A Morning Commute

As I Was Saying is a forum for a variety of perspectives to foster faith-related conversations among our readers with the goal of mutual learning, even in disagreement. Apart from articles written by editorial staff, these perspectives do not necessarily reflect the views of The Banner.

I’m not really a morning person. I wish I could say otherwise, but most mornings I wish at least once I was back under the warmth of my covers. This feeling is especially pronounced when I first step outside into the hard gray of a winter morning and start my commute.

Some mornings, that commute can be straightforward, even pleasant. I walk to the metro, ride the train for a few minutes, then make a transfer on the metro. I get off the train a few minutes later, and then it’s a short walk to the office. All of those underground trains mean a lot of elevators.

While the autopilot of a familiar commute can be a serene way to ease into my day, it doesn’t take much to jolt me out of that sense of calm. It seems there’s always an element of chaos to throw me off: a section of sidewalk under construction, a trio of police cars whizzing by with sirens blaring, a dog in my path whose owner isn’t watching its leash. One particular Tuesday, that unpredictable element showed up in a uniquely disgusting way. As I got into the elevator, I quickly realized that most of the floor inside the elevator was covered in trash, all swimming in a puddle of urine. Reflecting on it now, that scene was likely the result of one of the handful of homeless people who live near the metro stop seeking a bit of shelter and private space to weather the chilly overnight temperatures.

But in the moment, my first reaction was, “I can’t believe someone peed in the elevator. Isn’t this just the cherry on top of my morning!”

I made my way through the metro station in a huff, annoyed about this latest instance of friction. My sense of injustice was heightened by the way the incident exposed the fragile nature of accessibility. “Don’t people realize there are others who need elevators to be working smoothly?” I thought.

At the end of my commute, I usually wait for a busy escalator out of Union Station. That same day, as I waited my turn to go up, I noticed a word messily scratched onto the stainless steel side of the escalator. “Re$pect.”

Noticing that graffiti snapped something implicit in my attitude into clear focus. The mental story I had built about the state of the elevator that morning didn’t consider anyone other than myself.

In his book Not the Way it’s Supposed to Be, theologian Neil Plantinga reminds us of sin’s multifaceted nature, writing, “Moral evil is social and structural as well as personal: it comprises a vast historical and cultural matrix that includes traditions, old patterns of relationship and behavior, atmospheres of expectation, social habits.”

With this framework in mind, my reaction to an anonymous person, likely homeless, who inconvenienced my day is laid bare for what it is: sinful. On the personal level, it was wrong of me to react with anger, disgust, and self-centeredness to an inconvenience against me.

The fact that someone needed to use the Metro elevator as a bathroom is just one instance of a broader reality of the indignities the poor and forgotten face regularly. It’s an affront to the God-given dignity of each person that some of us don’t have a safe, clean, and private place to take care of our bodies.

On a societal level, we are all complicit in the sin of believing the Metro graffiti. We too often ignore Paul’s words in Romans 12:16, where he writes, “Live in harmony with one another. Do not be proud, but be willing to associate with people of low position. Do not be conceited.” Instead we follow the false gospel equating someone’s financial status with the respect they deserve.