Failures in Secular Humanist Duty

There are times I can't help but wonder if I have failed in my Christian secular humanist duty.

I'm at Panera. There was a hunched, old white man sitting in a booth. He was bent; even walking, he bends over at almost a 90 degree angle. He reminded me of Edourad Manet's The Ragpicker. Like the subject of that painting, he was hunched over enough to obscure the face. Anonymous, old, solitary. He had a combover, oily but not filthy.

Initially, I couldn't tell if he was muttering, or praying, or having a medical episode. His mouth was moving, but I know that the occasional motion of the lips and mouth is a property of older people, especially those with dentures. He looked disheveled, but not quite homeless.

Perhaps I would've thought nothing of it, except for the possible medical angle. But I noticed he has a small suitcase with him. He also had a small backpack. If he wasn't homeless, he was some distance from home, in a restaurant, alone.

I would like to say that I approached him immediately. But I didn't. I hesitated. And then I distracted myself by working on a lesson summary.

Next to us were two middle-aged, middle-class women discussing a Christian book. They were discussing, if I recall, a story about hiring 100,000 Israelites to fight a battle. A subsequent search reveals that it's 2 Chronicles 25. And I couldn't help thinking "Pharisees!" in my head. "Here is a child of the God you believe, and you are too trapped in your false faith of personal salvation for you to live the life of service that is true faith!"

But was I any better? Why should I hold Christians to a higher standard than myself?

Eventually, I did approach him. I apologized for disturbing him.

"I'm sorry to disturb you sir. I don't know if you were praying or napping... but... is everythign alright?"

"We..."

"We... we can exchange..."

I thought he was going to say stories.

"We can switch seats in a second. I know you want to plug in your computer."

My first reaction, sadly, was to explain that there were no power outlets there. Fortunately, I caught myself and said,

"No no. I'm fine. I just... I just wanted to see if you were okay."

He replied, "I'm fine."

"Sorry for disturbing you."

I went back to my computer, a bit ashamed and embarassed. Maybe he thought I judged him just because he was old and bent. I confess that I was shocked that his words were clear and articulate. No slur, no quavering of the voice, other than initially. Maybe I had injured his pride.

He sat there for another ten minutes, hands clasped in a sort of prayer or murmur, occasionally moving his mouth. Then he bussed his plates, then left. I bid him farewell, and he responded with a short goodbye.

I watched him go. I thought about getting up and opening the door for him. But what if that was more patronization? He managed fine.

After I saw him disappear, slowly, around a corner, I looked back at his seat. There was a dark stain on the part of the cloth backing where he had been sitting. It wasn't just  Maybe he had been there a while. Maybe he had been sweating a great deal. Maybe his clothes were filthy. I thought about touching it to determine which it would be. But then I realized how ridiculous, and possibly weird, that might be.

But I did take a picture. It wasn't just an impression on the seat.

Sometimes, we try to do the right thing. But it almost never turns out the way we think it should. Maybe if I had phrased it as a request for company, instead of an inquiry into his status. I think Mr. Rogers would've done that; he had a way of making people feel that he needed something from them. Pope Francis appears to do that as well.

And now, I realize something.

Acts of kindness are often characterized as acts from a superior to an inferior. 

Maybe we couch it in different, kinder words, but it often presumes a difference in power, ability, or resources. Even as we celebrate them, we implicitly define things like generosity and grace in a way that diminishes the recipient. That's not the intention, of course, but it's deeply entwined in our appreciation of kind acts.

Here was someone who maybe resisted that, who didn't want pity or help, and didn't need it. Even if he did, maybe the way I communicated my offer was a bit too paternalistic, and while kind and open, with a touch of sanctimony.

It's like when I was feeding the homeless. I thought I would go out and help them. But as it turns out, I didn't save them. I couldn't. I had a lot of conversations. I saw some drunken ugliness. I heard these young kids talk politics, and silently judged the guys who had boom boxes but no food. I overheard them talking about their social security checks, and spending it on either necessities or booze. I heard about how things got rougher after the shooting of a police officer at the nearby courthouse, how the police, who had been more relaxed, were now drawing their guns on the homeless.

Through it all, I don't know if I made a damn of difference in their lives. The narrative is supposed to go that they made a difference in mine. But to be honest, the only thing I learned is that it's damn hard to make a difference in anyone's life. I'm more selfish than I was before I volunteered, but that could be to age, or other things in the last ten years.

Whatever good it did me, the experience has competed with, and lost to, a host of other influences that shaped my present character.

So today, I find that I am more inarticulate than I had realized.

And judgmental. I judged those poor women sitting a couple feet away. Maybe they had already asked. Maybe they just have different personal that I, a single, young male, don't appreciate. They were simply working together on their own spiritual betterment; perhaps they didn't notice him. They weren't Pharisees. I was the Pharisee.

Who have I helped lately? At least one woman was helping the other develop as a Christian. Who had I helped lately, except for pay, or because I was asked to?

I'm still judging. The couple sitting there after he left didn't bus their plates. And I have to stop myself into weaving it into some romantic narrative about the dignity of age and/or poverty and the lack of respect of the decently off Boomers. It's not data, and it's not the point. Leave it, Ryan.

And he did that which was right in the sight of the Lord, but not with a perfect heart. -2 Chron 25:2

I'm glad I spoke with him, however briefly. I gained no great insight into him. I didn't help him. And I learned that I'm a pretty flawed person.

And I did end up thinking a bit more about acts of kindness than I had expected. And maybe, next time, I'll both communicate it better, and be more mindful about what I offer, and what I ask. Even when I offer help, tangible or not, I am implicitly asking for a person's trust, a person's time, a person's courtesy.

That's a lot.

The Cornell Folder

I have a Cornell leather folder. It’s one of those interview folders sold in a student store. It was probably never meant to see such heavy use – I use it to hold my notes for tutoring. It’s a bit torn and ragged and beat up, and I suppose that’s appropriately symbolic. My time there was quite painful.

I don’t know why I keep it. Or I do, and I am afraid of the reason. There’s something possibly pathetic about clinging to this vestige of respectability, to a past that never was as impressive as is pretended. But it’s something that I excuse by saying that it impresses parents.

A few days ago, I was at a Starbucks. I had a few minutes before a tutoring session nearby, and planned on logging on to Facebook for a few minutes. I remember thinking in the parking lot- should I bring the folder? For whatever reason, it was a question, and for whatever reason, I answered in the affirmative.

I sat down, and powered up my computer. A man nearby noticed my folder, and asked me about it.

“Cornell? Did you go there?”

I answered that yes, I had gone there as a graduate student. Thinking the conversation was over, I went back to my computer.

“What did you study?”

Reflexively, I told him “astrophysics”. And I’ve done this enough to know that when I say “astrophysics”, I intend it as a conversation-stopper. I say “astronomy” or “space science” when I wish, consciously or unconsciously, for the conversation to continue.

“What’s that?”

I explained to him that it involved studying the stars, using physics. He sounded impressed, and claimed that that was far beyond him, though he did mention that he was a civil engineer.

He asked me what I did now. It’s a sore topic; I know I’ve fallen far down the social and economic hierarchy. But I did the best I could to muster my dignity and reply that I tutor students full-time.

He returns to the topic of Cornell, and elite schools. He mentions his cousins, graduates of Stanford and Princeton, respectively. I act appropriately impressed, and perk up a bit when he mentions his high school age nephew. Maybe there’s a tutoring job here.

We talk a bit more, my interest now focused more by greed and humanity. But it wasn’t completely cynical salesmanship; I had told myself at some point earlier in the day that I needed to engage more with people, and here was an opportunity. I remember feeling like a sociopath as I was thinking these things.

We spoke more. I found out he was 48, and hadn’t worked for a couple years because of cancer. He was currently undergoing chemotherapy.

At some point, I ask him if he’s changed anything about how he lived life because of cancer. I didn’t mean the practical and routine, or lifestyle changes due to physical limitations. I didn’t mean that, and he didn’t hear that.

“My brother has always said that I had a temper. I was angry a lot. Now, I try to be more calm.”

I would’ve never guessed that this was an angry guy, though he had plenty to be angry about. He had cancer. He lost his job. He didn’t have any kids to help him. He was sitting in a coffeeshop, on a Wednesday afternoon, while others were living, working, picking up their children, and not dying of cancer.

I told him that he seemed like he had a good heart, and that he was a better person now. I don’t know if it came off as trite, or hackneyed. But it seemed to fit, and the compliment, as is customary I suppose, evoked a response that combined polite dismissal with understated hope that it was true.

I had to excuse myself. I expected that tutoring and the rest of the day would fall into place, as it should if this were an allegory. But it was a chaotic mess of difficult students and long hours on the road between appointments. Life may give you these moments, but it rarely strings them together for you. You have to fight to extract perspective.

I don’t think he would’ve spoken with me had I not had that folder. I would’ve been just another guy in business casual on his laptop.

There’s some irony here; brand-name institutions like Cornell build their reputation on exclusivity, not inclusiveness. But that itself provides us something to talk about. It gave this man an opening to talk with a stranger. For a brief moment, both of us felt less alone.