Our perspective is philosophical: any press is good press, even satirical artwork in the Village Voice.

But when this article by David Segal of the Washington Post appeared a few days ago, I was nonplussed, unsure at first what to think.

I took exception to language that made The King's College sound sheltered and homogeneous, in the middle of Manhattan: "a heartland social in a very large bunker."Hmm? A very chic one, perhaps. "Students are assigned to 'houses' with names like Thatcher, Reagan and Churchill"? Probably no accident that the houses of Sojourner Truth and Susan B. Anthony weren't listed.

But this section is what stopped me in my tracks:

"But hang around these polite, untattooed lads and lasses and you get the sense that New York is leaving a far deeper impression on them than they are on the city. Many take a passive approach to spreading the Word, one that involves smiling and radiating contentedness and being ready if someone asks what makes them so happy."

Is that true? If the love of God is better than life and a lifeline to those who are perishing--all that I believe--why am I in my comfortable midtown apartment and not shouting my message from the street corners? Why does the man who makes my morning coffee still not know the reason behind my smile?

Here's what I came up with: Manhattan is teeming with street-corner evangelists. It's easy to approach a stranger on the street (and I've done it before) for a short conversation; much harder to build deep and lasting relationships with people at work, at the gym, or at the apartment concierge desk. And I see students finding ways to do this constantly.

When we speak of immersing ourselves in the "muck and mire" of the city, nobody's talking about sketchy encounters in the subway station. It's confronting New York's thriving child sex trafficking industry, as a girl's house did last year through the Red Light Campaign; reaching the ubiquitous homeless population, as some King's guys have, through an Empire State Building suit drive and a citywide count on the coldest night of the year; and mentoring the at-risk urban high-schoolers who show up at the school weekly for videos, pizza and student friendships. I teach English and computer classes for African Immigrants in Bed-Stuy every week with girls from my house.

But none of this means I'm off the hook. My apartment is still too safe and comfortable, and the man who gives me my coffee so kindly every morning still knows nothing about my hope for something beyond this world. New York has a way of distancing me from others, forcing me to create protective barriers against my neighbors and fellow needy, searching people. I want to be defined by my faith, not my address.

This challenge has stayed with me for days. Thank you, Mr. Segal. I needed that.