Episcopal Church Foundation Vestry Papers - for leading congregations

Several nights ago, I was startled by a knock at the door. While we are used to a steady stream of visitors at our house, this knock was startling as it came at nearly one o'clock in the morning. As I drew back the curtain to see my visitor, I knew who it would be. Sure enough, it was him.

I met him two days earlier when a well-spoken, well-meaning, over-churched neighbor brought him to my door. This neighbor had encountered the man on our diverse street and engaged him in conversation. In the fifty or so words of English he knows, the man – I can't use his name – told my neighbor that he had been brought to this country from Darfur, Sudan. He told my neighbor that Muslims had killed his whole family and that Christians brought him here and because of this . . . he wanted to become a Christian. My neighbor, well spoken and well meaning as he is, is done with just about all things Church (though he did make an appearance at last year's Easter Brunch and Lamb-B-Q), so he brought the man to me.

At the time, we talked briefly and I told him I would follow up with an Episcopal priest in our area who speaks Arabic. I’d be in touch.

It was one o'clock in the morning and he was at my door! I invited him in. What else could I do? Using the few English words he knew, the man explained to me that I had to come to his house right then. I was reassured that there was no emergency, but he insisted I had to come or he would never come to my house again. I don't respond well to ultimatums – my contrarian nature prevents that – but knowing what a huge deal hospitality is in his culture, I made an exception. What really got me moving what when the man said, “You pastor? You pastor!” He reminded me – as his language would allow – if I am a pastor, then I had better act like it.

I know. All the self-care-proponents just gasped. I know. Thankfully, I live in a small intentional community and I was able to take my brother in Christ and Southside Abbey's Theologian-in-Residence, Nik Forti, with me. We approached the man's house, with a gold plastic Christmas wreath on the door. When we entered, the decorations continued with festive teddy bears, flowers, and, displayed in a place of prominence, an American flag. It was surreal to think about this man - who had lived through unimaginable violence - decorating his apartment with wreaths, flowers, and bears. Oh my.

The man welcomed us in and commanded us: “Sit down!” This may be a cultural thing, but he seems to shout everything he says. He disappeared into the kitchen, returning with glasses and a tray full of Fanta, guava nectar, and some sort of cola with Spanish writing on the side. I could feel my blood sugar rising, but again, there was that cultural thing of accepting hospitality.

As the man returned to the kitchen, Nik and I began to drink the offered beverages. The place reeked of cigarette smoke. When the man re-entered the room, he was bearing bowls and plates of incredibly good smelling food. It was starting not to matter that it was nearly two o'clock in the morning.

He disappeared again, this time into a different room. When he emerged, another man, who he introduced as his brother, was with him. Wait!?! Didn't he tell my neighbor that his whole family was killed back in Sudan? That is what he said, because that is what he thought until that evening, when his brother just showed up at his house. That's when it hit me: This was a welcome home party for a brother who was thought dead. The man didn't have anyone else to invite. Nik and I were the guests dragged in off the street for the celebratory banquet. Suddenly, the hour didn't matter, the cigarette smoke didn't matter, my blood sugar didn't matter. What else could we do but keep the feast?

In the days since that visit and that realization, I have been haunted by the man's words, “You pastor? You pastor!” All of us are called to care for one another, right? Through our baptismal covenant, aren't we called to pastor to one another? Then let's pastor!