Last Saturday night at 10p I left my apartment to see a friend at her tiny studio apartment in the 9th arrondissement of Paris, near the center of the city. It already pretty late, I had already been out for much of the day and I am tired. Not out of guilt, but because I was invited, I felt like I should go anyway to see this new friend of mine.
The trains are animated tonight! In the Metro, Paris' underground train system, I see many young people - late night revelers - going out, too. Coming back from a café? Going to see a movie? Just having finished dinner? I see young couples holding hands, embracing each other, oblivious to those around them. PDA (Public Displays of Affection) is far more the norm than the exception here.
I arrive at my Metro stop: Strasbourg-St.Denis, off Line 4, in an area not too far from the Louvre museum. Near the Metro stop is an ancient arche called Porte de Saint Denis. It is like a mini Arc de Triomphe. Before I make my way to my friend's apartment, I stop by a local KFC to pick up a bucket of good ole fried chicken to share.
When I finally make my way down her street, I soon see young women standing and waiting on the sidewalks.
I then remember my friend telling me before that her neighborhood is known for prostitution. To my surprise, the ladies I see are casually-dressed, in blue jeans and boots and coats. They look like many other girls I would see in the trains, not with the provocative tight skirts or fishnet stockings I would have expected. KFC bag in hand, I cooly pass by some of women, anxious to make it to my friend's place. On the surface I look cool and indifferent, my expressionless face and unhurried stride hiding my cautiousness but also my sadness. I feel a pity for these women, women who are loved and so precious to God - and not a condescending pity that masks loathing - but a compassion borne out of sadness for the reasons why they have to turn to this practice. "Jesus, you hung out with women like these, with prostitutes. These were the very people you reached out to and wanted to save...", I could hear in my mind.
I punch in the code for the front door and get into the main hallway. It is literally pitch black inside. Using my cell phone as light and groping for the button on the wall to press that will turn on a timed light, I finally see the hallway. It is completely made of cement. No paint, no drywall. I begin to doubt that I have the right place. My friend's apartment is on the 5th floor. There is no elevator. I take the narrow, winding stairwell and climb. When I get to her door, I have to duck my head a little bit to enter.
Upon arrival, les bises - French kisses (no no, not that kind us Americans would think of, but the simple peck on the cheek, a standard but warm greeting) - are exchanged as I introduce myself to my friends's other guests. I kiss on both cheeks almost everyone in the room. No matter that we don't really know each other, this is a place of friends so we are treating you as one, is the feeling I get. The studio cannot be more than 14 meters sq, but somehow we all manage to squeeze in. Surprisingly, it feels cozy without suffocating. My friend and her friends are drinking beer and cider from Brittany. There is also a gâteau au chocolat (chocolate cake) that a friend had made. I present my gift of fried chicken. "Oooh, so American, look at this!", I hear them say in French. Although they are amused at what I brought, they are nevertheless pleased and happy, glad to have something more of substance to eat with their alcohol. Perhaps they are not used to eating salty and heavy things like this late at night. (Yet another reason why perhaps many French people are thinner than Americans!)
I sit down and they continue their conversation. Talk ranges from celebrities they see in the pop culture magazine being passed around to weddings, to the cost of TGV train tickets. They talk, everyone chiming in at some point. The conversation seems to have no purpose or end point in view. They smoke cigarettes, using empty beer bottles as ashtrays. These guys are around my little sister's age, 22-23. I feel old! They pour out champagne. They talk some more. The room is filled with smoke. More chatter. And no one seems uncomfortable at all with the occasional brief moments of silence. In the States, in my circles of friends, we would never talk at this length about just whatever. There would be something to do, like play a game or watch a movie, or play a sport. Something in addition to talking, but not just talking.
And as I'm sitting there listening to them chat, a shining revelation as soft and sure as sun shining on my face comes to me:
...I am totally where I need to be.
As I sat there observing, listening, I could feel the love of God in my heart swell in me for them, and the affection and the desire to know them, to engage with them. The people there were pretty down-to-earth, actually. Just regular young 20s year olds in Paris for the weekend to visit my friend, to have a good time.
Despite the awkwardness of the trip to get there, the darkness both physical and spiritual I felt and saw, the young adults I met that night are just as in desperate need of other Christians to meet them where they are at as young adults in the US.
They need God even more because their culture does not give them many clues to Him. I wondered while sitting at this get together, how many of them had ever touched the Bible or heard about Jesus? Who among the people I met last night ever heard the story of what Jesus did for them and me on the Cross? Or had a chance to confess to someone their struggles or pain...someone who really actually cared and was able to point them to the true source of life, Jesus?
I also felt afterwards: I wish there were even more workers for Christ in Paris doing what I did - i.e. going out of their comfort zones to the people. So often the church tries to win people to Christ by just bringing them to church. We need to go towards people, and step into their worlds and so incarnate Christ. Because they will not just go to you. We must go to them. "Jesus, I can't do this alone..." We Christians need each other to not only pray for one another and with one another, but to share the burdens for those who are alienated from Christ with one another. France needs more ambassadors of Christ to bring His Gospel of grace to many who have no idea of who He is.
Since I have arrived in Paris 1 year ago, I have realized that despite the many walls to Christ there are here, that God loves and aches for the French in Paris very much still. He loves Parisians, even in their reluctance and pride of life, and is working to draw them to Himself. These are people who are like us, with struggles and pain. With a desire to be loved, to have meaning in life. However, they do not have the same advantages of us in the States where Christianity and the Bible is more readily accessible.
I know that Paris is where I need to be. And although it can be difficult at times to live here, I still love this city. I can call it my home, at least for now.
