A Christian Student at a Secular University: Who Is My Neighbo[u]r?

This entry serves three purposes: 1) A break from reading some arcane 18C court judgments, 2) an opportunity to process the question on my mind since day one of my being at a major state university (note: ambiguity is necessary to avoid defamation lawsuits), and 3) an excuse to blog since I last blogged as a staff.

So what does it mean to be a Christian at a secular university? I have to get used to the idea that my worldview is the (lone) minority position. I suspect my experience might be very similar to those before me—especially those who are experiencing/have experienced the transition from Calvin to a state university. The only Christian voice, however, need not be silent. I just have to learn how to present myself in a language that the others understand. That’s not too bad. Sunday—according to my peers—isn’t a day of rest spent in worship. Sundays are used to recover from hangovers.

The Cupps mug equivalent over here is a booze mug. Granted it might be a cultural thing, yet many drinkers can’t hold their own. End result: missed lectures, and desperate visits to the doctors for screening, counseling, and scheduling medical procedures. If only condoms came with gospel tracks, or cars could detect alcohol. Not that such cases do not happen at Calvin, but it’s definitely fewer.

When I first set foot in a beautiful, prominent church one Sunday morning, I was surprised that there weren’t any more than 30 in attendance. Choose any two members of that church and their combined age would be greater than 120. Where are the younger people, I asked myself. Maybe I was at the wrong church. No, they are still in bed.

Calvin is truly a unique environment. I find myself in many conversations where I could talk about my faith, even challenge it.  It’s also somewhere where I hear people ask themselves such hard questions like “what’s my purpose in life?” and “why do good people suffer?” Calvin is a place where one’s intellectual, philosophical, and spiritual dimensions dovetail to receive some real prime-time attention for some imminent center stage action.

This morning in the bathroom, the janitor came in to collect the trash. I acknowledged his presence but he only came in to do his stuff. I thanked him for his work as he made his way out; he didn’t even make a sound. He came back in a few minutes later, “It was nice of you to say ‘thank you’.” That moment—a moment where the two-dimensional reading from a senior’s capstone seminar became alive in the very world that we have being wanting to reform and serve—made me realize that my neighbors are those whom I cross paths with. It’s that missing “u” in my “neighborhood.” Everyone is my neighbor. Ah, it’s so easy to associate with and stay close to those who share my worldview. Such brief moments, like the one with the janitor, might never come again, and any one of those moments might just be my last chance to love that neighbor.