Distaste for the Illogical

The first thing I think of whenever anyone mentions “Christmas” is hospitality; We spend time with our families, we celebrate our respective festivities, and we take on a more humanitarian perspective in how we see the world around us. If there’s any time at all when someone can put his or her faith in the kindness of others, I would think it would be late December.

Despite the fact that December 25th is an ordinary yet arbitrary day, we’ve associated it (based on the imprtance we’ve given the date as a society) with the birth of the Christian savior and with good will and peace on Earth. And high-def TVs with oversized novelty bows on them, from what commercials tell me.

I spent the last week searching for a somewhat less tangible meaning for this sacred holiday, rooted in our existence since the founding of Christianity: I saw apron-clad Salvation Army workers ringing bells outside nondescript shopping malls, shunned by shopper after shopper. I glanced at the signs held by the homeless men and women of my city at nearly every major intersection, written on corrugated cardboard, each one a cry for help. Even as I sat helpless in a snowbound traffic jam, hundreds of drivers honked their horns at the less fortunate motorists who had not been able to upgrade their tires before the snow had come and hopelessly impaired their roadway travel.

I decided that I didn’t want to be a part of the problem any longer, especially after what I had seen in a single day.

Despite the fact that the diffusion of responsibility had rendered hundreds of motorists inert on one utterly insignificant stretch of road in my city, I made a firm decision that moment.

I switched on my hazard lights in heavy traffic, no longer giving a damn what anyone in the long line of human beings in what would have been their steel coffins thought. I got behind the car in front of me and started to push it with all my might.

Soon, I was joined by another human being. I didn’t know her name, her age, or what she stood to gain. At that moment in time, it didn’t matter. A problem  had come up, and myself and a middle-aged person dressed in hospital scrubs had stepped up to the challenge. We spoke casually as we worked to push the stranger’s Hyundai up the hill and off of a side road, all while other motorists tried wrecklessly to pass by.

Although it strikes me that there may be little to no motivation for exerting one’s self to help another, it seems that empathy could be a key factor in compelling someone to try and remedy a situation that one may envision himself in. Yet many insist on doing nothing.

If one or two people don’t help someone else, hundreds of people may wait for hours. If one or two people don’t stop to see if someone is alright, one hundred people may become responsible for the death of another. If nobody donates to charity, one, two, or a thousand may feel the bitterness of apathy in the form of neglect, hunger, sickness, or death.

If there is one time a year where compassion should be more important, Christmas should be that time. I wish more people had the courage to express this.

We all have time for our families, our friends, and the ones who mean the most to us. Is it possible to spare yet another moment or two for someone who really does need it?

After all, we’re all human beings, and we’re all in this together. Isn’t that good enough?