In my late teens I used to drive into the city from my parents' house in the suburbs, forging my way into circles with urban-based friends. We would go to Shakespeare's, a pub on the edge of Surry Hills next to the housing commission and eat $10 steaks. I was overcome by how cool and edgy this part of the city was: how I wanted to be part of it.
About seven years later, I walk to the same pub after work to meet a group of people from the new church I've been going to. I meander down the urine-drenched streets of Chippendale and hustle up Devonshire Street to the same Shakespeare's—to sit with the group and talk out fears and judgements ahead of the evening's next activity: a training night for the local urban mission.
Light amongst the grime
When I moved into the city, I wanted to be amongst the grime. I wanted to see further than my clean, safe suburbs, to plunge into reality, to be confronted by wealth and poverty sitting side by side. But now I find myself as romanced as I am repulsed: by the smells, an overactive imagination and the desire to stay safe, and clean.
I like listening to a pastor from New York City. He talks about how Scripture has society moving from a garden to a city; how social trends map people relocating to cities by the five millions; and how the city—with its high rent, small living spaces and ruthless job market—challenges people, ultimately shaping their character.
At the training night, I am taken aback by the humble chaplain who talks our ears off as to how the evening sessions will run. While I am battling my own angst, this guy lives it: in crises accommodation, making everyday relationships with people on the streets. 'I would encourage you to pray with these people,' he says. 'Food, clothing, houses—nothing changes someone's purpose like the power of Jesus.'
In urban, middle class society it's easy to believe otherwise. I am distracted by attempts at a ladder-like career, romantic relationships, buying clothes off Madewell as having time for deep thinking. The New York preacher puts it well when he talks about how hard it is for middle-class people to get grace: 'We simply don't believe life works like that, we believe you work for what you get.'
Thinking my way out of grace
From time to time I will think my way out of grace. I am caught up wanting to leave a mark and work for someone important, plus do the marry-house-baby thing, et cetera.
I believe that I need to earn my way, my life, good things. I forget to believe God might like me enough to provide, or better yet, to free me from a cut-throat culture of achievement.
When I'm talking to the people at the mission, it's God's ability to provide that I talk about. I don't know who to call to rid a spider from someone's house, how to arrange a legal case so someone sees their baby more, or when the next food truck is coming. Awkwardly, to these cases, I say—as I've been encouraged—'can I pray for that?'
It feels inappropriate. And if I were equipped to answer questions, I certainly would. But as reminded by the chaplain, relationships are eternal. And nothing changes people like the power of Jesus.
And this God that I like cares so much about justice that he embedded a system in Israelite law that would have the edges of the fields always left for the needy and the foreigner (Leviticus chapter 23, verses 22).
He cares about justice such that he sets on changing hearts to receive grace, not earn it. He pivots hearts away from a culture of achievement or cool, and towards one of receiving grace.
Emma Froggatt has kept a number of blogs for a number of years, and is learning to put her name to what she writes.
Emma Froggart's previous articles may be viewed at http://www.pressserviceinternational.org/emma-froggart.html