It’s been a long time since I wrote in this space. The last time I posted here I was on the brink of going to spend a week with Senior High Youth at Epworth Forest for an awesome week of worship and laughter and tears and fun and faith and the constant reminder that I’m an old guy. I was looking forward to it. Then halfway through the week I got a call from the facility where my mom was telling me that things didn’t look good. My sister was there already, I spoke to my older brother, he was heading down. The next day I packed up and went down.
It’s an eight hour drive from Fort Wayne. I hit a traffic jam crossing the Ohio, a torrential storm crossing Kentucky and got a call when I was still about an hour from Paris, Tennessee, the little town where my mom and dad retreated to when life in Indiana got messy some thirty-six years ago. It was my older brother who simply said “mom’s gone.”
When I got the call on Wednesday from the nursing home I thought it would be a good thing. Mom had suffered long enough, if she could just go to be in heaven with her brother and parents and her beloved son Stephen, that would be a good thing. I had said good bye when I was there before, I was at peace with it. But having driven that far I wanted to be there, to talk to her one more time. “Mom’s gone.” To be honest I considered turning around. Except now I knew there was a lot to be done. Mom was gone, but dad was there. And all the myriad things that have to be done when death comes into the family. So, I kept driving. Wishing I could pass by on the other side.
Luke 10:25-37 Just then a lawyer stood up to test Jesus. "Teacher," he said, "what must I do to inherit eternal life?" 26 He said to him, "What is written in the law? What do you read there?" 27 He answered, "You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength, and with all your mind; and your neighbor as yourself." 28 And he said to him, "You have given the right answer; do this, and you will live." 29 But wanting to justify himself, he asked Jesus, "And who is my neighbor?" 30 Jesus replied, "A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and fell into the hands of robbers, who stripped him, beat him, and went away, leaving him half dead. 31 Now by chance a priest was going down that road; and when he saw him, he passed by on the other side. 32 So likewise a Levite, when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side. 33 But a Samaritan while traveling came near him; and when he saw him, he was moved with pity. 34 He went to him and bandaged his wounds, having poured oil and wine on them. Then he put him on his own animal, brought him to an inn, and took care of him. 35 The next day he took out two denarii, gave them to the innkeeper, and said, 'Take care of him; and when I come back, I will repay you whatever more you spend.' 36 Which of these three, do you think, was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of the robbers?" 37 He said, "The one who showed him mercy." Jesus said to him, "Go and do likewise."
The priest and the Levite get a bad rap in this story. And no, it’s not a union thing that makes me want to defend them. It’s a human thing. It’s a me thing. There are just to many things that are easier to walk by than to get down and get your hands dirty by trying to help. I write this on a weekend where the security of our nation is shaken, not by an outside enemy, but by a persistent racism that is so deep we can fool ourselves into thinking it isn’t there anymore. Two young black men were killed in Minnesota and Louisiana by police this past week. Then Thursday night a young black man, shot and killed five white Dallas police officers and wounded seven more before being killed by a robot with an explosive device after negotiations with the shooter failed. Passing by on the other side seems the safest, if not sanest response. Pointing fingers and making accusations, finding fault and casting blame aren’t really the same as helping, yet that is what many choose to do. Better to pass by, don’t you think?
Back up a moment. Let’s look at the text, that’s what this is supposed to be about, right? What do we learn here? Well, we learn that Luke doesn’t like lawyers. Not sure why exactly, but he casts this one in a negative light, even though the dialog doesn’t support such negativity. Teacher, he says, an address of respect, what must I do to inherit eternal life? Maybe he really wants to know. This isn’t an attack by a roving gang of teachers of the law, or scribes and pharisees. This is one guy, who interrupts a private moment (see vs 23) with a question. What must I do? Not the usual lawyer kind of question. Not, what must I know, or what must I prove, or where does it say, or what is the law. He didn’t ask anything like that. What must I do? But Jesus prods him a little bit. You know the law, you’re a lawyer, so you tell me. And he does. As completely and eloquently as Jesus does on the occasions that Matthew and Mark tell us about. Even Jesus is impressed. See, this answer which seems so simple for us, since Jesus laid it out, is not as evident to them. The lawyer had to put together two ideas that don’t sit side by side in the Hebrew text. They’re in there, but you have to go and find them, and put them into one simple package.
Any good Jew, lawyer or not (and just to be clear, lawyer in this context means he knew the bible really well, it was his profession to interpret the Hebrew texts), would know the first part. Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength, and with all your mind. It’s called the Shema, the most precious prayer of every Jew. Oh, he expanded on it a bit, since “mind” isn’t in the original. But he was covering his bases, I’m guessing. Doing the lawyer thing. So, that wasn’t surprising. What was surprising was the second one, which is simplified as “and your neighbor as yourself.” That he put those two together is incredible, really. Jesus commends him and seems ready to end the dialog. Go and do.
But the lawyer has another question. Luke again casts a negative sounding light on the question, “wanting to justify himself.” Give him a break, Luke, maybe he really did want to know. But he was a lawyer for heaven’s sake, used to talking in subordinate clauses and parties of the first part and parties of the second part. He needed a definition he could run with.
Who is my neighbor? It’s a question we live with every day. Like a waitress in a busy restaurant, we want to know which is our table to serve. Like a manager in a large corporation, we ask which employees are ours to supervise. Not my problem, not my backyard, not my issue. Not my row to hoe. If Luke is right and he was wanting to justify himself, I suspect it was that he was wanting to know if the definition for neighbor that he had known all his life was still valid. Am I loving the ones I’m supposed to love? The ones near me, the ones like me, the ones in my camp, my tribe, my family?
So Jesus drops a little bomb in the midst of his preconceived notions about life and his place in it. The good Samaritan. It’s become a cliche for us, a label, something to aspire to, we have good Samaritan laws, a good Sam club of RV’ers, we’ve come to accept the description. But for this poor lawyer it was incomprehensible. A what? A good what? No such thing. They, those Samaritans, defiled the law, polluted the race, gave up on God, they are dirty and lazy and hateful and no ... good. Just no good.
The priest and the Levite, the good ones, came and saw and passed by. Never mind why, the reasons are many. But they did. The dirty, lazy, hateful Samaritan came and saw and had compassion. Then he acted. He saw and had compassion. Not fear for his life or worry about his reputation or disgust over the stupidity of the man who must have been asking for it when he got beat up, not suspicion over motives and circumstances. He had compassion. He saw a man, a fellow human being, a brother, a neighbor lying half dead on the side of the road. He did what he could, went out of his way, put himself at risk. Out of compassion.
That’s what will save us as a nation, when we learn to have compassion. Because the truth is we’re all half dead on the side of the road, longing for someone to come and give us life. Needing someone to turn aside for us, even as we turn aside for others. We need someone to bandage our wounds, our fears, our doubts, our prejudices, our emptiness, even as we - out of compassion - bandage the wounds of the other. Maybe that’s what loving the neighbor as yourself really means, knowing that we are as needy, we are as wounded, we are as half dead as the ones we stop to help. I drove on to Paris and found all my time and energy and effort going to help dad who appeared beaten and robbed and lying half dead on the side of the road. We’re still tending those wounds, even as we attempt to grieve the loss of our mother. I wanted to pass by all of this, to be honest, the urge is still there. But instead I’m unpacking the bandages and pour the oil on troubled waters and hoping there’s enough to bring healing, while feeling half dead on the side of the road. Because there are many who come to show mercy. Thanks be to God.
Shalom,
Derek
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