WHO IS MY NEIGHBOR?

Eighth Sunday after Pentecost

Deuteronomy 30: 9-14
Colossians 1: 1-14
Luke 10: 25-37

            Well, it has been a quiet week in Lake Wobegon, my hometown, out there at the gateway to Central Minnesota.  Just when you might have thought there would be no more news from Lake Wobegon, there are still stories to be told about my peaceful little village.

            Pastor Liz felt the need to get away from it all; and by that, I think she meant everything going on in our country and in our world.  So she had requested permission of the council of the Lake Wobegon Lutheran Church to attend a three day, silent retreat in Minneapolis.  Vic Tollefson, who had replaced his father, Val Tollefson, as council president after his dad had served in that capacity for over 50 years – all throughout the tenure of the previous pastor, David Engqvist (there were no term limit at Lake Wobegon Lutheran Church) – Vic had questioned why the pastor would have to leave Lake Wobegon and travel to the Twin Cities for a quiet retreat.  But Vic wasn’t as stubborn as his sainted father, who opposed female clergy and vowed that the only way there would be a woman in the pulpit of Lake Wobegon Lutheran Church was over his dead body.  And that’s what it took for Pastor Liz to be called to serve there.  So her request was granted.

            The retreat lasted late into Saturday evening, later than Pastor Liz expected and it was dark by the time the closing service ended; probably because, with no one speaking, it was hard to tell when the worship was actually over.

            Now, whenever Pastor Liz drove in the Twin Cities, she would deliberately avoid the black sections of town.  She never thought of herself as a racist – she grew up in New Jersey, dontcha know.  But she was careful and she was practical.  When you live in a quiet town of Norwegian Lutherans and German Catholics, black people (and any other color) were considered suspect.

            But the fastest way to the interstate that would take her north, back to home, was straight through the heart of the most dangerous part of the city.  It was late.  She was in a hurry.  She hadn’t yet written a sermon for the next morning’s worship.  Lutheran pragmatism won out over prejudicial fear.  She would just lock all the doors, roll up the windows, and pray that nothing goes wrong.

            Then the car began to swerve and bounce.  It wasn’t a pot hole on the poorly maintained streets; she had a flat tire.  What was she going to do now?  About to curse God under her breath for not answering her prayer, she noticed in the rearview mirror that the driver of the car behind her was the Bishop of Bemidgi, who also had attended the retreat.

            Not wanting to block traffic, she pulled off onto a side street.  Feeling great relief, she jumped out of her car in time to see the Bishop drive straight on through, pointing at his wrist watch and shaking his head.  “I suppose he does have farther to travel,” thought Pastor Liz.

            She hopped back in her car and locked the doors.  There would be no more help from fellow clergy.  No one would be able to see her now.  She returned to her prayers, praying for God’s protection and deliverance.

            Further down the street, red lights were flashing.  As they approached closer, she could hear the siren of a police car.  “Thank you, God!” she exclaimed.  But there must have been a situation far worse than hers way beyond, and the police car screamed right past her.  “May God bless and protect our dedicated public servants,” she whispered, “now more than ever.”

            Tears welled up in the Pastor’s eyes; tears of frustration, tears of fear, tears of regret.  “I could sit here and cry,” she thought, “or I can assess my situation and do something about it.”  Her father, a Jersey mechanic, would not let young Liz drive a car until she was able to change a tire.  So she knew how to, she had just never had to do it.  She steeled herself to change the tire on her own, quickly and efficiently, with the hope of avoiding any trouble.  One, two, three steps, just like her father taught her, and she would be back on the road to home.

            She popped open the trunk and got out of the car.  There was the spare tire donut.  The jack and crow bar were lodged underneath it.  Why did she park under a blown out street lamp?  It looked like it had been shot out, of course.  Changing a tire in the dark of night would add to the challenge.  She braced the jack under the left, front tire well, inserted the crow bar and began pumping.  It was just like blowing up a kiddie pool, as the car began to rise.

            The thought of blowing up only increased her fear.

            The hub cap came off without any trouble and she set to work on removing the lug nuts.  Four came off, after great effort on her part, but the fifth was locked.  Who locks lug nuts?  Not anybody in Lake Wobegon!  Why, she even leaves her keys in the car at night.  At least now, nobody would be able to steal her flat tire.

            Throwing the crow bar down in disgust, she hit the hub cap, scattering the lug nuts she had safely placed there (as her father has taught her).  “Oh, frick!” she yelled.  But that wasn’t really the word she used.  She turned to see the legs of a tall, stocky black man hovering over her.  She fell backwards against the car as he took one step closer.  “What’ a nice, white girl like you doing in a neighborhood like this?” he snarled; at least, that’s what it sounded like to her.

            “Oh, God, please don’t hurt me!” she pleaded, “I had a flat tire and I just want to fix it and be on my way.”  “I ain’t God,” he said, “and I ain’t here to hurt you.  I’m here to help you.  I was driving in front of you when I saw your car swerve and you pulled into this side street.  It really isn’t safe here at night.  So, I came back around to give you a hand.”

            “O, my God, thank you so much,” she cried with relief.  “Again, I’m not God,” he said.  “It just looked like you could use a Good Samaritan.  Now, I see you need a lug nut key.”

            “I never knew there was such a thing,” she confessed.  Checking the glove compartment, nothing was found.  “I could call AAA.”

            “Naw, they won’t come into this neighborhood at night.  You’ll have to wait until morning.”

            “But what can I do?  I have to work in the morning.”

            “What is it you do?” he asked.

            “I’m the pastor of the Lutheran Church in Lake Wobegon.”  She noticed a change in his expression.  A snide look crossed his face, or was it a smile? 

            “You’re a long way from our home, Pastor Liz.”

            “Our home, and how do you know my name?”

            “I live just down the block from you.  We’re actually neighbors.  Stanley Murphy’s the name.  Pleased to make your acquaintance.”  A black man she had never seen or met before is her neighbor?  In Lake Wobegon?  Who would have thunk it?  “Leave your car here.  At least nobody will steal your tire.”  He laughed, but she didn’t.  “I’ll take you home.  Then I’ll come to your church service in the morning and we’ll drive back down here and take care of all this.”

            The lawyer, seeking to exonerate himself when he heard Jesus say that loving one’s neighbor as one’s self was a sign of righteousness, asked, “And just who is my neighbor?”

            Now Pastor Liz had her sermon for today’s worship.  During the silent retreat she had been reading this quote from Dr. David Lose, the president of the seminary in Philadelphia, out there in Pennsylvania and she wanted to use it in her sermon: (This) is not simply a lesson (to be learned); it is also a promise.  God comes where we least expect God to be because God comes for all.  The self-justifying lawyer and the outcast Samaritan; the refugees and (the politicians); those in need, those who help them, and those who turn away.  No one is beyond the pale of God’s mercy, grace, and redemption.  And if we’re not sure, keep in mind that Jesus…set his face to go to Jerusalem, and there he will not only suffer and die on the cross to show us just how far God will go to demonstrate God’s love, but also forgive those who crucify him.  No one is beyond the reach of God’s love.  No one.  And so Jesus brings (us) home by choosing the most unlikely of characters to serve as the instrument of God’s mercy and grace and exemplify Christ-like behavior.  That’s what God does: God chooses people no one expects and does amazing things through them.  Even a Samaritan… Even me.  Even you.

            Maybe Stanley did attend worship at Lake Wobegon Lutheran today.  Maybe he was the messenger of God, sent to answer the prayers of Pastor Liz.  I guess you never know who your neighbors are, or who your neighbor might be.

            That’s the news from Lake Wobegon; where all the women are strong, all the men are good looking, and all the children are above average.  AMEN.

July 10, 2016