At first glance, it might seem like simple humility of circumstance, a courteous way of speaking. In reality, when viewed in relation to his entire way of thinking and acting, this language reveals something much deeper: for St Vincent, the poverty of words and means is not a defect to be corrected, but the theological place where God can act.
St Vincent was a man of the 17th century, in a cultural context where rhetoric carried enormous weight: famous preachers, artfully constructed sermons, theologians who measured themselves by their elegant phrases. Yet he, who knew how to speak effectively and had contacts at the highest levels of the Church and society, often chose a different register.
When he writes to a bishop, a lady of the court, or a fellow brother, he does not hesitate to describe the words he uses as poor, the arguments he puts forward as poor, and the tools at his disposal as poor. He does so while dealing with matters of great importance: the founding of seminaries, missions in devastated regions, the sending of priests among slaves, decisions about the future of the Daughters of Charity.
This insistence says at least three things.
First of all, Vincent has no illusions about the power of human language: a letter, a speech, a programme cannot save anyone. They can guide, support, correct, but salvation – the conversion of a heart, perseverance in a vocation, peace in a community – remains God’s work. Words are tools, and he does not want to forget that.
Secondly, defining his words as “poor” means not absolutising his ideas. Even when he is convinced, even when he has experience, even when he sees further than others, Vincent does not put himself at the centre. This choice of language educates others – and himself – to distinguish between the Gospel, which is a strong and definitive Word, and our interpretations, which always remain limited.
Finally, these expressions motivate a very concrete style of communication: brief, clear words, adapted to the interlocutors, more interested in the real good of people than in the perfection of form. They are “poor words” because they seek to remain within the reach of the poor: peasants, slaves, the sick, simple people, but also tired priests, wounded religious, and lost lay people.
Behind this poverty of language there is a theology that Vincent does not always make explicit, but which runs through his whole life: the Son of God, the eternal Word of the Father, chose to become a poor word, fragile flesh, a concrete story in an unknown village.
When St Vincent contemplates the poor Jesus – the Child of Bethlehem, the itinerant preacher with nowhere to lay his head, the despised Crucified One – he sees not only a moral model; he sees the way in which God decided to speak to the world: without force, without splendour, without any guarantee of being accepted. A Word that accepts being rejected, misunderstood, contradicted.
Vincent’s “poverty of words” echoes this choice of God. If God accepted that his Word would appear weak in the eyes of the world, then the missionary, the superior, the founder must also accept that his words are not infallible weapons or instruments of domination.
In this sense, defining one’s words as “poor” means placing them within the logic of the Incarnation: not expecting them to convince everyone, not wanting to bend people to one’s will with the force of argument, not measuring the success of the mission by the brilliance of speech, but by fidelity to the Gospel proclaimed in weakness.
This poverty of language corresponds to the poverty of means. St Vincent speaks naturally of the ‘poor catechisms’, the ‘poor daughters’, the ‘poor Company’, the ‘poor priests’. He does not do so to discourage himself, but because he sees in the disproportion between means and fruits a sign of God.
The popular missions are not organised with great apparatus: a few priests, a few coadjutor brothers, a simple programme – preaching, catechism, general confessions, reconciliation between enemies. Yet how often he recounts profound conversions, peace rediscovered, vocations born precisely in those poor contexts!
The Daughters of Charity are ‘poor country girls,’ without refined culture or extraordinary gifts. Yet they serve the sick in large hospitals, care for foundlings, assist convicts and the condemned, and are sent to important cities and remote villages. Their ‘poor hands,’ as Vincent would say, become a sacrament of God’s tenderness.
The Congregation itself was founded by a few men without particular academic brilliance, and often diminished by difficulties: scarcity of resources, war, disease, misunderstandings. Yet, how fruitful it was! Seminaries, missions, works of charity, accompanying bishops, presence among slaves…
St. Vincent reads all this as God’s pedagogy: the Lord loves to use what is weak to confound what is strong, what is ‘poor’ to show that strength comes from Him. For his sensibility, the more fragile and simple the means, the more evident it is that good comes from above.
Hence his constant invitation not to seek security in numbers, money or prestige, but to maintain a poor lifestyle that does not stifle God’s freedom with our plans.
There is also a very concrete, even psychological, dimension to this way of speaking. Calling one’s words “poor” is a way of defending oneself against an ever-lurking disease: clericalism, the pretence of having all the answers, of occupying all the space with one’s own ideas, of believing that without us nothing can go forward.
St Vincent is well aware of the temptation of spiritual power. He is listened to by bishops, influential at court, consulted by great families, responsible for communities and works. It would be all too easy to believe himself indispensable. His language of poverty acts as a constant counter-movement: it reminds him, and reminds others, that his reasoning is not the last word.
This has very beautiful consequences on the pastoral level. If my words are ‘poor,’ I cannot afford not to listen to those of others. I cannot treat as irrelevant the insights of a village widow, a young priest, or a Daughter of Charity who sees reality from the hospital.
The poverty of words creates space for listening. A word that does not claim to be absolute opens the door to community discernment, fraternal correction, and the contribution of all. It is the opposite of the ‘rich’ word, which imposes itself, crushes, and leaves no margin.
If we look at today, the Congregation of the Mission – like so many ecclesial realities – is experiencing a new poverty: fewer vocations, fewer economic resources, more difficult cultural contexts, a minority voice in complex societies. We could read all this only as a decline. The spirituality of St. Vincent invites us to another reading.
In a world saturated with words – talk shows, social media, opinions everywhere – the honesty of saying “our words are poor” can become a prophetic act. It means rejecting the logic of noise and choosing a different style: measured words, rooted in the Gospel, spoken after listening long and hard to reality and to people, and entrusted to God rather than to algorithms.
Similarly, the poverty of means – small communities, few structures, limited budgets – can be an opportunity to return to the essential: to be truly present among the poor, without distraction; to focus on deep relationships rather than big events; to value collaboration with other ecclesial and civil realities, instead of thinking we have to do everything ourselves.
This does not mean idealising poverty or denying the hardships it brings. St Vincent was not naive: he was concerned about expenses, organised resources and sought benefactors. But he did so without ever confusing the means with the end, without forgetting that the most beautiful projects are not worth as much as a single act of charity lived in truth.
At the root of everything is a simple and radical way of perceiving oneself: poor instruments in God’s hands.
He sees the misery of the poor, the wounds of the Church, the wars that devastate territories, the confusion of so many. And he feels that his strength, his reasoning, his works are not enough. But instead of becoming paralysed, he entrusts this disproportion to God. It is this entrusting that transforms the poverty of words and means into openness to grace.
For this to become true today, perhaps three steps are needed.
The first is to accept the truth of one’s own poverty: not only to recognise personal or community limitations, but to stop being ashamed of them. Fragility is not scandalous; it is a human condition shared with the poor we serve.
The second is to consciously choose poor but evangelical means: closeness, listening, visiting, persevering presence; simple and true words; discreet collaboration with anyone who works for the good of the poor. These are poor means, but they are capable of bringing a light that other more “powerful” instruments cannot give.
The third is to entrust the fruit to God’s freedom: not to measure everything in terms of visible results, numbers, efficiency. The story of St. Vincent is full of fruits that he himself did not fully see; yet, from his “poor Company” a current of charity and mission was born that spans the centuries.
Perhaps, then, one of the most precious legacies that St. Vincent leaves to the Congregation of the Mission and to the entire Vincentian Family is precisely this: do not be afraid to be poor in words and means, because the Gospel is stronger than our weakness.
In a world that exalts aggressive communication and grandiose projects, the choice to speak with humility, to act with simple means, to recognise ourselves as poor instruments may seem like a losing battle. Instead, it is the space in which God continues to do what He has always done: take what is small to accomplish great things, and give the poor – of all times – the certainty that they are not saved by the power of men, but by the stubborn love of Him who chose to become, first of all, the poor Word among us.
