What You Did for the Least of These

What You Did for the Least of These by Rob Nedbalek
It was a cloudy, warm spring morning as the members of the church began to gather and enter the small, Lutheran church in a rural Kansas town. They were met with a distrubing sight. There, next to the steps that went up to the narthex lay a man. At least they assumed that it was a man. He wore a Vietnam era boonie hat, and his long, scraggly, dark hair hung matted from it. He wore grubby, torn jeans, a tiger stripe Army field jacket, and looked to be passed out, sound asleep, unmoving, on the decorative bark next to the stairs. The members of the church made audible remarks about the disgusting site, about the presence of this obviously derelict and homeless bum. But no one was brave enough to move to awaken him and move him along. Neither did anyone move to see if he was breathing or injured. When the pastor arrived, through another door, several of the elders of the church went immediately to him and told him about the man outside the door. He asked them what they should do, and while most agreed that somebody ought to go out and drive the miscreant away, no one was so bold as to volunteer to do so. They obviously expected the pastor to take charge and get rid of the offensive man. So, striding down the aisle, he made his way to the door. Some of the braver elders, including one woman, followed along to see what would happen. To their horror, the vagrant man met them at the door, stumbling and leaning dizzily against the door jamb. The pastor caught him as he was about to fall, and led him to an old pew that sat against the back wall for the ushers to sit in. The ushers moved out of the way and a couple of people moved closer together to make room for the displaced ushers. The dirty, disgusting man lay down, seemed to relax, and closed his eyes. The pastor made his way to the front of the church, apparently planning to just let the man stay there, and the elders followed, resignedly and took their seats. The pastor began the service, and told the gathered people that he had a real treat in store for them. A fellow classmate from the seminary was there, and would assist him with communion and if they made him feel welcomed enough, might even preach, giving them a break from his sermonizing. The people looked all around the sanctuary, trying to see the strange face of their guest in their midst, in order to welcome them. But they could not see anyone who was not familiar to them. Then to their horror, the grubby man at the back of the church stood up, took off his hat, shook out his long hair and walked down the aisle, where the pastor met and embraced him. In the months that followed, the little congregation grew. Their growth in mumbers was slight, but their attendance, participation and involvement, and their spirit of outreach grew, along with their financial and spiritual giving. They attributed it to the day the pastor's "Hippie" friend came to visit and opened their eyes. It was Christ the King Sunday, and the sermon, which their own pastor gave, stressed the verses that said, "as you did it" or "did not do it for the least of these, you did it to me." I know this story sounds contrived, and I guess the situation was. But I also know that it is true, because I was the guest pastor. (Comments to Rob at luther@POP.CTCTEL.COM.)