Or: The Place God Put You (Not the One You’d Prefer)

Before we get too serious, let me start with something small and painfully ordinary.

Most of us have very strong opinions about our neighbors, and most of those opinions are formed in their absence. You know, when you’re driving home from work, at the end of a long week, and one of the neighbor kids is riding their bike slowly down the middle of the road. Or when you’re late for work and you get behind grandpa Joe. And you’re mad at him for driving slow when you were the one who hit the snooze button one too many times. Or when your neighbor dumps their burning charcoal over the fence into YOUR backyard. If you’re thinking that last one sounds oddly specific, well…

These are the times we need to remember that loving your neighbor is not primarily a feeling. It’s a discipline. And that’s what makes this conversation harder than we want it to be.

What Kind of Christian Do You Want to Be Known As?

I think underneath all the conversations about schools, levies, frustration, and politics, there’s a quieter question most of us don’t say out loud but eventually have to answer: what kind of Christian do I want to be known as? Not what position did I take or how strongly did I defend myself, but what kind of presence was I in the place God actually put me.

That question matters because to Jesus love wasn’t an abstract idea. When he summarized the law, he didn’t say, “Love God and make sure you’re never taken advantage of.” Or, “Love God and your neighbors who vote the same as you.” Or, “Love God and band together with people who think the same as you and actively fight against the people you disagree with.” He said, “Love God and love your neighbor.” And when someone tried to narrow that definition—because of course they did—Jesus told a story that deliberately crossed boundaries and made everyone uncomfortable. The Samaritan didn’t help because the system was good, or because the injured man shared his beliefs, or because it was strategically smart. He helped because love, when it’s real, moves toward the vulnerable. Jesus’ closing line wasn’t a theological statement; it was an instruction for daily life: “Go and do the same” (Luke 10:37, NET).

That story still presses on us because it refuses to let love stay theoretical. Loving your neighbor isn’t a value you hold; it’s a person you become, usually toward people you didn’t choose and situations you don’t control. It’s inconvenient by design.

Faithfulness in Imperfect Places Is Not a New Idea

The Bible is surprisingly consistent on this. When Israel was exiled into a culture they didn’t trust, under a government they didn’t choose, God didn’t tell them to withdraw, resist everything, or wait until conditions improved. Through the prophet Jeremiah, God told them to settle in, build lives, and “seek the welfare of the city” they now lived in, adding the uncomfortable line, “for in its welfare you will find your welfare” (Jeremiah 29:7, NET).

That wasn’t an endorsement of Babylon. It was an invitation to faithfulness where they were, not where they wished they were.

This is usually where we want a footnote. Something like: “This applies, unless the city is frustrating, or inefficient, or feels hostile to your values. I’ll see it’s welfare as long as _______.” Unfortunately, Jeremiah didn’t include that clause. There are no fill in the blanks in Scripture.

What the Early Church Was Actually Known For

The early church took this posture seriously. Long before Christians had power, influence, or cultural leverage, they were known for caring for people most others ignored. Church fathers like Tertullian and Justin Martyr wrote about Christians being recognized not by political dominance but by their willingness to care for the poor, the sick, abandoned children, and the marginalized.

During plagues, when many fled cities to protect themselves, Christians stayed. Not because Rome was righteous, but because neighbors were suffering.

That kind of love didn’t make Christianity popular at first, but it made it credible.

Public Schools and the People We Say We Want to Reach

That history matters when we talk about schools, because right now 85–90% of children go through public schools. These are not abstract institutions. These are families. Kids. Teachers. Staff. Neighbors.

That means the same people churches say they want to reach, are the ones in schools every day. The kids roam the hallways and their parents welcome them home at night. Not only are these the people we’d like in our churches (at least, I would like them in mine), but they’re also the people we’re supposed to love sacrificially.

We talk a lot about wanting families to come back to church, about being a welcoming presence in our communities, about living missionally. But it’s worth asking honestly: why would people feel drawn to a faith community that seems to resent, distrust, or actively fight the place where their kids spend most of their lives?

This isn’t about agreeing with everything. It’s not about blind trust or pretending schools are perfect. Loving your neighbor doesn’t require endorsement. It requires presence, humility, and a willingness to seek someone else’s good even when it costs you something.

Jesus never said love would feel efficient or fair. He said it would look like a cross. That thing we’re supposed to pick up daily and follow in Jesus’s footsteps.

Forgiveness, Old Wounds, and Letting the Present Be the Present

There’s also a quieter layer to this that’s harder to talk about: forgiveness.

Some people in this community carry real disappointment and hurt connected to past school district promises and decisions. Those wounds are understandable. They shouldn’t be minimized. But unprocessed hurt has a way of becoming a filter, shaping every new decision whether we realize it or not.

Forgiveness doesn’t mean forgetting or pretending nothing happened. It means refusing to let old wounds dictate how we treat today’s children, families, and teachers who had nothing to do with those past failures. How many years ago did those things happen? 10? 15? Before many kids in the schools today were born. Is it fair to punish them for something they didn’t do?

So Again: Who Do You Want to Be Known As?

So again, the question comes back to identity. What kind of Christian do I want to be known as here? One who fights relentlessly for personal rights and comfort, or one who is willing to love sacrificially in the place God has actually planted them? One who is primarily reactive and defensive, or one who is steady, present, and generous toward neighbors who may never agree with them?

Christian faith has always been most compelling when it was most embodied. When love showed up locally. When it cared for people before it tried to correct systems. Is the system broken? Parts of it are for sure. Do they need repaired? Yes. Will voting no against the levy address any of the parts that are broken? Not even in the slightest. If you want to fix those, you need to talk to state and federal representatives. And I think you should do so often.

Loving your neighbor where you live doesn’t solve every problem, but it does answer one important question clearly: This is who we are. This is what it means to follow the Jesus of the Bible. To lay down your life for the betterment of those around you.

That’s who I want to be. That’s how I want to be known.