BUT WHAT WILL THE NEIGHBORS THINK?

a sermon preached by the Rev. Dr. Tim W. Jensen
at the First Religious Society in Carlisle, Massachusetts
Neighborhood Sunday, September 28th, 2003



READING: Luke 10: 25-37


On Easter Sunday, in the year 2000 (which was, depending on how you want to calculate it, either the last Easter Sunday of the Second Millennium, or the first Easter Sunday of the Third) I got up before dawn in order to catch the early train for the four-hour trip from Aalborg, Denmark (which is located near the tip of the Jylland peninsula) to Copenhagen, so that I could attend services at the Unitarisk Kirkesamfund or "Unitarian Church Union" -- the only surviving indigenous Unitarian Congregation in Scandinavia.

At that point I had been living in Denmark for about a month. Technically I was a visiting doctoral fellow at the School for Postgraduate Interdisciplinary Research on Interculturalism and Transnationality (more commonly known by the acronym "SPIRIT"), but in reality I had a very nice stipend from the Danish government to spend a semester in Europe basically doing whatever I wanted to...probably the closest thing to a MacArthur "genius" award I'll ever see.

Naturally, one of the things I was very curious about was religion, and in particular the odd phenomenon that in Denmark, where the "Folkekirke" or "People's Church" is supported by tax revenues, only about 2-3% of the people themselves actually attend services on any given Sunday, whereas here in the United States, where we have a voluntary church system, church attendance typically runs between 40% and 90% (or sometimes even more, depending upon what part of the country you live in).

I don't know that I ever really answered that question to my satisfaction (although I do have my theories), and I have to admit, it really wasn't much on my mind that morning either as I rode the train from Aalborg to Copenhagen, since the day before (also as part of my cultural research) I had attended something called a "Paaske Frokost" or "Easter Brunch" -- basically a six-hour party that began at two in the afternoon and continued until no one was left standing... herring, salmon, roast lamb, (and of course, Danish ham), potato salad, pasta salad, bean salad, deviled eggs, all lubricated with liberal quantities of Aquavit -- the "water of life" -- which really goes down quite smoothly after the second or third one, and only turns deadly the following morning.

But despite all that, I made it to my train on time: freshly showered and shampooed, closely shaved, and dressed in my Sunday best, which thankfully then gave me four hours to relax, drink coffee, write in my diary, enjoy the passing scenery, and reflect upon the Danish proverbs which decorated the interior of my car. Things like "Der er Kirke i hver Mands Bryst" ("There is a church in every man's breast"). Or better yet: "NÅR VANDET STÅR I MUNDEN, Lærer man vel at svømme" ("When the water is up to the mouth, one learns to swim well").

When I finally arrived in Copenhagen, I still had another 30 minute walk to get to the church, but by leaving Aalborg so early I'd given myself plenty of time before the start of services. I waited on the front steps until someone arrived to let me in, then hung around awkwardly in the vestibule listening for the Organist to begin the Prelude.

Although this was the only chance I would have to worship at the Unitarian Church in Denmark, it wasnâ't the first time I'd attended a Danish church, and I was really learning to enjoy the experience, despite the fact that my command of the Danish language really isn't all that great. Given a little time, I could usually puzzle out the Scriptural text in the pew Bible, or follow along the words to the hymns in the Salmebog. But the sermons were generally incomprehensible for me -- which in some ways was probably a good thing, since it left me free to make up a sermon more to my liking inside my own head; and which really didn't interfere much with my appreciation of the rest of the service either (an important, if humbling, lesson for a preacher). And the service at the Unitarian Church was really no different, except for the absence of communion...an activity which had never really meant that much to me in the States, but which I was gaining a new appreciation for as a sojourner in a foreign land.

So as the preacher droned on incomprehensibly that Easter Sunday I found myself admiring the fresco in the alcove behind the chancel where the high altar would ordinarily be. It was a representation of a scene from the story of the Good Samaritan, and I started thinking about how appropriate that particular iconography was for a Unitarian Church -- so much more appropriate than so many other stories from the Bible that might have been chosen instead. We've all known the story of the Good Samaritan since we were children. Even if we weren't raised in the Christian tradition, it's part of our cultural lexicon. A Samaritan is someone who does good deeds, who helps others in need, even if they happen to be strangers. Especially if they happen to be strangers....

It's easy for children to miss the subtext of this story, and even for adults the actual context is often obscure. A traveler is robbed, beaten, and left for dead at the side of the road. A Priest and a Levite (which is basically just another kind of priest) see him there but pass him by...not necessarily because they are bad people, nor even because they are afraid of being attacked themselves, but perhaps simply because they assume he is already dead, and touching a corpse would leave them ritually unclean and therefore incapable of performing their religious duties.

But a Samaritan -- an outsider, an outcast -- sees the body and takes the time to investigate. He's not worried about his formal religious duties interfering with his compassion for another human being, nor is he afraid to take the risk of becoming a victim himself. Or at the very least he is willing to face that fear. And all this in the context of the one Great Commandment of both Christianity and Judaism: "Love the Lord Your God With All Your Heart (and all your Soul and all your Strength and all your Mind), and Love Your Neighbor As Yourself." The lawyers, the Pharisees, to prove their own importance, may wish to quibble about the definition of "neighbor." But the Samaritan knows that if you happen to be in the neighborhood, whoever you see is your neighbor. Even if he happens to be a stranger, and you yourself are traveling far from home.

And then the sermon -- the Danish sermon -- was over, and the preacher was telling us all to take out our Salmeboger og Åbenet det til nummer fire hundrede fem og fyrre and soon the entire congregation was singing while I was still thumbing through the pages of the Salmebog and trying to figure out where we were in the order of service. Then afterwards (and this was unique in my experience in Denmark) the entire congregation was invited downstairs to the parish hall, where we all sat around a long table and were served more coffee and these amazing pastries -- and anyone who wanted to could say what THEY thought about the sermon, and even ask the minister what seemed to me to be pretty pointed questions about his ideas. And it was at that moment that I really KNEW that I was in a Unitarian Church, even though it was all happening in a foreign language, and I was thousands of miles away from home.

About a month later, I had a very vivid reminder of that Easter morning. I was back again in Copenhagen, this time with my mother, who was visiting me for a few weeks, and we were on our way to the train station, once again very early in the morning, when we were approached by a rather frail, elderly woman who started jabbering at me in rapid, heavily accented Danish. And I was trying to tell her that I didn't understand what she was saying, but she didn't seem to understand me either; she just kept grabbing at my arm and pointing to a nearby bus shelter, so I looked up at where she was pointing and saw...

...a Body, seated on the bench, slumped over against the glass wall, a thin trickle of blood running down the side of his face....

Well, now the conversation suddenly got very interesting. I was trying to tell this woman (in a jumble of Danish, English, French, German, Greek and Latin all at once) that she needed to call the police, but she wasn't having any of it... she'd shown the body to me, and now she had to catch her bus,"Tak skal du have" ("thank you very much") and away she went.

And there I was.

This particular bus shelter was right outside a government hospital that had recently closed due to budget cuts, so naturally, being an American, I assumed that this young man had been shot in some sort of gang-related drug deal and then dumped by his buddies outside the hospital because they didn't want to risk involvement with the authorities. I tried to rouse him, but got no response, so I went inside the hospital just to see if I could find anyone there, and eventually located a caretaker, who explained to me (in English) about the hospital being closed, and then agreed to accompany me back outside to see the body for himself.

He also tried to rouse this fellow, a little more loudly and aggressively than I had, and sure enough, the body responded... and after a brief conversation between the two of them, the caretaker assured me that the gentleman in question was merely someone who had stayed out a little too late the night before, and had fallen asleep while waiting for his bus, having fallen down and banged his head against something hard earlier in the evening... but not to worry, because [wink,wink] he was feeling no pain. So I was able to explain all this to my mother, who of course had also seen the body, but basically understood nothing else of what had been going on, that everything was OK and that we could continue on our way.

And I honestly don't know to this day whether or not I would have spent as much time I did trying to help this stranger if I hadn't seen the fresco of the Good Samaritan in the Unitarian Church the month before. I do know this...having just seen that fresco, only a few blocks from that bus shelter, I would have felt like a terrible hypocrite if I had simply passed him by. As a general rule, we Unitarian Universalists don't ordinarily put much stock in Shame as a spiritual and emotional motivator, but I suppose there's a time and a place for everything. Because yes: I was confused, and also a little afraid, far from home on unfamiliar ground, and in many ways it would have been a lot easier for me to turn my back and walk away. But how was I going to explain that behavior to my mother? (who, in all honesty, would have probably just as soon walked away herself). And, more importantly, how was I going to live with myself afterwards?

"Who is my neighbor?" the Pharisee asked Jesus. And Jesus told him a story in response, a story about a social pariah who did the right thing when his more pious neighbors would not. Nowadays we have a slightly different question we sometimes ask ourselves whenever we are tempted to step outside the customary boundaries of social conformity. We ask ourselves "But what will the neighbors think?" And then we let the shame of that imagined response keep us from acting "abnormally."

And yes, there's a place for that. It's important, for example, that we know who our neighbors are, and that we recognize their inherent worth and dignity, treat them with respect and integrity, honor them in the same manner that we would hope they honored us. But there are also times when we have to expand those boundaries and take risks, step outside of our comfort zone, despite what we think the neighbors might think, and even though we may be a little afraid, or in unfamiliar territory.

Because if somebody doesn't do it, then no one will. And believe me, I know it isn't always easy to do what you know in your heart is right -- to be generous, to be compassionate, to be merciful -- especially when it feels like the comfortable thing, even the socially-acceptable thing, would be to do nothing at all.

But here's another side to this story. Sometimes, when we take the time to meet and actually talk with our neighbors, and listen to what they have to say, we discover that they've been thinking the same things we've been thinkng all along, and have merely been waiting for someone to take the initiative.

And sometimes, I'm sad to say, when we talk with our neighbors, and honestly listen to what they have to say, we discover that they aren't really the pleasant and congenial people we always thought they were before we truly got to know them, and that we don't really care what they think anymore because, well, I don't have to spell it out do I? But that can be liberating in its own way as well, because it leaves us free to follow our own light instead.

And sometimes when we talk with our neighbors, and honestly listen to what they have to say, we discover that we actually have a lot to learn from one another, and a lot to teach one another as well, and that we can encourage one another in our growth and learning, and support one another in our efforts to put our beliefs into action. And that, for those of you who are here visiting us on Neighborhood Sunday, is what we try to do in this church: fifty-two Sundays a year, plus three times on Christmas eve, and of course at the crack of dawn on Easter morning.

And we generally eat pretty good while we're doing it too.

And of course, as our neighbors, you are always welcome to join us here, no matter who you are. Because this church is a gift that this congregation gives to this community, in the same spirit of concern for our "neighbours and fellow cretures" that Timothy Wilkins expressed in 1758 when he donated a portion of his farm to the then newly-organized First Religious Society for the green and the Meeting House. The ministry of this church is essentially a ministry of hospitality; we open our doors and say "Come on in and make yourself at home," and although I haven't been here all that long myself, I think they really mean it. And although obviously no one institution can be all things to all people, I like to think that people of Good Will and Kind Spirit can find here what they need, even if it means bringing the basic ingredients yourself.

Or perhaps I should have said: "Even if it means bringing the basic ingredient: Your Self."

When I was living in Denmark, I sometimes thought that the main reason so few people attended church was because they took it for granted. It was part of the landscape, and as long as they paid their taxes they knew it would always be there for them: at Christmas and Easter, or if they wanted to be married, or to christen their children, and of course at the end of life as well. The church was a branch of the Government, like a hospital, or the Registry of Motor Vehicles, so naturally people only went when they absolutely had to.

But here in America the only reason we have churches at all is because individual people choose to support them and participate in them, and without that participation and that support, they disappear. And no, this is not a stealth stewardship appeal... it's just that I've been listening to the pledge drive on WBUR all this past week, and so I kind of have this language in my head. But the point I really want to make is this: that like most things in life, what you get out of your religious or spiritual involvement is just about equal to what you put into it.

So as I've said before, and as I will no doubt say many times again, don't wait until the water is up to your mouth before you start to learn to swim. Instead look for that church that exists within your own heart. And if you're having a hard time finding it right away, don't worry -- I promise you that it's there somewhere. Then bring whatever you find here, and share it with all of us, and let us share all of ours with you as well. And when we do this one small thing for one another, we all go home with far more than we arrived with....