Poverty of Spirit

Every subway ride is different.

During the workweek, the stations I frequent are the same, but the ebb and flow of a human group is always changing. Occasionally, I do see the same people, as we will take the trains at the same time in the same car, each holding to our own routine as if to preciously guard some semblance of normalcy and routine in a place where there is so little. But that too, gets interrupted. As good as one can get at putting on the blinders and attempting to enacting our own opaque personal bubble where we cannot see or be seen, reality does puncture it. Then, we are forced to witness people and events not of our own choosing. There are no filters for humanity on a subway ride except for two dollars and twenty-five cents.

It was between 51st and Grand Central, a ride of about two minutes, where I witnessed one of the most public displays of an impoverished spirit in a long time, and especially so for here. I stepped on the train as the doors were closing, and the car reeked of alcohol. There was a man, relatively calm yet dejected, with what appeared to be a freshly casted and bandaged arm. Next to him was a woman, his companion, who looked on the brink of despair. She had laid her head heavily on his shoulder. Then, her eyes started raining and her mouth wailing, as she collapsed into his lap. He stroked her, as if he understood her pain, and that it was okay even as she was making a scene. This woman had broken, in what seemed to be every way.

I don’t know their story. I only know what I saw in the two minute ride before I transferred trains, but my mind attempts to fill the gaps. Was he just injured? Did he lose his job, and is their financial future in doubt because of it? It looks like they just came from a hospital, maybe someone close to them died? They have their suitcases with them, were they just evicted? Or, are they simply the bearers of much pain, and this was the point in which it became too heavy a load for her to bear?

I don’t know.

And I don’t know what to do in times like this except pray. It was such a private display in such a public place that I felt as if I were intruding on something I shouldn’t be, seeing something I shouldn’t see. I prayed for their pain. I prayed that they would receive God’s mercy. I prayed that they would see hope somewhere and know God is the source.

Witnessing something like this is uncomfortable. It makes one realize the true poverty of spirit that exists in the hearts of many. We are broken but we try to hide it; we are dejected but we dare not ever show it, except for those moments where we simply can’t help it, when it simply becomes too much to hold inside and it must overflow whenever and wherever it releases itself. It is uncomfortable because in just one moment, we are hit hard in the face with the reality of our differences and similarities we share with our common men, and the lines are blurred. “I would help them if I knew them” is a common response, citing our differences as the reason. But the secondary response is “why does that have to be a qualifier for help?”

I don’t know.

What I do know is that we live in a world full of pain. Most of it is just more private than what I witnessed. Yet, this public display reminded me that they are not the only ones with pain. We are good at trying to hide, but in a place like New York City, pain is so often worn visibly across the sagging lines of a face, the emptiness of soul in the eyes, and the slumping physical body. People are weary and hurting. If you truly open your eyes to look, it cannot be ignored.

And it cannot be ignored in me that I can be a part of the solution. I know that somehow in some of these moments, God willing, I can be an instrument of his love and grace. When I look at these people and see their pain, I become intimidated at the depth of it that I forget how easy providing a little relief can be. First, let me look at them with these eyes with a look of gentleness they may not often see in this city, that they may know their presence is acknowledged, not ignored. Second, may I give them a small smile, to engage with them in a sign of human connectedness that they may know that they have been seen, singled out. It’s after these steps I tend to get a bit stuck. Do I talk to them? Will I understand them? What do I talk to them about?

When I get stuck, I end up praying for them. I know that God knows them and sees them, and He can do far more for them than I ever could. Yet, there’s a problem in this, and that is that I do not pray for myself. I do not listen nor ask how I may be His hands and His feet, bringing forth His words and His love. I simply pray for the other person, and ask God to bring relief to them through His divine presence and perhaps, another person who knows Him. But, I am missing out and mostly, so are these people.

I am intimidated by the amount of pain that I see. I forget that I do not have to be the solution, but that I can be part of the relief. I am intimidated at the prayer I know I must pray now, and that is that I would actively be the hands and feet of Christ in part of a world and pain I do not know. Yet I am compelled. I must, for every subway ride is different. Every subway ride provides an opportunity to bring relief to someone’s pain.

For the Scripture says, “Everyone who believes in him will not be put to shame.” For there is no distinction between Jew and Greek; the same Lord is Lord of all, bestowing his riches on all who call on him. For “everyone who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved.” But how are they to call on him in whom they have not believed? And how are they to believe in him of whom they have never heard? And how are they to hear without someone preaching? And how are they to preach unless they are sent? As it is written, “How beautiful are the feet of those who preach the good news!”
Romans 10:11-15