on Tolstoy's A Confession

"What happened was that the life of our class, the rich and learned, became not only distasteful to me, but lost all meaning. All our activities, our discussions, our science and our art struck me as sheer indulgence. I realized that there was no meaning to be found here. It was the activities of the labouring people, those who produce life, that presented itself to me as the only true way. I realized that the meaning provided by this life was truth and I accepted it."

-Tolstoy, from "A Confession", Chapter 10

"But I say to you, Do not resist the one who is evil. But if anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also. And if anyone would sue you and take your tunic, let him have your cloak as well. And if anyone forces you to go one mile, go with him two miles. Give to the one who begs from you, and do not refuse the one who would borrow from you.

-Jesus, Matthew 5:39-42

I'm partway through Leo Tolstoy's "A Confession" and must stop to reflect on it. At the close of the tenth chapter, Tolstoy has begun elaborating on the difference between the hypocritical belief of his own class, which might profess Christianity and elaborate theology but shows no connection between that and their daily living, in which they pursue pleasures, material gain and vanity, etc. He observes in the working class--rural, that is--a sincere connection, albeit superstitious, between their faith and their lives.

He has just begun to explain that his only hope for life consists in the way that faith trumps reason. By his understanding, reason alone will always conclude the meaninglessness of life, because (or when) it does not assume the same things that faith does. By this, he sees a disconnect between the finite (our lives) and the infinite (God? the universe? that which comes before and after life? perhaps causing it?), and is only able to reconcile them by accepting faith--the exact nature of which he has only begun to describe.
He spends two years living among the field laborers, according to their lifestyle, I presume, and is gratified by its sincerity. These days I have also been brought to face class difference in a way that shows that neither is better than the other.

By dressing nice--in slacks, shoes and shirt, maybe more--I stand out among the middle class as having good taste, and caring about how I look. However, dressing this way compared to the lower class sets me above them. Whether or not I dress professionally or casually, either way, it puts me among the "white-collar" workers or the snobby, preppy, yuppy, etc. and by asserting that status, I am asserting my not-poverty. I am asserting the opportunities that I have had and might have in the future, and hope to gain more by.

Nice clothes are among my possessions, and I have too much of that, too--I know that all too well for my move out here, and from school. I only left 1/4 in NY, and have three bags plus hang-up clothes and books, electronics etc. I have too much.

This became most clear to me on Friday. I was walking to the T with a friend. He was moving to his new apartment, and I helped him carry his bags to the station, and we parted ways from there. As we approached the station, we passed a young couple who was walking down the sidewalk, and the guy asks me, "Do you have some spare change for a cup for spare change?" It took me a moment to understand what he was saying, and then I did what I usually do: wagged me hand and said, "Sorry" or something of the sort. As we kept walking, then, they were right behind us, and I soon realized that he was talking indirectly to/at me. The only thing I remember was, "Ya need to work hard to have your luggage . . ." in a mocking tone that was all too telling of his disdain toward my obvious surplus of belongings, while he had apparently less.

You can probably picture me easily: a college T-shirt on, immitation Ray-Bans held together by a paper clip, colorful beanie, and a backpack, with a rolling duffel in tow. My ears didn't turn red because they were already sunburned, but I kept my serious expression safely, because we were only a few yards from the subway steps. As we descended, I breathed easier, and glanced over with a puzzled expression to my companion, who I'm sure had heard the same as I had.

I justified my actions to myself--I don't like giving out money, who knows what they'll do with it, spend it on drugs or what, etc. But I knew none of that really held water. Later that evening, as I mulled over Tolstoy, I remembered the Matt 5 verses from above. I should've given him my backpack. or I should've gone and bought him a cup to use. and the like. Instead, I ignored that couple's need--whether or not it was a legitimate use of money--and kept a stiff upper lip for the sake of my pride.

Now I see how that was foolishness. In order to keep my life, I must give it away, right? So I could've given away anything I had on me--which included some cash--and may or may not have made a difference. It's not for me to judge the legitimacy of their claims (Mt. 7:1f), to say what is best, or right or wrong. If I gave them what I had packed or planned for using tomorrow, so what? I needn't worry about tomorrow, if I am doing God's work (Mt. 6:25f). Even if I am to starve or wear old clothes, that matters little to the infinite purpose beyond my day-to-day that my finite existence is defined by.

What would I do if I could go back there? I don't know, but I might start by giving them some change, or whatever they needed for that day. What I hope to do if I see them again is to apologize: for my ignorance, for my lack of compassion. My first thought in response is that those words might be lost on them, but, again, I can't judge how bright they are or how responsive they will be from my writing desk.

I will conclude with one more account. I saw this scene when I was a block away, on my way back to the house. Ahead of me and my friend were a mismatched trio, two ordinary looking, and one with a shaved (or partly shaved head) and dark, soiled clothes, chains etc. The odd one out stopped to bum a smoke of another lady on the sidewalk then ran to catch up with the others. They were about to cross the street as we were turning to the side street my house is on when the girl in the group came back, and squatted down next to a fellow who was sitting dejectedly against the telephone pole. He had a stuffed military pack on his back, some sort of documents in hand and might have been crying. The girl who stopped by him caressed his face (yeah, out of nowhere) and asked what was wrong? He waved her along and insisted it was nothing. She stepped away at first, but returned with deeper concern, pressing him further. I did not stay to see how it played out, but for all I know, that was compassion. That is how I envision work with the less fortunate: coming along side them, showing compassion, and showing them how and why they can get back on their feet.
Is that a calling for me?