conversion, including in the practice of care. How, then, can the caregiver bear witness to these gifts in a hospital room? By giving time rather than merely passing through it—even when time seems short—by ensuring the room is welcoming, by offering a smile, a listening ear, and competent care, especially in the face of pain: all these are signs of life that call for life.

Commenting on the Book of Genesis, and in the wake of Gaudium et spes 12, Saint John Paul II reminds us that man is created for relationships of communion.

This concept points to a reality that is both simple and demanding: welcoming the other, whatever their condition, as a gift in and of themselves (a creature given to itself). The other cannot be reduced to their utility; they are not defined by what they can offer me, nor solely by their outward appearance. They are given to themselves. To contemplate this gift is to open oneself to a person-to-person relationship. Such a relationship opens up a space of freedom, where each person can rediscover the gift of life and reclaim it.

This perspective allows us to distinguish relationships of communion from utilitarian relationships, in which the other is sought out based on a need or an interest. And when the other is sick, in a coma, when it seems they can no longer offer anything, it is then that they lead me to the heart of their being—where life springs forth more deeply than the trial of death. Relational gratuitousness emerges from this divine beginning that animates every living being, the source of all life (cf. Wis 11:26), even where suffering and death make themselves heard. The beginning of a human being thus appears for what it is: a gift from everlasting to everlasting.

It is from this original relationship with God that human beings can recognize the other as a neighbor. God draws near by giving life to the very end, and it is in this divine closeness that human beings learn to draw near in turn (cf. Deut 30:14).

Relationships of communion thus presuppose the recognition of the otherness and uniqueness of each person. In this regard, the thought of Emmanuel Levinas offers decisive insight: the face of the other imposes itself as an ethical call3. It forbids violence and opens the way to responsibility.

From the very first chapters of Genesis, God addresses this call to man and woman: “Be fruitful and multiply” (Gen 1:28). Biblical fruitfulness is not reduced to a biological dimension; it denotes the capacity to receive life in all its dimensions in order to give it. This call is renewed after the Fall. When the Lord says to the woman, “I will greatly increase your pains in childbirth” (Gen 3:16), the “multiplication” in question remains that of life. But the distance introduced by sin makes welcoming it more difficult and more painful. As the Book of Revelation attests (Rev 12), the pains of childbirth run through the entire history of salvation (cf. Is 13:8; Jer 4:31; Mic 4:9–10; Jn 16:21) and imply an ever-deeper appropriation of the gift received, at every stage of existence, until the reception of the Word of life. The Gospel according to Saint John expresses this explicitly: “Whoever remains in me and I in him bears much fruit, for apart from me you can do nothing” (Jn 15:5). It is always and again a matter of welcoming the gift of life more deeply than evil and suffering, through creation—and, in a privileged way, through the face of the other.

In the context of care, this fruitfulness takes on a unique form: it consists not only in striving for healing, but in making room for life where it seems fragile, threatened, or obscured. The caregiver participates in this dynamic by recognizing, in the patient, a life that remains worthy of being welcomed and served, even when its expressions are greatly diminished. Giving time, maintaining a presence, soothing pain, accompanying without necessarily controlling: these are all ways of bearing fruit by allowing the life received to flow. Thus, care becomes a place of fruitfulness, where life is often transmitted in a discreet and hidden, yet real, way, through this attention to the other’s face.

We all experience that this relationship to the gift of life is not self-evident. This is why the Lord gave us his Law. He inscribed on tablets what sin, evil, suffering, and passions can cause us to forget: the word of life at the beginning of human existence4.

The gift of the Decalogue constitutes an essential step in this divine pedagogy (cf. Ex 20:1–17). The two tablets of the Law express the orientation of human existence: it is in the light of God’s love (in both the subjective and objective senses) that love of neighbor is continually rooted anew (cf. Mt 22:37–39).

Between these two dimensions, certain commandments play a pivotal role. Such is the case with the commandment: “Honor your father and your mother” (Ex 20:12). The Hebrew verb “to honor” could be translated as “to glorify.” It is our relationship with God that enables us to give thanks for the generations that came before us. Human beings are, therefore, fundamentally indebted.

Conversely, a lack of gratitude leads to covetousness and sometimes to jealousy, even to murder (cf. Gen 4:1–8).

Furthermore, the commandment regarding the Sabbath, which precedes the one concerning the relationship with parents, introduces an essential dimension: that of rest (cf. Ex 20:8-11). Rest is not merely a cessation of activity; it is a spiritual disposition that allows one to receive time as a gift and to contemplate the work of the Creator. Without this capacity to receive, it becomes impossible to enter into a mindset of welcoming life, of gift, and of hospitality—that hospitality which is at the origin of the institution of the hospital.

The creation account emphasizes that, on the seventh day, God “rested” (Gen 2:2). This expression must be understood as a way of saying that God “settles” anew, that he establishes a gratuitous relationship with creation, which he continues to sustain in existence (cf. Heb 1:3). He contemplates its beauty and harmony.

It It is thanks to this grounding in this spiritual generation that we honor the generations that precede us, that is, we bear witness for them to this life given by God through them. It is also in the light of this life received from God that we can fulfill the commandments concerning our neighbor (do not kill, do not commit adultery, do not steal, do not bear false witness, do not covet) and give thanks for one’s life.

If we refer to the Gospel, what does Jesus do on the Sabbath? He gives life by healing (cf. Mk 3:1-6; Lk 13:10-17). He settles once more within creation. After his Passion, at the moment of his death, he is laid in a tomb: he rests even in death (cf. Lk 23:53–56). This Sabbath is called the “great Sabbath,” for Jesus comes to meet us in the very heart of death to give us the eternal life received from the Father (cf. Rom 6:4). In iconographic tradition, Christ is depicted drawing Adam and Eve out of the underworld (cf. 1 Pet 3:18–19): a sign that divine closeness reaches the ultimate depths of every person’s existence. This descent is at the same time an ascent, oriented toward eternal life.

Every celebration of the Eucharist makes present this mystery of death and resurrection (cf. Lk 22:19) . More than simply attending Mass or receiving the sacraments, it is important to live by this act of thanksgiving. In a context where the end of life is sometimes thought of in terms of a decision to be made or an act to be performed, the Eucharist reminds us that life is received and given. It opens us to the origin and purpose of all human life: the action of grace. It brings about a transformation of our very being: Christ reaches us even in death to give us His life. This is why He sends us to the “peripheries” of humanity (cf. Mt 25:40), to the poor and the dying, to receive there the Life He gives them and shares with us.

These peripheries are not merely distant realities; they lie at the very heart of our daily lives: neighbors, people in precarious situations, our families marked by so much human fragility—and especially those at the end of life.

When Saint John Paul II recalled his vocation, he spoke of how every truly human encounter had opened up a space of life within him, had led him to give thanks more deeply, and, through this thanksgiving, to offer his own life5.

This experience also sheds light on care: every authentic encounter with a sick person can become a place of mutual transformation, where life flows and is given, often beyond the visible boundaries of our humanity. John Paul II said this solemnly at the end of his life, in the midst of his illness:

Thus, the Christian life, nourished by the Eucharist, calls us to stand where life is wounded, fragile, vulnerable, and suffering—not to control its outcome, but to accompany its mystery. God drew near even unto death; to follow Christ is to take up this same path of humanity marked by poverty and limitations (cf. Phil 2:6-8).

The Synoptic Gospels summarize the two tablets of the law as follows: “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your strength, and your neighbor as yourself” (cf. Mt 22:37–40; Mk 12:29–31; Lk 10:25–28).

The Gospel, particularly through the parable of the Good Samaritan (Lk 10:25–37), invites us to deepen our understanding of the concept of neighbor. Who is my neighbor? It is not only the one who helps, who draws near; it is also the one who is wounded.

This Gospel perspective profoundly challenges the relationship of care: the sick person, at the end of life, in their extreme vulnerability, is not merely the object of protocols and care; they become, in a unique way, the place where the neighbor is revealed.

Christ himself is also manifested in this figure of the wounded one (cf. Is 53:3-5), revealing to us how power is not necessarily manifested in visible or effective action, but even more so at the heart of weakness (cf. 2 Cor 12:9).

What I am saying may seem a bit distant, a bit difficult... Yet, I experienced it not long ago.

I cared for my brother, who died very quickly from pancreatic cancer. He passed away within a month. I have another brother with Down syndrome. Since we are a large family, we were also very attentive to this little brother as we cared for our older brother. At the moment of death, when we sensed the end was near, all the brothers and sisters were gathered around him. These are moments when you don’t know what to say. We are struck by an immense sense of helplessness. And I believe that caregivers—I’m speaking here from a family experience, but I myself was a palliative care nurse—are not spared this emotional turmoil. We are profoundly helpless in the face of weakness. Perhaps that is precisely the role of weakness: to render us helpless. It was just when we were all feeling a bit lost that my little brother with Down syndrome stood up. He kissed my older brother and said, “I love you. I’m proud of you. Goodbye.” Those three words—“I love you, I’m proud of you, goodbye”—I believe we all thought inwardly that there were no more fitting words to say at that moment. He had spoken for all of us.

The reader will no doubt wonder why I am sharing this: not simply as a personal testimony, but because this experience raises a very serious question for me regarding our neighbor—namely, how the vulnerable person becomes, in a very special way, the neighbor of the other. There is a real field to explore here. Whether they are people with disabilities or the elderly, the sick, or the dying: because of what they are going through, because of the depth of their experience… they may have an immense gift to offer us.

The more we are marked by weakness, the more we are led to dig deep to find a source of life there, the more we become, in a certain sense, specialists in the divine beginning (cf. 1 Cor 1:27–29) . The more we descend to the level of the heart (the center or deepest part of the human person), the more we access this language of the heart, which reaches the human person at a profound level (cf. Ezek 36:26).

We have true teachers in the “school of the neighbor”: these vulnerable people, those with disabilities, the sick, or the dying. For me, this is an essential question: how do we recognize in them those who profoundly build up the Church and society?

The Gospel according to Saint John describes a significant progression in the relationship with Christ. The apostles are first disciples, that is, men listening to a teacher (cf. Jn 13:13). But this relationship undergoes a reversal when Christ becomes a servant, notably during the washing of the feet (cf. Jn 13:14–15).

It is in this context that it is said that he “loved them to the end” (Jn 13:1). This expression does not refer merely to death, but to the fulfillment of love in its eschatological dimension, that is, in communion with the Father, in eternal life.

It is then that another word appears: that of friend. Jesus says: “I no longer call you servants […] but I call you friends” (Jn 15:15). It is important to redefine these terms.

What does it mean to be a disciple? It means listening to the Word so that he may become flesh within us (cf. Jn 1:14). Faith establishes us in this attitude of discipleship.

But when does one become a friend? There is a profoundly Christian sense of friendship, which expresses an even greater closeness. In Jesus’ eyes, this is manifested when one gives one’s life: “There is no greater love than to lay down one’s life for those one loves” (Jn 15:13). To love to the end is to love with that love: a love that gives itself, a love that is an expression of charity (cf. 1 Cor 13). After faith, we thus enter into charity.

And when do we become brothers? Brotherhood is an essential dimension—in our society, but even more so in the Christian life. We are called to become brothers, but this is not a given. There is a very specific moment when Jesus calls his disciples “brothers”: after the Resurrection. He says to Mary Magdalene: “Go to my brothers […] I am ascending to my Father and your Father” (Jn 20:17) .

It is by bringing us into his relationship with the Father that he establishes us as brothers. He enables us to know the Father’s love.

From that point on, a question arises for us—especially as caregivers and helpers: how do we move from the relationship of a disciple to friendship, and then to true brotherhood?

In other words, in a context where end-of-life care may be approached from the perspective of technical or legal decisions, how do we communicate this life that transcends our own and calls us to respect the infinite dignity of every human person?

For “eternal life is this: that they may know you, the only true God ” (Jn 17:3). This life is given to us right now: through the sacraments, faith, charity, and hope, and especially when we contemplate this Word of the beginning, which springs forth from the heart of extreme vulnerability, deeper than death. When we enter into it, we discover that it opens up within us a space of life that is absolutely new:

Conclusion: Becoming Close in God’s Way

God takes the initiative in the relationship. He draws near—in creation, in the Law, in Christ, even in death and eternal life—in order to teach us to draw near in turn.

In the current context of end-of-life laws, this approach takes on special significance: it reminds us that the response to suffering and death cannot be reduced to a single act or decision, for it begins with a genuine presence with the other.

Thus, the question of our neighbor is not primarily a matter of moral effort, but of inner transformation: allowing God to be the beginning of our lives, so that our relationships—even in the most fragile situations—become places of life, of giving, and of communion.

From this perspective, every encounter can become a theological space, a place where God gives Himself and reveals Himself. The face of the other—especially the most vulnerable, the one approaching death—then becomes the privileged place where faith, charity, and hope are lived out. Perhaps this is the deepest call addressed to us today, at the very heart of debates on the end of life: to learn to receive life in order to give it, to learn to let ourselves be loved so that we may love in turn, and to discover, at the very heart of our relationships, that our neighbor gradually becomes… our brother, the one who opens us anew to “God’s beginning” for eternity.