At the beginning of May, I traveled to New York City to attend the retirement party of a good friend. As the large group gathered before dinner, I realized that except for the retiree and her spouse, I knew only a couple of other people and neither of them I knew well. I did my best to put myself out there and to introduce myself to a few people, amid the sea of unfamiliar faces, although it was nice to finally connect a few of them to stories I’ve heard over the years.

When it was time to find a seat for dinner (seats were not assigned ahead of time), I found a spot at a table that was filled with the retiree’s old college friends. They all knew each other and were so glad to be getting caught up that they didn’t really take much notice of me, as interloper. For the most part, I just listened in. At one point, one person piped up and posed this question to the table: “What’s the worst job you’ve ever had?” Several people started to ponder the question. One person jumped in and told a story about being a personal assistant at a fancy department store— so many demands; so little kindness and respect. When the conversation started to lag, I realized that this was my big chance to contribute. I had a terrible job story too, after all. So, I launched into the telling of my experience, many years ago, of working the third shift at a swizzle stick factory. I had to define both “third shift” and “swizzle stick,” but the table seemed generally entertained. Finally, I was actually part of the conversation.

As the evening progressed, the conversation somehow drifted into the realm of religion. Christianity was essentially deemed a ridiculous faith tradition. I don’t remember what was said as one after another shared their dismissive attitudes about the religion with the most adherents around the world. But, I found myself slowly raising my hand. It was as if I didn’t really have control over my hand. It just kept inching upward. When most of the people around the table noticed my raised hand, I made my declaration: I not only go to church, but I’m a practicing Christian. And, still more outrageous, I’m a pastor and teacher to a small congregation.

After a moment of stunned silence, most of the people at my table found their way to curiosity, asking questions about what I do, what my congregation is like, and, of course, what kind of church I belong to and lead. Thank goodness, I guess, I’m a progressive Christian, so I didn’t get run out of the room. But, it was not only a little odd to defend my profession and my faith, it was weirder still when I found myself with a little internal debate around “outing” my friend and new retiree, the one at the center of the celebration we were all attending. I knew that she was a church-goer and a church member. Did they?

Watching the occasional gaped mouth reaction, along with the one person who looked upon me with open derision, was a strange experience. How should I talk about my faith in the midst of vaguely curious, and at least partially hostile, group of people?

I knew I wasn’t going to be win them over as people eager to check out a Sunday worship service, but what could I say that would encourage a more open minded consideration of Christian faith and practice? We are a pretty diverse lot, after all. Despite media attempts at painting Christianity as the tradition of Trump-loving, anti-intellectual, trad-wife leaning evangelical lunatics, other kinds of Christians exist. We are a wide and wondrous bunch. So, I shared a bit of my little corner of Christianity, along with the hopes, dreams, and struggles of my community of faith, as we endeavor to love God and our neighbors as well.

I’m not sure how successful I was, but maybe I offered enough that the next time they jump to Christian stereotypes, perhaps they’ll pause for a moment. One can hope . . .