A Theology of Crowded Subway Cars
How fragile our shells are when we’re packed together tightly, pressing into each other’s thin spots, jostling for a comfortable position, patience scrambled, temper fried, trying desperately not to crack.
The New York City subway system is a sight to behold. From a distance or, if required, for very short periods up close.
For a small-town fella like me who finds comfort in space, who finds joy in wide vistas, metropolitan public transportation is a novelty akin to volcanoes or glaciers — fascinating to visit but not a suitable environmental feature to make one’s home near.
Don’t get me wrong. I can handle it. In my youth, I was a city boy for about a half decade. Cosplaying the role of a cosmopolitan carouser in my 20s. My wife and I met at an Irish pub near the corner of Clark and Addison, beneath the rattle of the El, embraced by the cold wind of a Chicago evening. We lived there as a young couple. City slickers. Sophisticates.
I know my way around urban spaces. I can parallel park with the bravery of a knight fighting for the honor of a damsel in distress. I can differentiate the scent of fresh street urine from decaying alley rat like a citified sommelier. I can give someone the finger and not spill a drip of my latte.
I can endure city life.
But my preferences tilt toward provincial living. I’d prefer a bit more elbow room, please.
I don’t like being smushed together. My shell is too fragile, if I must admit it.
That’s what the NYC subway felt like to me on the most recent trip (spring break with our teenage daughters).
It felt like Eggs. Too many eggs. Thousands of fragile eggs. Too small of a container.
I noticed everyone protecting themselves. Head down. Hood up. Eyes averted. Earbuds tight. Shoulders hunched over. Elbows in. Back hunkered. Egg-shaped.
Concerned about cracking. Or maybe feeling like they’re on the edge of cracking each other. Secretly wanting to test whose shell is tougher.
There are stories of beautiful kindness and loving humanity that have happened on subways. I’ve even personally seen heartwarming stuff before — people selflessly helping people — on my evening commutes back in my urban youth. But in general, crowds in close quarters don’t cultivate intimacy and warmth.
Packed subways sizzle with the potential for badness.
Crowds cause cracking.
I couldn’t help but wonder, as I observed all the city folk packed packed into an uptown 3 train on my most recent visit to The Big Apple, if the whole city had become hard-boiled.
(Note: I think I’m a Carrie.)
I also couldn’t help but wonder, while wiping the Gotham subway goo off my hand, what ancient faith teachers could possibly teach us about the way we should treat each other in busy, crowded places like this.
What could have been even slightly comparable to a NYC subway train back in the ancient world?
Maybe a crowded temple market at festival time? But that’s where Jesus got so triggered that he flipped tables!
It’s no wonder we’re afraid of cracking and spilling our yolks all over that hard and unforgiving concrete world. Even Jesus cracked in a crowd.
But then I remembered. There’s another story about a crowd in the New Testament (Matthew 14:13-21).
In this particular story, your boy J.C. was just trying to get away from all the hubbub. He headed away from folks, out by a lake (think: Central Park).
He was unsuccessful. The people followed him. In droves. Five thousand people gathered around him. Crowding around. Breathing heavily and smelling like an evening rush hour subway crowd, I’m sure.
They lingered. They were getting antsy.
J.C. knew what to do.
Feed them.
He pulls off a major miracle because, well, crowds are fragile things. These were high stakes. One crack and it’s a mess.
That’s a whole theology of tightly packed crowds for me: When you’re cramped, shoulder to shoulder, smelling each other’s humanity, witnessing people snarl, grumble, and almost crack… and all you want to do is flip a table… remember people are probably just hungry.
Feed them.
Bread. Fish. Maybe eggs.
And if you can’t turn the leftover smoked salmon and bagel you have in your commuter bag into enough food to feed the whole train, at least be forgiving of what they all really probably need.
Forgive the crowd; they’re hangry.
Forgive the crowd; they’re stressed.
Forgive the crowd; they’re tired and a little sick.
See their fragility. Just eggs.
Recognize their humanity. Hungry.
Don’t see them as an abstract mob, notice their individual faces and wonder about the stories and needs and hopes and unrealized dreams behind their eyes.