The Boxer

February 24, 2018

When I left my home and my family

I was no more than a boy

In the company of strangers

In the quiet of the railway station

Running scared,

Laying low, seeking out the poorer quarters

Where the ragged people go

Looking for the places

Only they would know

In the clearing stands a boxer

And a fighter by his trade

And he carries the reminders

Of every glove that laid him down

Or cut him till he cried out

In his anger and his shame

"I am leaving, I am leaving"

But the fighter still remains...

—“The Boxer,” by Paul Simon 

I always knew it existed, but not in my world. Growing up in suburbia, life was comfortable, predictable, and often sterile. Poverty was something that happened to other people in other places. It didn’t touch us except tangentially in those times when in church we took up offerings for poor people or gave used clothing to the city mission. We weren’t conscious of any sense of superiority or privilege; we did what we could to alleviate the misery of people we would never know because they were “there,” and we were “here.” The closest I ever came to entering that world was when I taught Bible Club lessons in the city and visited some of the homes of the kids in my class. I was but a teenager when standing at the foot of the stairs leading to a dingy second-floor apartment, the young mother of one of my kids came to the landing dressed only in a filmy nightgown through which the light from the open door behind her revealed every feature of her figure.

College in the ‘60s cracked open a door that has been creaking wider ever since. It was the era of Vietnam, flower power, Weathermen, and Woodstock. At the forefront of this were the musicians who divided into two main streams: heavy metal and folk. Folk was where I found a home, and Simon and Garfunkel were two of the high priests of the movement. One of their more poignant songs was “The Boxer,” a tale of a man struggling through a shabby life that fought him every step of the way. The tune was catchy, the message gritty, the story sad. It was the tale of everyone who scratches through the dregs of society’s underbelly, wanting nothing more than respite from all that is pressing in to rob him of every last bit of dignity.

Having spent most of my life in rural Western New York, poverty is no stranger to me, and yet while living in the midst of it, I’ve been singularly insulated from it. While we are not wealthy, we are comfortable, and have never lived in a run down apartment with little furniture, obsolete and worn-out appliances, roaches and rats. My home is pleasant and comfortable, nestled in between a grove of spruce and a trout stream. But I’ve been spending more and more time in a different world, one that more resembles the world of the Boxer. Today, Linda and I sat down for some coffee at one of the local gathering places in Jamestown. Watching people cueing up for their coffee or sitting at the tables, I thought of that song and the poorer quarters where the ragged people go. We were surrounded by them.

The tricky part for middle class Americans is having compassion without pity. It’s easy to pity the poor, just as it is easy to have contempt for them, neither emotion helping in any way. What is harder is to admire them. Not every poor person is to be admired any more than every rich person, but there are plenty who are reflected in the last verse of Simon and Garfunkle’s song; fighters who carry the reminders of every glove that cut them till they cried out, and yet the fighter still remains. I’ve known my share of them, and stand amazed at their tenacity, their refusal to give up, the dignity of their ragged lives and tragic deaths. 

God didn’t pity us when we were lost in our sins. He didn’t have contempt for us. He loved us so much that he came and dwelt among us. Reflecting on the Gospel, I suspect that the only way people are ever saved is when their rescuer insists on living among them. I don’t know what that means for the work in Dunkirk that I’ve been given. I’d like to make excuses for the status quo, but I’m not sure that carries any weight with God, which means I need the prayers of my friends, the guidance of the Holy Spirit, and the heart of Christ. I am grateful that the wisdom I need is promised by the Scriptures, and the grace I need is provided by Jesus himself. I suspect I’ll need a healthy dose of both before this is all done.