the faceless millions have faces

It happens when I pass by a large town or city on the freeway. It happens when I walk in large crowds. It happens when I’m at the largest waterpark in the nation, looking around at all the half-naked bodies surrounding me. It’s a feeling of awe at the amount of people there are in the world, most of whom I will never know, never learn to care about, never speak to. Looking at a town from the freeway, I realize that each house and business represents the livelihood of many people, and the town itself seems like another world to me, one which I will never enter. When I was at Denver’s WaterWorld last weekend, I was amazed at the sheer number of people there in their swimsuits, amazed at the amount of people who chose the same recreation that afternoon. There was something unifying about being with a few thousand park visitors all in swimsuits (which often don’t leave much to the imagination, I realized)—and everyone was comfortable and recreating happily. This feeling I’ve described can be awe-inspiring in a positive way, but it also has a shade of fear along its underside, a fear that my individuality might be lost in this crowd of humanity. If there is such a diversity of people and so many people, am I even important? Do my aspirations, worries, relationships, and opinions matter?

Sometimes we hear about the “faceless millions” (or billions if you will) that populate Earth. The thought that helps me through those overwhelming moments where I feel so inconsequential against the swarms of strangers I see is that these “faceless millions” do indeed have faces. And feelings. And families. And priorities. And opinions. Just like me.

So then I find myself contemplating the middle-aged, bikini-clad woman at the park. She will never know me, and I will never know her. I have no idea of the triumphs and failures she has experienced during her life. The stretch marks of childbirth and the graying hairs on her head provide a few clues to her experience, but unless I actually go to her and open myself up, she will always remain a stranger. Yet I don’t want her to remain a faceless stranger, because I am determined to recognize that she matters. Her opinions matter, even though I might not agree with them. Her relationships matter, even though I might not be able to help them in any way. Her unexpressed heartaches matter, and I pray God that there is someone in her life that can listen to them and help her, because I cannot. I’m just a stranger.

Obviously, it’s impossible to meet every person in a city, let alone the world. I don’t think that’s the point. Those people who do come into our lives are suddenly transformed from “faceless strangers” to people we care about, people we dislike, people we try to help, and people we avoid. Those are the people God has given us to work with, and it is with them that we can have a direct influence. While it isn’t always a bad thing to think on an impersonal, global scale, I’m more concerned with those who I know personally. When I think of the first time I met someone who has become a close friend, I am amazed by all the experiences, feelings, and thoughts that we have since shared. A single human being is such a complex creature, and it is beautiful when two complex beings with so much hidden in their depths can come together to share parts of themselves with one another. So as I go through life and see strangers around me, I will try to remember that they do have faces, and that their lives are every bit as meaningful and important as mine. Most likely, I won’t ever meet a small percentage of the people on this planet, but I hope and pray that I will be more than a “faceless stranger” to those I do.