See all articles in 31 Days of Showing Up

Mark and I took a quick, weekend trip to Chattanooga, Tennessee, for some fun and relaxation. One of the highlights of the trip was biking around the city. We biked somewhere around 10-to-12 miles on Saturday afternoon and Sunday morning. We rode along the river, uptown, downtown, and all around town.

We were a little aimless on Sunday morning while we waited for The Market to open, so I typed in an address on my maps app, and realized a place I wanted to see was only about 2.5 miles away from where we were. I took the lead, and we pedaled our way across town to the college my dad attended. It’s where he was in school when I was born. It’s where the institutional evil of independent, fundamental religion and spiritual abuse seeped into my family. I’m sure had anyone been truly aware of the damage that would result from the belief system that school taught, they’d have run away at lightning speed.

Two miles into our ride, the city had changed from artsy communities to poverty-stricken neighborhoods. Mark kept asking if I knew where we were going, if we were headed in the right direction. I’d only been there once that I could remember, way back when I was a sophomore attending a Christian high school. A group of us had attended the college for a weekend tour, including visiting classes, staying in the dorms, and following the strict, overbearing rules. Indeed, it had been a long time, but I was pretty sure we were headed in the right direction.

Just when Mark was getting a little more vocal about his concerns, questioning our safety, we saw the buildings off to our right. I pedaled faster, somewhat oblivious to Mark’s growing apprehension. Maybe I’m naive, but I wasn’t worried about our safety.

As we approached the first block of the school, a large, black, steel fence with gates surrounded the block. I pedaled to the next block, hoping to be able to make a right turn onto the streets where the buildings were located. No such luck. To my surprise, the fence extended from one block to another, block after block. After five or six blocks, we were finally able to make the right turn and ride down the center street among the buildings. I was stunned to see more fence and gates along the streets behind the buildings on the opposite side.

I found this verse painted on one of the sides of a building a little ironic. Okay, a lot ironic.

They’d fenced off the very community in which they were located. How could they serve if they’d insulated themselves, protecting themselves from perceived harms?

Granted, I have no idea what the crime rate is in that community. But I know that Mark and I rode along those streets on bicycles, never saw a policeman, and made it through without even the slightest threat of harm.

I pedaled with disgust all the way back to the other side of town, back to the pretty-painted artwork on the sides of buildings, back to the trendy cafes, back to the booming side of town. I was angry that a Christian college, the very one that is the root of so many harmful teachings, would claim to serve, yet hide behind expensive fences and gates. I was angry at the barrier between the school and the people living in poverty.

As I rode atop my high horse, um, bicycle, I thought about how Jesus didn’t put up barriers, how he welcomed the poor, how he didn’t protect himself from those who might {and did} harm him. I was fuming with righteous anger that a Christian college claiming to serve would put up so many blocks of fences . . . until I realized my anger wasn’t so righteous.

I didn’t ride high for very long. It soon struck me that I’m no better than the folks who made the decision to install those fences.

I live in a neighborhood where I never worry about my safety. I don’t worry about where my next meal is coming from. I don’t worry when my children go outside to play.

I’ve insulated myself. My family is protected and safe from whatever evils I might perceive would harm us.

As we approached the part of town where women were wearing leggings and boots and scarves, where men we were wearing loafers and driving high-end cars, I felt stuck between two worlds. I felt the pull of freedom, of opening myself up to risk, of abandoning all that keeps me weighed down. Yet, too, I felt the pull of mind-numbing entertainment and joining the status quo. That moment of feeling pulled between two worlds won’t soon leave my mind.

I’m frustrated with my protective way of life. I’ve become blind to the needs of others. I’ve given up the risk of loving and serving others in an attempt to maintain my own safety. I’m a lot less like Jesus than I claim to be.