Portland is a city of stories.
During my three weeks in the city, I ate lunch with an immigrant from Vietnam, living in Seattle, who visits his girlfriend in Portland every weekend. I sat with a man who trades jokes for food outside a pharmacy (he told me a good one about Jesus and Moses playing golf). I served dinner to a comedic veteran with a brain tumor on his birthday.
I met a young man from New York, who screamed at strangers on the train, and then turned and became incredibly friendly with me. He showed me pictures of his father meeting the President, told me stories about getting an engineering degree, and explained that he had just opened a t-shirt shop at the local mall. He also told me how much he hated Portland, and the people who live there.
Continue reading “Portlandia: The Wandering City”
I have come to the conclusion that for a person like me, being a Christian is incredibly uncomfortable.
There is really no other way to put it. My comfort and The Gospel simply don’t overlap at all. There is a chasm between who I have always seen myself as, and who Christ says I am. My identity in Christ, my purpose in Him, is so vastly separated from my own nature.
The past couple of years I have come into the understanding that what I believe is not just a simple truth. It is not just something I can use to fill up the bits of my life that are lacking. My identity in Christ is something that takes my inadequacy, and replaces it with a far more beautiful story.
And that makes me uncomfortable.
Continue reading “Portlandia: The Leap”