And yet, and yet…

This past week, Adrian and I traveled to Chicago for a late anniversary trip. We’d never been to the city, so were excited to experience a very new environment for us.

The city did not disappoint. We had wonderful experiences and food together, and I love traveling with my bride. But I’ll save the travelogue for later.

One of the cool things we did on the trip was to attend a church in the Lincoln Park neighborhood. The church meets in a school and has to set up and tear down their worship services every week. It was a joy to worship alongside them, to read the Bible together, and even utilizing the coat check (culture shock for this Texan, but I love it!).

In the midst of the noise and activity and movement, I asked myself the question, “What holds all of this together?”

That is the remarkable thing about cities. I’ve traveled to many all across the world (Chicago, New York, London, Cairo, Paris, Seoul, and on). But every city I’ve traveled to has two things in common: there are thousands of people you never see and the environment was provided by thousands of people who lived before us.

These shadows and shoulders make city life difficult. How do you create and stand out in the midst of monuments? How can you be known in the wave of humanity and art that have already gone ahead. The city rumbles and roils, pushing people to the sides, putting up walls and routes, humming to its own momentum. The individual naturally asks, “If I weren’t here, would it be any different?”

A city makes you feel small.

But that was the beauty of the church that we visited. They weren’t gathering because of a cultural expectation or legal order. They weren’t gathering to admire their handiwork or prowess. They gathered because God created them a community to connect with and a mission to serve. I watched as people across many phases of life asked after each other, interacted with each other’s kids, welcomed newcomers, and encouraged one another. There was purpose in belonging, even though shortly after the worship service all the trappings of the service would disappear.

In a way, this model of church feels impermanent, transient. And yet, as Adrian and I returned to Texas having walked in the shadows of some of the largest buildings in the world and having experienced artwork that has thrilled across centuries, the warmth of that gathering was still present in our hearts.

I wonder at the fact that when Jesus is describing his disciples, he compares them to a “city on a hill.” Is this a nod to their impressiveness, to their power, to their heritage?

I think it is the opposite of that. In Jesus’ time, a traveler on the road was in a place of major insecurity. As it got dark, a traveler could easily be waylaid or get lost. So for that traveler, as scared and exposed as they were, the light from the city on the hill whispered a promise of home. It promised that there were people there, and those people would receive the sojourner into home.

Too often in Christianity, we look at the “city on the hill” and think that it’s a calling to be impressive, to be monumental, to burn away all that opposes or goes against. Many Christians consider the call to be a light like a holy bug zapper.

And yet, in a world of shoulders and shadows, Christianity is a light that beckons. We hold a truth, a warmth, a promise that welcomes. It is a light that protects, a light that grows, a light that sends, a light that creates, a light that is constantly pushing back the darkness to welcome others home. And it is a light that cares that you are there. Every light that is added builds the brightness and reaches further than it did before.

A city on a hill makes you feel complete.

So friends, as you travel among the shadows and shoulders of the world, know that God has placed, empowered, and equipped you to work wonders. We all together, broken, redeemed, have the privilege of welcoming others to the hearth, to the place they were always designed to be. In the ache of a forgetful and vain world, the city on the hill was the home we were always meant to have. Always receiving, always shining, always hoping, always sending.

Signs and wonders, y’all.

“¹⁴ “You are the light of the world. A city set on a hill cannot be hidden. ¹⁵ Nor do people light a lamp and put it under a basket, but on a stand, and it gives light to all in the house. ¹⁶ In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father who is in heaven.” Matthew 5:14-16