It was 9:00 p.m. and all was well.  A fall evening in the parsonage. 

The lights were low, and we were snuggled on the couch, bingeing on our favorite series. Another comfortable, cozy evening.  Then the door bell rang. I rolled my eyes and got up to answer it. 

It was an old man. At least he appeared old, with beard flecked white, and worn and weathered face. He wore one of those funny hats with flaps dangling over his ears.  His clothing was indescribable; layers of tatters. His were the eyes of the invisible man. Red rimmed and watery, evasive, they were unaccustomed to being noticed by other eyes. He was one of those creatures that real people simply do not see, stepping around or over them on the sidewalk.

Still conscious of my irritation, I asked him what he wanted. “Do you have anything to eat?” he asked.  I could see his breath, for the night air was keen. “Just a minute,” I replied.  I shut the door, leaving him standing there, and went to the kitchen. I fixed him a baloney sandwich with mustard. Then I took the sandwich, opened the door, handed it to him, and after some dutiful but brief conversation, dismissed him into the night.

Returning to the sofa and television, I suddenly felt the evening was ruined. My conscience was a hook and I wriggled on it like a fish. I had given a man a morsel of food, but denied him what he really needed most:  I hadn’t asked him if he liked mustard. 

                     O LORD, HELP US TO CARE ABOUT EACH OTHER ENOUGH TO BECOME INVOLVED, EVEN IF ONLY IN A TINY WAY.      

                                    AMEN