A friend of mine got in trouble in a strange way a few years ago. He was directing a church camp for senior high kids - not in Virginia - and a girl was caught with marijuana. She was a senior, someone he had known for years, someone who knew the rules about what you can’t bring to church camp. He called her parents and sent her home. It was a painful experience for him and for the whole camp.

But he got in trouble with the group that oversees the camping operation. It seems that the rule was that the local sheriff’s office be contacted, and he didn’t do that. I reckon he let love trump the other rules.

I’m glad it wasn’t me in that situation. In general I believe in playing by the rules. But sometimes, love trumps other rules.

Let me remind you of a story I’ve told before. I suppose the monks at the monastery I visit in South Carolina are about as Catholic as you can get. They live by rules not even other Catholics have. Like starting every day with worship at 3:20 am. Like not talking during meals and for hours at a time. These people are serious about observing their rules.

But one day when I was there another visitor noticed that I was not taking communion, which they observe every morning. She came up to me and said, it’s ok with the monks if you partake. Really, I said. So the rest of the week I participated, and then when I checked out I asked the monk who is the guestmaster if indeed they were ok with a Protestant joining them for holy communion. We assume people who partake are believers in Jesus, he said. We don’t feel like it’s up to us to judge.

Now, that’s against the rules of the Roman Catholic Church. The monks don’t advertise their policy, but to me it’s remarkable that for this small group, so dedicated to the rules, in this case, love trumps other rules.

I’ve told this story before, also, but it’s so good I don’t think we can hear it too often. Noted Disciples preacher and teacher Fred Craddock and his wife were on vacation in the Smokies. They sat down to dinner in a restaurant, and an elderly man came up to them and started a conversation. "Are you on vacation?" he asked. "Yes," Fred replied, thinking to himself, "It’s really none of your business." "Where are you from?" the man asked. "Oklahoma." "What do you do in Oklahoma?" "I am a Christian minister." "What church?" "The Christian Church." The man paused a moment and said, "I owe a great deal to a minister of the Christian Church," and he pulled out a chair and sat down.

He said, "I grew up in these mountains. My mother was not married, and the whole community knew it. I was what was called an illegitimate child. In those days that was a shame, and I was ashamed. [That was the rule back then.] The reproach that fell on her, of course, fell also on me. When I went into town with her, I could see people staring at me, making guesses as to who was my father. At school the children said ugly things to me, and so I stayed to myself during recess, and I ate my lunch alone.

"In my early teens I began to attend a little church back in the mountains called Laurel Springs Christian Church. It had a minister who was both attractive and frightening. He had a chiseled face and a heavy beard and a deep voice. I went to hear him preach. However, I was afraid that I was not welcome. So I would go just in time for the sermon, and when it was over I would move out because I was afraid that someone would say, ‘What’s a boy like you doing in a church?’"

"One Sunday some people lined up in the aisle before I could get out, and I was stopped. Before I could make my way through the group, I felt a hand on my shoulder, a heavy hand. It was that minister. I trembled in fear. He seemed to be staring for a little while. I knew what he was doing. He was going to make a guess as to who my father was. A moment later he said, ‘Well, boy, you’re a child of...’ and he paused there. And I knew it was coming. I knew I would have my feelings hurt. He said, ‘Boy, you’re a child of God. I see a striking resemblance, boy. Now, you go claim your inheritance.’ I left the building a different person. In fact, that was really the beginning of my life."

Fred says, "I was so moved by the story I had to ask him, ‘What’s your name?’"

He said, "Ben Hooper."

Fred concludes, "I recalled my father talking when I was just a child, growing up in Tennessee, how the people of that state had twice elected as governor an illegitimate child, Ben Hooper."