I grew up in a town where 15-year old boys—clad with braces and smelling like teen sweat— come knocking on your door around this time of the year asking if you want to pay $20 to get 25 cents off DQ Blizzards to support their football program.
I don’t think I knew it then, but comfort is the ultimate commodity in the suburbs. I’ve experienced the opposite so far in downtown Minneapolis. You don’t move there to be comfortable. For some reason—in your early-to-mid 20s—your desire for comfort, certain to drive most choices in your life, is temporarily suspended.
It’s almost as if you want discomfort.
In the city—amid 700-foot stilts whispering thoughts of my smallness—I become hyperaware I’m not at Christian university anymore. The city is full of a thousand voices yelling nine hundred different convictions. A hundred of 'em yell that we should stop yelling our convictions.
In the city, I’m met by the white man’s privilege, the black man’s stereotype, the woman’s right, the lonely professional’s plight, the gay revolution, thoughts on the homeless man’s solution, and my crooked understandings of them all.
It feels like I’m really being asked not what my new ZIP code is, but who my Jesus is and if my Christian faith has enough substance to accept & challenge these realities as I am simultaneously accepted & challenged by Jesus & them.
photo credit: MEEEEEEEE