In the realm of “phenomenology of the neighbor,” perhaps no one has contributed more than the philosopher Emmanuel Levinas. But the generation before preceded his ontology of the Other with its own original and impressive accounts. Two legendary contributors of this generation, one a philosopher and the other a theologian, are Martin Heidegger and Dietrich Bonhoeffer. The works in which these thinkers investigate the notion of the “neighbor” most explicitly are Heidegger’s 1951 essay, “Building, Dwelling, Thinking,” and Bonhoeffer’s 1930 dissertation, Sanctorum Communio. Another later but still important work relating to Heidegger is Lawrence Vogel’s 1994 book, The Fragile “We,” an ethical critique of the Heidegger’s opus, Being and Time.
Heidegger and Bonhoeffer deserve an overdue conversation with each other—Heidegger representing what we will call the spatial conception of the neighbor, his critic Vogel representing the ethical, and Bonhoeffer representing the ethical-spatial conception. While Heidegger succeeds in drawing out the spatial and provincial character of the neighbor as the one who dwells near me, he admits no explicit ethical duty towards this near-dweller. This is Vogel’s critique, and he in turn suggests a cosmopolitan conception of the neighbor as the one whom I am obliged to treat solely as an end and not as a means. This analysis, however, fails in discussing the spatial obligation to the neighbor as the particular who is near me, and thus Vogel shrouds the neighbor in an abstract notion of duty. The solution to both these problems is found in Bonhoeffer’s analysis, which combines both the spatial and ethical aspects of the neighbor previously isolated in Heidegger and Vogel. Thus we will show that Bonhoeffer gives the fullest phenomenological account of the neighbor.
Before judging the merits of these phenomenologies, however, we must discern our purpose for a proper phenomenology of the neighbor. Why do we search for a phenomenology of the neighbor at all? And how does a phenomenology of the neighbor differ from ethics, metaphysics, or any other study?
Heidegger’s definition of phenomenology in Being and Time guides us in this preliminary clarification. Phenomeno-logy is a combination of phenomenon and logos. In Being and Time Heidegger defines the phenomenon as, simply, “that which shows itself in itself, the manifest.”  While this definition may resemble the traditional notion of an appearance of a thing, that is precisely what Heidegger does not want. The “mere appearance” does not mean “showing-itself; it means rather the announcing by something which does not show itself.”  That is, the appearance is a covering-over of the thing which the appearance is supposed to represent. In this case, the thing-in-itself remains hidden and unknowable.  Rather, “that which shows itself in itself” is the more primordial showing upon which the varying “appearances” of something else are based. Heidegger defines logos as the “letting be seen,” or the making “manifest” that “lets us see something from the very thing which the discourse is about.” 
Heidegger combines the phenomenon, the thing-which-shows-itself-in-itself, and the logos, the letting-be-seen, into his formal definition of phenomenology: “to let that which shows itself be seen from itself in the very way in which it shows itself from itself.”  The goal of phenomenology is to let beings show themselves in the way they reveal themselves. Whereas metaphysics views the appearance as a manifestation of something which lies “behind a curtain,” so to speak, and thus engages with the appearance only from the basis of that which lies behind this curtain, phenomenology aims to allow the appearing of this appearance itself to show itself in its own truth, free from presuppositions or systematic assignments.
This way of letting-things-be-seen relates to the neighbor because, for the most part, we view the neighbor the same way that in our normal sciences we view things through the lens of scientific assignment. For instance, in political science of our democracies, we view the neighbor as a potential vote which usually follows the patterns of this or that demographic. In biology, man is the organism matched with other sexually compatible organisms, eventually classified into a species. And in the most everyday “science,” marketing, the neighbor is a consumer to be persuaded to purchase this or that thing. Contrasting all these sciences which make man an object of study, a phenomenology of the neighbor aims to let him show himself to us in the very way in which he shows himself, i.e. to show himself in his “true being” upon which all these other conceptions are built, to borrow a phrase from Heidegger.
If we try to meet the “neighbor” in a way that gives its own account, we enter into a realm that seems to be there already: ethics. But for the same reason that phenomenology is needed in place of metaphysics, so too is it needed in place of ethics. If phenomena were as easy to let-be-seen as the showing-itself suggests, there would only be the immediate experience of phenomena and thus no need at all for phenomenology. As Heidegger states, “just because phenomena are proximally and for the most part not given, there is need for phenomenology.”  This same idea applies to our ethical concern for the neighbor: if the neighbor showed itself so easily as the colloquial term suggests, we would have no ethical problem in encountering and living with them. There would be no ethics! But because the neighbor for the most part does not show itself—due either to our unethical concealing of it or its own mysterious hiddenness—there is need for a phenomenology of the neighbor: a letting the neighbor show-itself-in-itself in the exact way it shows itself.
Heidegger gives a spatial presentation of the neighbor in “Building, Dwelling, Thinking.” Though this text is concerned foremost with dwelling and building, not the neighbor, Heidegger purposely attaches dwelling to neighbor in his etymological tracing of the German nachbar (“neighbor”). This German word has its root in the Old English neahgebur: “neah, near, and gebur, dweller.”  Heidegger thus defines the neighbor as “the near-dweller, he who dwells nearby.”  This definition seems simple enough and, upon first impressions, bears little significance. But, for Heidegger, “dwells” in this definition assigns it greater importance, because dwelling in the case of this essay replaces the traditional word for being. That is, “man is insofar as he dwells.”  Heidegger goes so far as to declare that “Dwelling is the manner in which mortals are on the earth.”  The neighbor, therefore, is he who dwells near me, the one who is near to me.
But what does it mean to “dwell,” and how does this affect how I am with the one who “dwells nearby?” Dwelling has a primordial two-fold sense: first, to “cherish and protect, to preserve and care for… [to tend] the growth that ripens into its fruit of its own accord;”  and second, to build something in a way that one “makes their own works.”  To dwell is both to allow to grow, to let-something-become, and also to construct, to build-one’s-own. But both of these modes of dwelling unite under the “fundamental character of dwelling,” which is a “sparing and preserving,” a practice of remaining “at peace within the free, the preserve, the free sphere that safeguards each thing in its nature.”  To dwell thus means: to spare beings and preserve them, whether it be in the first cultivating fashion that allows beings to come into their own, or to actually bring forth beings by one’s own work.
This sparing and preserving comes to mortals in Heidegger’s now-famous “fourfold:” in preserving the earth, existing “under the sky,” in remaining “before the divinities,” and “belonging to men’s being with one another.”  Each of these modes of being-with—“earth and sky, divinities and mortals—belong together in one.” To truly dwell in a good way, for Heidegger, is to “preserve the fourfold in its essential being . . . to take under our care, to look after the fourfold in its presencing.” 
Our neighbor, then, as the near-dweller, is the one who preserves the fourfold in the space near us, the one who both cultivates and builds near us. Since we too are dwellers, we are to likewise cultivate and build in a way that spares and preserves the fourfold, a way in which we “take under our care” the fourfold and “look after” it. In that way, then, Heidegger gives us a primordial ethic of engagement with our neighbor: to dwell near them in a good way, to contribute to preserving the fourfold through cultivating and building.
But since the neighbor is near us—that is, he dwells in the space where our own experience of the fourfold is brought to presence, we have an even greater duty to the “belonging to men’s being with one another,” of being-with the one near us. As the one who is near, then, we have a duty to spare him: to “preserve from harm and danger,” but also to “preserve for peace.”  That is, we obviously spare him in the sense of doing no harm, but we also must “be at peace” with him in a way that “safeguards each thing”—not least each neighbor—“in its nature.” We have a duty to preserve the dweller near us in both the negative and positive sense. The mortal near us in the fourfold within which we both dwell is owed our care.
Unfortunately, Heidegger does not take much advantage of this subject, as he gives only a passing, seemingly unrelated reference to this mode of being in his discussion of the “mortal” section of the fourfold. To Heidegger, a proper dwelling of mortals is one in which “they initiate . . . their being capable of death as death…so that there may be a good death.” He gives little plan of what a “good death” is, though he proscribes making “death, as empty Nothing, the goal . . . [or to] darken dwelling by blindly staring toward the end.”  The goal is certainly not to glorify death, just as little as the goal is to make an “idol” out of the divinities (which Heidegger also proscribes), but rather a “good death” in the sense of acknowledgement of mortality—perhaps an appropriation of death similar to the one described in Being and Time.
Even so, Heidegger’s vague prescription of the practice of a “good death” lacks ethical content. He focuses here on how one preserves their own mortality into the fourfold, rather than on how one interacts with the fellow-mortal dwelling near them. Heidegger emphasizes the essential oneness of the four, so any ethical obligation man would have would be to the earth, sky, and divinities just as much as to another mortal. Only by preserving all four would man authentically dwell with others. Perhaps that is why he gives no more attention to the fellow-mortal or the neighbor than to the sky or the divinities. 
While Heidegger lacks an ethical tone in his description of dwelling with the neighbor, his discussion of space in relation to the fourfold corrects some metaphysical obstructions—such as the Kantian “kingdom of ends”—that keep us from letting the neighbor reveal itself. In metaphysical presuppositions of space it sounds as though man stood on one side, space on the other. Yet space is not something that faces man… It is not that there are men, and over and above them space; for when I say “a man,” and in this word think of . . . who dwells—then by the name “man” I already name the stay within the fourfold among things. 
When we say “man,” we do not mean the isolated subject over and against a range of objects. We rather mean a being who dwells in the fourfold among other beings—and within this fourfold is the neighbor, the near-dweller, whom we do not stand over against but rather dwell-with, both of us preserving and sparing the fourfold by cultivating and building. And when we say “space,” we do not mean an external, merely physical surrounding of objects around the subject. Space is rather the world in which man always find himself in every instance, the place where he spends each day dwelling with others in the fourfold. Man is in so far as he is in his space, and space is in so far as it is integrated with man.
In the case of the Kantian “kingdom of ends,” in which we treat men only as an end and not as a means, the neighbor is simply the one to whom I owe duty as some “end;” he is that which stands over and against me as a duty to be fulfilled instead of a neighbor with whom to dwell. Ironically, the neighbor in the form of a Kantian “end” is actually the means through which I fulfill the end of a philosophical duty, rather than an end in itself. The neighbor does not show itself as my neighbor. Heidegger’s notion of spatial dwelling, though lacking in the ethical itself, corrects this problem by emphasizing the nearness of the neighbor.
The kingdom of ends is problematic as its own analysis and needs Heidegger’s spatial notion of dwelling to be a fuller account. However, Lawrence Vogel applies it in The Fragile “We” to critique Heidegger’s work as well. Though Vogel’s critique concerns Being and Time and not “Building, Dwelling, Thinking,” the similar spatial orientation of the former connects these two works so that Vogel’s critique applies broadly to Heidegger, and therefore to “Building, Dwelling, Thinking” as well. Indeed, Vogel classifies Heidegger’s implicit ethics of historicity—the responsibility of man to appropriate a “shared inheritance” and project a “communal possibility” —as “provincialism,”  in terms of dedication to one’s province, one’s relative and historical space. Because of this, we can set Vogel and “Building, Dwelling, Thinking” in discussion with each other.
Vogel commends the historicist, provincial ethic of Heidegger in that it “subverts the anarchism of the existentialist reading [of Being and Time] which places too much emphasis on the solitude of the individual . . .” However, Vogel also finds a danger in this provincialism: “Instead of disconnected individuals, we are now faced with disconnected groups each of which defines its destiny within a particular, totalizing horizon.”  That is, the regional orientation of neighborly ethics creates narcissism writ large, now with communities distinguished totally by race, religion, ethnicity, nation, or any other binding horizon, conflicting with anyone pursuing a horizon different than their own. And while Heidegger might give a love for the near-dweller, he gives no account for the one who dwells far away or the one who dwells in a way foreign to us. Vogel fears tribalism, explicitly so. And while he does not agree “that [Heidegger’s] ontology of human existence is responsible” for the moral failing of that great bane, Nazism—or even Heidegger’s flirtation with it—he does recognize that Heidegger’s ontology “appears to make room for any possibility whatsoever because it precludes none absolutely.”  He finds in Heidegger an ethical vacuum failing to guard against the worst tendencies of provincial dwelling: a void of either common humanity or objective grounds for ethics, which leads to hatred of the foreigner and racism.
Vogel’s solution is what he calls the “cosmopolitan dimension” to Heidegger’s thought.  Taking Kant’s kingdom of ends as his thesis, he finds in Heidegger’s notion of Mitsein (being-with-others) “an attunement to the particularity of others, to others as truly other, stemming from an awareness of the singularity of one’s own existence.” That is, because Dasein (man) recognizes its own potential authentic selfhood, as well as the historic facticity binding itself to its own decision-making, Dasein can and should recognize that same potentiality in other Dasein, and ultimately help (or at least allow) them onto their own path towards authenticity. In this respect Vogel impresses the broad “cosmopolitan idea that all persons are moral equals” upon his reading of Being and Time, so the neighbor calls me to conscience and responsibility, not merely on the basis of “the impersonal voice of reason but from the personal stirrings of the affects.”  By giving the neighbor this character of “personal stirrings,” Vogel hopes to avoid the problem already discussed in the Kantian ideal that the neighbor is met only as a an abstract duty to be fulfilled rather than a neighbor with whom to dwell. Although Vogel’s articulation of the neighbor as the fellow-Dasein whom I aid in the path to authenticity improves the impersonal ethical duty given by Kant, it still suffers from a similar critique, as it is still based on a cosmopolitan, ethical demand rather than the spatial particularity of the neighbor, the demand given us by that neighbor who stands immediately before us.
In discussion with the Heideggerian term “leaping-ahead,” Vogel calls the individual to be the conscience for the other by spurring the neighbor on to become his own authentic self: the “object of liberating solicitude is not the other’s good but the other’s capacity for having an authentic relation to his own existence . . . ” The ethical, authentic Dasein sees others as “possible “objects” of liberating solicitude,” so that in all cases the authentic Dasein adjusts their relationship to other Dasein, even the inauthentic ones, on the basis of their being objects of liberation into true authenticity.
The problem in such an articulation of the neighbor is clear, simply by Vogel’s use of the word “object”: just as the Kantian neighbor is an impersonal duty to be fulfilled, so too is Vogel’s neighbor, since they are an object to be aided in a path to liberation. While there is pathos in relating to the neighbor, and therefore more room than in Kant for particularity, it is still not phenomenological, for the relation does not allow the neighbor to reveal themselves simply from themselves. Instead, we define the neighbor only as the one who can be like me, the one to be helped along to authenticity rather than as a neighbor. In Vogel’s case, the neighbor is defined along the lines of a philosophical ideal rather than their own self-showing.
When we articulate the neighbor only from the basis of adherence to an ideal, that is, only from ethics, we risk becoming like the character Pyotr Luzhin in Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment, a wealthy bachelor who pursues marriage to the protagonist’s sister, but only because she is rather poor and would worship him as her savior for rescuing her out of financial ruin. We find that Luzhin is perhaps the most despicable character in the novel, for his fascination with the good is completely egoistic, and his messiah-complex comes to the fore in his ruthless pursuit of someone he does not love at all. The irony is that, as the caricature of the liberal ideals of love for humanity of his time, he shows perhaps the least loving qualities of all the characters. This reminds us of the anecdote given by Father Zossima in another Dostoyevsky novel, The Brothers Karamazov, about the doctor who bitterly states:
” . . . the more I love humanity in general, the less I love man in particular . . . I have often come to making enthusiastic schemes for the service of humanity… and yet I am incapable of living in the same room with anyone for two days together, as I know by experience.”
When seeing only ethically, without regard to spatial relation, we do not see the neighbor in their fullness, despite Vogel’s argument to the contrary. We treat the neighbor as an abstraction, and we can retreat into “enthusiastic schemes” to better humanity without ever feeling obliged to the person standing before us. And while Heidegger’s articulation of the neighbor risks disdain for those distant, Vogel’s allows disdain for those near—so long as I fulfill my abstract duty, e.g. by donating to an organization or supporting a cause.
The solution to both Heidegger’s ethically vacuous provincialism and Vogel’s impersonal cosmopolitanism, I argue, lies in the ethical-spatial articulation of love for the neighbor in Bonhoeffer’s Sanctorum Communio. His articulation of the neighbor in this work, while sociological, is explicitly theological. Thus it might seem strange to find here a proper “phenomenology” of the neighbor. Would this not be the place where the neighbor is most shrouded by foreign religious concepts? However, precisely because of this theological account, the neighbor is allowed to show itself most fully as itself, as the neighbor.
Bonhoeffer begins his discussion of the neighbor through an articulation of Christian love as divine agape in contrast to human erós. Erós is the natural human love, the “crude intensity directed toward ourselves,”  while the Christian agape is the wholly divine, unconditional love. It is not a human possibility—“it has nothing to do with the idea of humanitarianism” —and it happens only through Christian faith, for it “is based on obedience to the word of Christ, who… demands that we should give up all claims whatsoever on God or on our neighbor.”  This complete contrast leads Bonhoeffer to go so far as declare that “apart from Christ all love is self-love.”  Thus, any proper love enacted by the Christian is “exclusively determined by God’s will for the other person…” The Christian completely surrenders their own erós, the only human possibility, to the will of God, who then by the Holy Spirit transforms it into divine agape towards the other.
This theological account of love seems to stifle any revelation of the neighbor as the neighbor, since it completely destroys human possibility. But paradoxically, through the annihilation of the human self-will towards the other, the neighbor is given room to show itself in its own. The will is directed towards God in “giving up of our own will to God’s will,” but this will is directed back openly to the neighbor through God’s command: Thou shalt love thy neighbor as yourself. Bonhoeffer contends with a distortion of this analysis whereby the Christian only loves God in the neighbor rather than their “reality.” Bonhoeffer asserts the opposite: Christian agape loves the “neighbor as a human being . . . who experiences God’s claim in this You of the neighbor . . .I do not love God in the “neighbor,” but I love the concrete You . . .” By giving up our will, our will is directed to the neighbor as the neighbor.
This adherence to the “concrete You” “who experiences God’s claim” also guards against a naïve optimism, an orientation towards the neighbor that sees only the best in them without seeing their fallenness. For any good Christian account of the man shows that each man is a sinner, one who—either due to original sin, his own personal failings, or both (which Bonhoeffer contends)—has “fallen short of the glory of God,” to quote Paul’s famous phrase in Romans. Nevertheless, just as God has claimed this sinful person for Himself as His own child, so too must the Christian claim the fallen neighbor as his own. In one particularly ethereal passage in the already-ethereal Works of Love, Kierkegaard discusses the Christian love as one who is blind, yet sees all. The Christian, just like the cynic, sees the scoundrel before him in all his wretchedness, and in that sense he “sees all” in the sinful nature of man. But then he, by the miracle of Christian love, treats the scoundrel as his own, for “just as God has forgiven,” so too must he forgive. Though he sees the scoundrel, he blinds himself to what he deserves and instead offers his love. However, the greates irony is this: that though he blinds himself, he sees even further into the truth of the man, for now he sees his neighbor as God sees him, and in this respect he sees all. Here we do not have a blind humanitarianism that sees only the best in everyone, but rather a clear-eyed sight of the concrete sin of all men that nevertheless loves each neighbor as God has called him to be loved, concretely and totally.
This redirection may seem like a theological leap, a convenient yet empty filler for “God’s will” which provides us with an illusory “phenomenology” we have been pursuing. But Bonhoeffer provides the account of God’s will concretely: “God’s will for the other person is defined for us in the unrestricted command to surrender our self-centered will to our neighbor . . . to put the other in our own place and to love the neighbor instead of ourselves.”  This “unrestricted” command frees us from seeing the neighbor as an object of ethical constraint or duty to be fulfilled. Rather, the neighbor shows itself precisely through its self-showing in whatever need it has, as if I myself had that same need: “the good Samaritan does not help . . . in order to accomplish the purpose of subjecting him to God’s rule, but rather he helps because he sees a need . . . out of love for him.”  In this respect, Bonhoeffer provides an ethical obligation towards the neighbor without restricting the showing of the neighbor.
Bonhoeffer emphasizes the spatial character of the neighbor as well. Since Christian love is towards “the concrete other, love by its intentional nature seeks to form community, i.e., to awaken love in return [emphasis mine].”  While Bonhoeffer articulates love for the neighbor as unreserved and completely renounced in terms of self-will, he also describes this love as concrete, intentional, communal. The love for the neighbor is not directed towards the idea of the neighbor, but rather towards the concrete neighbor itself, the one who shows themselves right before us—to put this in Heideggerian terms, the one who dwells near. And though I do not force the neighbor into community, I have the intention to dwell with him in good community, whatever form that may be. In its most positive concrete form, this community is the Church. But even without the neighbor’s membership in the Church, I still have a spatial orientation towards his concrete existence and definite need. In this respect, Bonhoeffer articulates the neighbor spatially, as the particular one directly in front of me with whom I desire to have concrete, good community—the preservation and sparing Heidegger too desired, but with an ethical obligation Heidegger missed.
We have investigated Heidegger’s spatial articulation of the neighbor and its lack of an ethical obligation, Vogel’s explanation of an ethical duty towards the neighbor and its lack of a spatial orientation, and Bonhoeffer’s successful integration of the two into his account of a theological, ethical-spatial duty towards the neighbor. However, one mystery still remains: our original goal was a phenomenology of the neighbor, letting the neighbor show itself, but our investigation has only discussed how we relate to the neighbor properly, thereby opening the way for the neighbor to show themselves ethically and spatially. Properly speaking, no true phenomenology of the neighbor itself has yet taken place.
Who then is our neighbor? Perhaps they will show themselves, now that we have arrived, hopefully, to proper openness towards their self-showing. And there are some practical implications we might follow from this openness. First, we cannot treat our ethical ideals of the neighbor as abstract duties. Our neighbor is a person who dwells near us, not an obligation in our minds. To emphasize Kierkegaard’s polemic in Works of Love, we cannot love the idea of the neighbor, we must love the neighbor. This may lead us (especially our churches) to focus more on those in our own communities—the homeless man on the street we pass each day, the single mother who lives next door, or simply even the neighbor who invites us to barbecues—rather than causes that are far, far away, such as the week-long mission trip to somewhere in Africa or the gala to raise funds to cure some exotic disease. And when we do care for these more “exotic causes” (which I certainly do not at all proscribe), we must realize we must dwell in these causes, rather than simply throw money towards them. In the churchly realm, mission trips should be intentional, long, and for the purpose of cultivating relationships with communities rather than for a poverty tour.
In my own political case, as someone who lives in south Louisiana, I must always advocate for the cause of our coast which is steadily eroding. This is an “exotic” cause to those who do not live here, as few may know that our state is on a painful track of disappearing. I, as a Louisiana-dweller, have a duty to preserve the fourfold in my own place, for my neighbors cannot dwell with me in a good way, unless we have land on which to dwell. This also illustrates a holistic mode of loving our neighbor: we do not only love our neighbor when we cook them a meal, but also when we safeguard their place, when we make things in a good way, when we garden and cultivate in a good way, and when we work with them in a good way—all within Heidegger’s admittedly-romantic picture of the fourfold.
It is clear that the practical implications I have provided are decidedly local. And while I realize we cannot blind ourselves to the larger world around us—especially since technology has shrunk it so much within the past hundred years—I do exhort that we cannot provide ourselves with the illusion that our connection with a person from France via Skype in any way compares to knocking on our neighbor’s door and asking them to coffee. While the world continually grows more digital, Bonhoeffer and Heidegger show us that it is our duty to continually cultivate and dig deeper into the concrete people and places around us. Before we speak of practical policies, however, we do best also to simply listen to Jesus when he was asked by the lawyer, “who is my neighbor?” to which he told the parable of the good Samaritan and then commanded: go now, and do likewise—not see or find likewise. We must first be that neighbor, rather than find him. Such action passes beyond phenomenology and into the Christian life.
 For the purpose of this essay, we will confine our discussion to “Building, Dwelling, Thinking.” But Heidegger does touch on ethics in other later essays, especially his “Letter on Humanism.”
 Heidegger, Martin. “Being and time (J. Macquarrie & E. Robinson, trans.).” (1962). 51.
 Ibid., 52.
 Heidegger obviously has Kant in mind.
 Ibid., 56.
 Ibid., 58.
 Ibid., 60.
 Heidegger, Martin. “Poetry, Language, Thought. Translations and Introd. By Albert Hofstadter. Building, Dwelling, Thinking.” (1971). 145.
 Ibid., 145.
 Ibid., 145.
 Ibid., 146.
 Ibid., 145.
 Ibid., 145.
 Ibid., 147.
 Ibid., 147.
 Ibid., 148-149.
 Ibid., 147.
 Ibid., 147.
 Ibid., 148.
 Ibid., 149.
 We must also remember that the subject of this essay is specifically the question of “building” and not ethics; we cannot necessarily fault Heidegger for failing to answer a question he did not ask.
 Ibid., 154.
 Vogel, Lawrence. The fragile” we”: Ethical implications of Heidegger’s Being and Time. Northwestern University Press, 1994. 53.
 Ibid., 65.
 Ibid., 65.
 Ibid., 65.
 Ibid., 66-67.
 Ibid., 70.
 Ibid., 102.
 Ibid., 78.
 Dostoyevsky, Fyodor, and Constance Garnett. The brothers karamazov. Courier Corporation, 2005. “Ch. 4: A Lady of Little Faith.”
 Bonhoeffer, Dietrich, and R. Gregor Smith. Sanctorum communio. Collins, 1964. 167.
 Ibid., 168.
 Ibid., 168.
 Ibid., 168.
 Ibid., 168.
 To borrow loosely from Paul’s phrase in Colossians.
 Ibid., 171.
 Ibid., 168.
 Ibid., 171.