—
On the dot of ten the next morning, I phoned the church and waited for Norma to answer.
“Norma, it’s Julia Murdoch. I need five minutes with the pastor this morning, and I’m doing you a favor by calling before coming over since it’s difficult for you to adapt to unscheduled visitors.”
“He’s very busy today,” she said, stalling, as she usually did. “I’m not sure—”
“Norma,” I said, exerting great patience, “he asked me a question, so I assume he wants an answer. That’s why I want five measly minutes of his time—so I can give him what he wants.”
“In that case,” she said in that sullen way of hers, “you might as well come on.”
So I did, marching into Norma’s office confident of being able to put that little snip of a preacher in his place. Then I had to wait while she went through her routine of announcing my presence and waving me in.
“Well, Miss Julia,” Pastor Rucker said, rising from the executive chair that almost swallowed him, “how nice to see you again. I hope this visit means that you’ve changed your mind about serving on the relocation committee.”
“Sorry to dash your hopes, Pastor,” I said, breezily. “My visit today is to answer the question you posed relating to the placement of displaced persons. I will admit that it distressed me until I found the answer, but I’m here to give it to you. I must say, though, I am quite surprised that you don’t already know it, being so scripturally well read as you must be—seeing that you’ve been to seminary and all.”
A slight frown appeared between his fair eyebrows, looking somewhat incongruous with the smile on his mouth. “The answer to what question?”
“The one you asked to sidetrack me from my main concern, namely, the inappropriate location of that nonprofit home for the homeless. Mind you, I said location, not relocation. And as for my participation on that relocation committee you brought up—no, thank you. And I’d advise you not to take part in it yourself.”
“Why, Miss Julia, I’m both surprised and deeply disappointed.”
“Don’t be. I am doing exactly what Jesus would do, just as you posed in that question to me yesterday. Listen, Pastor,” I said, putting my hands on the edge of his desk and leaning forward so he would get the full message. “All you have to do is read the parable of the Good Samaritan, which I’m sure you already have a dozen times or more.” I wasn’t at all sure of that, but I was giving him the benefit of the doubt. “Take note of what that kindly Samaritan did. First of all, the wounded man lying on the side of the road was, I think we’re safe in assuming, an Israelite, and therefore an enemy of the Samaritans. See how already the parable speaks to our current situation? But notice what the Samaritan does: he binds up the man’s wounds, administers oil and wine, then takes him to an inn for something like hospice care. The Samaritan pays in advance for that care, but tells the innkeeper that if more is needed, he will reimburse him on his return journey. Then the Samaritan goes about his business. That is what Jesus tells us we should do. But most important, please take note of what Jesus does not mention. He does not say that the Samaritan took the wounded man into his own home, and He does not say that He made the wounded man his next-door neighbor.
“So,” I said, standing upright, “there’s your answer. We most assuredly should see to the wounds and the continuing care of those displaced persons you’re concerned about by sending aid and comfort to them. But nowhere in that parable do I see any indication that we’re obliged to take potential enemies to our bosom, that is, to relocate them in Abbotsville.
“And,” I continued, “to put my money where my mouth is, I will match any funds you can raise in order to purchase bandages, oil, and wine—or their modern equivalent—to send to them, but I will not lift one finger to bring them here. And I am confident that that is what Jesus would have us do because He’s given us an example to follow, and He’s seen to it that I have the wherewithal with which to do it.”
For a second I thought I had left him speechless, but he rallied. “Miss Julia, Miss Julia,” he said, shaking his head as if in disappointment, “you must know that we cannot take everything in Scripture literally.”
“What? You mean that we can pick and choose what we want to believe and discard the rest? Every man—or woman, as the case may be—for themselves? No, Pastor, it seems as if that’s what we’re already doing and look where it’s gotten us.
“Now,” I said, ready to turn for the door, “I’ve given you the answer you asked for, but you haven’t given me what I’ve asked for. Forget, for a few minutes, the plight of foreign refugees, and think of the plight of some members of your own congregation. Pastor, I would like you to use your influence to convince Madge Taylor that the house she’s chosen is unsuitable for her purpose, and that she should look elsewhere.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” he said, still smiling, although it was getting a little wobbly.
“Then our attorney will,” I said, and, my head held so high that I almost tripped on my way out, I took my leave.
Chapter 8
Pastor Rucker had almost detoured me by bringing up a problem I hadn’t known we’d had. But I had cogently explained my position to him, backed it up with Scripture, and no longer expected to hear another word about a relocation committee.
So by the next
