This morning, after a battery of meetings the last couple of days in Louisiana, I left Mandeville at about 7:30 a.m. in order to get to the airport in New Orleans. To get there I have to cross Lake Ponchatrain on a 20 mile bridge. It costs three dollars, cash. I always forget this.

As I approached the bridge I saw the toll booth and began to panic. I’ve cut it too close as usual. No time for monkey business. I rifle my bags and pockets for change. Nada. By tye time I reach the toll booth I’m ready to throw myself on the mercy of the court.

“Three dollars.”
“Do you take credit cards?”
She gives me the condescending smile. “No. Cash only.”
“I don’t have any cash.”
“There’s an ATM one mile back.” her look says, “Don’t mess with me.”

I turn around on the service road per her directions. The bank probably makes a mint off this ATM. Reaching for my wallet I realize I don’t have my ATM card. Left it at my sister’s house. It dawns on me, I have no way to get cash. I have a credit card but no ATM card. This is a real dilemma. I can’t get across the lake. I sit and laugh out loud in my car at the absurdity of the situation.

I searched through my bag, my pockets and my coat again. No luck. Now, I know a lot of people in Mandeville. Hosanna is our largest Louisiana congregation. But it’s 7:30 in the morning and I really don’t want to show up on somebody’s doorstep, make them come to the door in their bathrobe and beg for three dollars. The clock is ticking. I am thinking, hard. My hosts, the Ehrhardts live about 10 minutes back. I can go there but I will lose 10 minutes getting there and 10 minutes getting back. 20 minutes total. Sigh.

I will now undoubtedly miss my flight. The only shot I have of making it is to beg for money from the nearest stranger. I am not accustomed to asking strangers for cash. I’m not sure what to say. What will lower their natural defenses? And I don’t have a lot of time. I will have to take my best shot.

I pull into the first gas station that I see and hop out of my car. The woman in the car next to me is pumping gas. She’s young, with long blonde hair and dressed in a suit. She’s going to be put off by some strange man approaching her asking her for money. I start to approach, see the wary look in her eyes, lose my nerve and walk to the next vehicle.

The pickup truck is not the best condition. The man inside looks like he’s chewing tobacco. He has a gray mustache and he’s wearing camouflage. Perhaps a hunter. I approach the vehicle. His window is open. He doesn’t see me coming. I’m wearing loafers, khaki pants, a blue dress shirt and a navy blue blazer. I look acceptable, but it’s disconcerting to have someone appear in the window of your vehicle when you’re lost in thought and think that you’re all by yourself.

He looked a little bit startled. Ten he smiled. I was staring into the eyes of Matthew Cuthbert of Anne of Green Gables. I relaxed and shared my dilemma. If you live on the North Shore you know how the Causeway works. I offered to buy his gas for whatever cash he might be able to scrounge up, even if it didn’t add up to the amount of the gas. We chatted for just a little bit. I could see that he was sizing me up. I tried not to look anxious, or in a hurry, though I was both. After a little bit, he asked, “How much do you need?”
“Uh, three dollars, I think.”
“That all you need, three bucks?”
“Yes sir.”
“Are you sure that’s it? You don’t need more?”
Is he trying to force money on me? “No sir. $3 gets mr across the lake.” “Well, how ’bout I just give you three dollars?” He looks worried, like I might turn him down.
“That would be lovely,” I squeak out with embarrassment. I hate being needy. I sense this is good for me. A learning moment. To be dependent.

He reached into his pocket and opened up his wallet unselfconsciously. There were only about five one-dollar bills in his billfold. I didn’t know what to say. “Thank you. What’s your name?”
“Cliff.”
“My name is Mike. It’s nice to meet you. Thanks for your help.”

He then asked me how I liked my Jeep. For a moment I was confused, then it sunk in. “Oh, it’s a rental. And it’s kind of noisy to be honest.”
We chatted for a little bit. I didn’t want to be rude—take his money and run—but I needed to get to the airport. I disappeared in my noisy Jeep, certain that I’d never see Cliff again. I didn’t listen to him compassionately. I didn’t tell him about Jesus, or suggest Hosanna Lutheran Church up the road. I know nothing about him but his kindness and generosity. I received and gave nothing in return. It bothers me.

I can’t pay this guy back so I owe some stranger $3. More really. Living in this country I’ve never been hungry a day in my life. Even when I came out of seminary owning nothing but some clothes and a car, owing thousands in school loans, I still had everything I needed when I needed it, plus a good education. We have much for which to be thankful growing up in this country. To whom much is given, much is required. I just can’t see being stingy with citizenship or charity. Anything less than 10% is out of the question.

It’s funny that no matter where you are in your life, at some point or another you will find yourself relying on the kindness of strangers.

Before the advent of modern hotels, travelers and refugees were absolutely dependent on the kindness of strangers. Hospitality, welcoming strangers and aliens was a religious and sacred duty. The Scriptures are filled with commandments about this that Westerners ignore. Antiquity left us stories of divine visitors that come and either are rejected or find welcome.

“Never refuse hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unaware.” Hebrews 13:2