The summer after I graduated from college, I worked as an interim youth pastor before starting seminary. And I will never forget opening up the door and sitting behind the wheel of the church’s 15 passenger van that was older than I was. And that said something concerning both about the van and about me. The van was too old. I was too young. I could not believe that these parents were sending their teenagers with me to Savannah, Georgia.

And we were driving around downtown Savannah about a couple hours before we had to check in at youth camp. The plan was to get lunch in Savannah before heading to camp, and trying to find a parking spot in downtown Savannah is like an Olympic sport. We were driving around gazing upon the Savannah River and searching for an open parking spot when I heard this terrible sound from the back of the van. It sounded like an explosion.

We had a tire blow out, and we came to an immediate stop, parking space or not. And we all stood around the back of the van looking at that pitiful flat tire. And I told the chaperones to take the youth to get lunch in downtown while I tried to change this tire.

And it was the middle of July. And I just started to pour sweat as I am sifting through all this luggage, digging down to find the car jack and the lug wrench. And I finally got this van up on the car jack, but I could not get the lug nuts to budge. So I put my entire weight into it, and the van just fell off the car jack. So I loosened the lug nuts with the van on the ground, got it back up on the jack, and then hoisted this grungy old spare tire onto the wheel hub.

Thankfully, the youth had not returned yet to see me flounder. But at this point, I was as grungy as that spare tire. I was just wearing a white undershirt, grease and grime all over me, head to toe from lying on the ground, from wrestling with this old tire. I was in no shape to make a first impression, but I needed to clean up.

So I walked across the street to this very nice hotel on the banks of the Savannah River, and I was unprepared for everyone’s response when I walked into the lobby and started to search for the restroom. As I walked by the front desk, they looked at me and they looked at the phone and they thought about calling the police. And I had never felt that way before, be looked at with such suspicion.

It was the antithesis of love, kindness, and grace to feel as if you’re on the outside, that you don’t belong, and that no one’s going to answer the door no matter how long you stand there and knock.

And when we read those practical instructions from Matthew 18, we might assume it’s about keeping people out. That if a church member sins against you, go to them and point out their fault. And if that doesn’t work, take one or two others with you. And if that still doesn’t help, tell the entire church. There are countless ways that can go wrong, especially if it’s about keeping people out.

But these practical instructions follow the parable about the lost sheep. You know, where the shepherd leaves the 99 in order to find the one that is lost. What if these are practical instructions for living out that parable? That if a church member sins against you, go to them and tell them that you still love them. And if that doesn’t work, take one or two people with you. And if that doesn’t work, have the entire church tell them. Because whatever we bind on earth is bound in heaven.

And I did not realize that that verse I had to memorize in elementary school, “where two or three are gathered in my name, I am there,” follows right underneath these practical instructions. And that doesn’t make sense if those instructions are about keeping people out. But if it is about holding people in, it makes perfect sense to say where two or three are gathered, the presence of Christ is there as well.

When we do the math, either of the shepherd leaving the 99 behind in order to find the one or where two or three are gathered, the presence of Christ is there, we find the same equation that Paul refers to in his letter to the Romans, where he says each and every commandment is summed up by saying, “Love your neighbor as yourself.”

That is the math of the love of God. It fulfills all of the law because love never does wrong to a neighbor. Love does no wrong, even when we are hurt. Love does no wrong, even when we’re angry. Love does no wrong even when it costs us something. Love shares kindness, offers forgiveness, and extends patience.

In the novel by Wendell Berry, Jayber Crow is the town barber, which means he stands behind a barber’s chair, scissors in hand, cutting hair and listening to people’s problems. He’s like a counselor without the confidentiality.

And one day he’s cutting a man’s hair when another customer who’s waiting in that line of chairs by the side of the wall is complaining and ranting about anything and everything, just running his mouth nonstop. His name is Hiram. He’s a large, imposing man, brash and harsh.

And then he says something that causes Jayber to freeze and fumble with what to do next. Hiram compares black people to primates, that awful and old trope that causes so much harm. And Jayber just freezes, stunned that it is said out loud, and he’s trying to figure out what to say.

But then another customer, just a few chairs down from him by the name of Athey, well respected in the community, simply lowers his newspaper. And he looks Hiram in the eye. And he says, “You are wrong.” And then he says, “If we can’t live together, then we can’t live at all.”

Because we are to love our neighbor as ourself. That is the sum of it all.

It is, as Rabbi Jonathan Sacks says, the supreme religious challenge: to see God’s image in the one who is not in our image. That we are to imagine what it must be like to be our neighbor. Try to understand what it feels like when we are told we don’t belong.

And Jesus has this keen way of introducing us to our neighbors by taking that log out of our eye and helping us see more clearly. Jesus introduces us to a centurion, a soldier who fights for Rome, the enemy. This soldier comes to Jesus fighting for his servant who is paralyzed, and we see his kindness and his compassion, which we may never have imagined in a Roman soldier.

Jesus introduces us to a man from Gadarene who everybody says is possessed. We see his turmoil is hard. We don’t see him through his erratic behavior. We see his loneliness and how Jesus embraces him.

And Jesus introduces us to a woman who is bleeding, separated from the others and kept outside of community. But we see her. We see her humanity and her dignity, and how Jesus reaches out to her as she reaches out to him.

That we might imagine what it is like to be our neighbor.

And then we might ask: What is the sum of it all? Every commandment is summed up by saying, “Love your neighbor as yourself.” Amen.