“You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your
being, with all your strength, and with all your mind, and love your neighbor
as yourself."[1]
Yeah,
but who is my neighbor?
A
man was traveling from Jerusalem to Jericho. Traveling from the region’s capital—the cosmopolitan city of the area—where one would encounter
Roman soldiers,
Greek merchants, Syrian artisans,
Egyptian caravanners, and Jewish shopkeepers. A man was traveling from cosmopolitan Jerusalem to the very
Jewish town of Jericho. A man was
traveling from the cool, green, high-altitudes of Jerusalem to the hot, dry,
desert oasis of Jericho. A man was
traveling on the steep, winding, dangerous road from Jerusalem to Jericho when
he was waylaid by robbers. They
beat him, stripped him, and left him to die there.
It
just so happened that a priest was traveling that road too. I wonder what the priest was thinking .
. . I am so glad
I just finished this month’s service in the temple. I have missed my family even more than usual. I can’t wait to get home. These next couple of weeks off, I’ll
tend our little family garden and play with my grandchildren. Oh, I’m so glad I don’t have to travel
this road alone. It’s too
steep. There are too many places
for bandits to hide. But,
traveling together, my servants and I are a less vulnerable to the robbers.
What
is that? A man . . . or a body? He’s not moving—doesn’t look like he’s
even breathing. He’s naked. Without clothes, I can’t tell whether
he’s Jewish or Gentile. He’s not
speaking, so I can’t tell if he’s a faithful Jew. Oh, if only I knew.
I am bound by the Torah—our sacred God-given law—to care for him if he
is a good and faithful Jew. But if
he is Gentile, I have no obligations to him. Oh, if only I knew.
If
I go near and touch him and he is dead, I will be defiled. I’ll have to return to the temple in Jerusalem
for a purification ritual. That
means I won’t see my family for another week! Oh, if only I knew.
If I go near him and he is dead and he is Gentile, I will have to rip
these priestly robes and throw them away, for they will be defiled. And that would be waste—a waste of
material, a waste of my resources to buy a new robe. Oh, if I only knew . . . but I don’t. He
hasn’t moved or moaned or maybe even breathed. He’s probably dead.
There is nothing to identify him as Jewish. It’s safest if I go on—on to family, on to other
responsibilities, on to Jericho.
It
just so happened that a Levite was also traveling that road. I wonder what he was thinking . . . I like my job assisting the
priests at the temple. I wish I
could live there in Jerusalem, but it’s too expensive. And besides, I’m more comfortable in a
town where most everyone is like me—Jewish. I like my job, but I hate being away from family 2 or 3
weeks at a time. When I’m off, it
feels like I have so much to do, I don’t get to enjoy time with my wife and
children. I wonder why the priest
left the temple so quickly today?
I had wanted to travel with him and his servants. I don’t like being on this road
alone. It’s too steep. There are too many hiding places for
bandits.
What’s
that? A man . . . or a body? He’s not moving—doesn’t look like he’s
even breathing. He’s naked. Without clothes, I can’t tell whether
he’s Jewish or Gentile. So I don’t
know whether or not I’m duty-bound to help him. But wait . . . the priest is ahead of me on this road. If he left this man here, the priest
must have determined he is Gentile and dead. The priest—he has more knowledge, he has more understanding,
he is wiser—than I. I’m just an
assistant to the priest. Who am I
to make a different decision from his?
Who am I to choose a different course of action from his? I’ll go on—on
to family, on to other responsibilities, on to Jericho.
It
just so happened that a Samaritan was also traveling that road. Do you know about Samaritans and Jews
back in Jesus’ day? Well, it was
kind of like American Christians and Arab Muslims today. While there were individuals who were
open to conversation, individuals who could see each other as valued human
beings, for the most part the groups were highly suspicious of each other. Each assumed the worst about the other
group. Their words about and
language towards the each other sometimes evolved into acts of violence. It was kind of like American Christians
with Arab Muslims today.
It
just so happened a Samaritan was also traveling that road. I wonder what he was thinking . . . I don’t like traveling this road
alone. It’s too steep. There are too many hiding places for
bandits. It’s one thing to be in
Jerusalem where I can find other Samaritans to eat with; where I can find
Romans & Greeks, Syrians & Egyptians to do business with; where I can
avoid the Jews. But traveling
alone, down this road near Jericho, I get a little jumpy.
What’s
that? A man . . . or a body? He’s
not moving—doesn’t look like he’s even breathing. He’s naked—a victim of bandits no doubt. I wonder if he’s still alive. Yes, he’s breathing a little. Oh my, he’s bleeding, too. What do I have to bandage him with? My undercoat—I’ll tear it in
strips. I need to ration my water while
traveling in this desert, but I’ll just drink less. I’ve got to clean his wounds. I have some oil to doctor his wounds. I brought just enough wine for my
journey, but wine will soothe him and his wounds. I’ll use some of it.
I’m glad I have a donkey.
My back wouldn’t hold up under this man’s weight. I’ll have to go into Jericho now . . .
I can’t skirt the town as I had planned. If I leave this man outside the town—with no one to
vouch he is Jewish, how do I know he will be helped?
As
I walk into town, people are eyeing me with suspicion and hate. I’m glad the inn is near the city
limits and not downtown. I’ll stay
and care for the man tonight and be on my way early in the morning—before too
many suspicious Jews are awake, before they eat breakfast and turn their
attention to me—the outsider, the Samaritan. Even if I leave money for the man’s care, I’m going to have
to come back—to keep the innkeeper honest about using my money for this man’s
health. Even if I leave money for this
man’s care, I’ll have to come back to keep the innkeeper from selling him into
slavery because he owes the debt of his room and board and medicine. I’ll have to come back to settle all
debts. I’ll have to come back to
this town where I could be lynched.
But this man will live. With food and rest and care, he will live.
Jesus
was asked, who is my neighbor. And he responded with a story about becoming a neighbor. Jesus was asked
for a name, a title, an identifier—who
is my neighbor. He replied with a
process—how to become a neighbor. Jesus was asked for a noun—who is my neighbor. He replied with a verb—a story about
doing.
“You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your
being, with all your strength, and with all your mind, and love your neighbor
as yourself."[2]
In
one of my favorite novels, To Kill a
Mockingbird, Atticus Finch says “you never really understand a person until
you consider things from his point of view . . . Until you crawl in his skin
and walk in it for awhile.” We’ve crawled into the skin of each of the
characters in Jesus’ parable. And
we’ve walked around for awhile in their skin. Have you felt more comfortable in one than another? Is one more familiar to you than
another? Is one more like you than
another?
But
wait a minute, we’ve missed a character.
We haven’t crawled into the skin of the 1st traveler. As he
travels from Jerusalem to Jericho, I wonder what he is thinking . . .
I
don’t like being on this road alone . . . It’s too steep. There are too many hiding places for
outlaws. What’s that? Oh no, it’s bandits. Can I outrun them? No, they’re sure-footed and fast. Can I outsmart them—convince them I
have nothing to steal? There are
only a few; can I fight back?
Attacked,
stripped, beaten and left alone on the side of the road—I wonder what he was
feeling? Fear, despair, hope? Attacked,
stripped, beaten and left alone on the side of the road—I wonder what mattered
to him. Did nationality,
ethnicity, or denomination matter to him?
Did ritual purity matter to him?
Did other responsibilities matter to him?
Attacked,
stripped, beaten and left alone on the side of the road—I wonder what was most
important to him. To be noticed?
To be approached? To hear a kind
voice? To drink soothing wine? To
feel healing oil? To be carried out of the heat? To be placed in a bed?
Attacked,
stripped, beaten and left alone on the side of the road—I wonder who he hoped
would come along. Someone with
knowledge, wisdom, and status?
Someone who followed the precedent set by authorities or peer group?
Someone who would take a risk for him?
I
wonder—could it be me on the side of the road? Attacked by ones with whom I
disagree, beaten by life’s situations, stripped of my identity as a child of
God; have I found myself helpless and alone by the side of road of life? Overwhelmed by fear and despair, do I
dare to hope for one to come along and show me compassion? Can I imagine that he will bandage my
wounded pride, soothe my aching soul, and let me drink his living water? Carrying me to shelter and community,
can I expect that he will return?
Perhaps
we are the waylaid traveler and Christ is the good Samaritan—our neighbor.
“You shall love the
Lord your God with all your heart, with all your being, with all your strength,
and with all your mind, and love your neighbor as yourself."[3]
How will we respond to Christ’s love for
us? From the seeds of Christ’s
grace, nurtured by the rains of God’s love, energized and warmed by the light
of the Holy Spirit, may we blossom and grow into strong, healthy, good
neighbors. Amen.
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