The train pulls into the subway station with a prolonged hiss. Businessmen, hipster couples, young families, and tourists rise up and make their way to exit the car. The doors slide open and people burst forth into collision. As one mass jostles to get out, another fights the tide to get in. Every eye is focused, steeled to push through to some goal past the throng.
Two eyes are wide. They belong to a young man. Fifteen, maybe sixteen years old. Backpack. Gray sweatshirt with the hood up. Headphones wrapped around his neck. But those eyes. They're wide as the night. A potent mix of anxiousness and fear fill his pupils. His face is not held forward, but swivels to every body that knocks into him.
He finds himself a seat on a bench. The doors slide to a close. The train creaks. The window behind him show tiles, then blur, then darkness. His knees begin to bounce. Up and down. Faster and faster like pistons. The wide eyes shut then seconds later fly back open. They dart back and forth and then fixate on a stained spot on the floor; as if that spot holds the answer to whatever is plaguing his mind.
He's afraid. Is the fear because of where he's been? Where he's going? The journey in between? Perhaps it's some combination of the three. His knees continue to pump. His fingers lock together. Then he brings his hands up over the top of his head, dragging them over his hair before resting them on his neck.
His lips begin to move. There's a rhythm to it; nearly in time to the bouncing of his knees. At first it seems like he is mouthing the words to a song. But he isn't listening to a song. The headphones are still draped around his neck. Looking closely, you can see the words repeat. Three words. Over and over again.
Please, God, help.
I believe that most of us experience an internal tug-of-war between the past and the future. In The Screwtape Letters, C.S. Lewis’ titular demon supervisor advises his underling Wormwood that one of best ways to keep a human from doing good is to keep them ping-ponging between those two times that are not the present. One keeps trying to recapture or reach towards moments that are mist. It can keep a person from doing something.
The quote above resonates with me because it harnesses the past and unfinished future into a catalyst that animates our present. We remember the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus because it means something today and compels us to presently work for the Good that is already here, but also not yet. We remember the hope and pain of the past to do something that help us take some sort of step each and every day. We realize that the hope which exists within the gospel story is not yet fully realized. Many people are still being left behind and forgotten. The realization, as the theologian Metz states, puts pressure and questions on the present.