|
In an increasingly
secular culture, where churches are now printing the words to
the Lord’s Prayer because it can no longer be assumed that
visitors know them, I worry that fewer and fewer will know the
basic Bible stories which, to me (over time), have become
dearer and dearer.
There was a day
when almost everybody knew a little something of the
"Good Samaritan." You didn’t have to be a Sunday
school graduate to know that your town had a Good Samaritan
Hospital….that your state legislature wrestled with good
Samaritan legislation….and that somebody, going beyond the
ordinary, to help anybody, irrespective of personal security,
was commonly referred to as "a good Samaritan." In
church circles, good Samaritans are equated with good
Christians. In other circles, good Samaritans are equated with
good citizens. Meaning that a term born in the Bible has, long
since, transcended the Bible.
I have preached
the story before….four times, to be exact. I have visited
the site before….four times, to be exact. I doubt it’s the
real site. But it’s in the area. It’s also easy to find.
You go down the road from Jerusalem to Jericho. I mean, you go
"down" the road from Jerusalem to Jericho. Jerusalem
is 2700 feet above sea level (meaning that it snows there).
Jericho is within hailing distance of a road sign beside which
tourists like to have their pictures taken….a sign
proclaiming that one is standing at the lowest spot on the
face of the earth, over 1800 feet below sea level….meaning
that, in Jericho, they grow oranges there. How far, you ask,
from snow to citrus? Twenty miles, maybe….although crows fly
it shorter, given that crows fly it straighter.
For the road winds
down the mountain….20 miles down the mountain….4500 feet
down the mountain….with lots of places to get in lots of
trouble (then, and still). As late as the fifth century,
Jerome called it "the bloody way." And as recently
as four years ago, Etan Ritov (my favorite Israeli guide) told
a few of us not to wander too far from the roadside to take
pictures of Bedouins, given that all of them like money and
some of them have knives.
You know the
story. Local Jew takes to the road….meets robbers….who
rough him up….then run off….leaving him half- dead,
all-but-dead (and, for all I know, wishing he were dead).
Priest comes by….Jewish priest, not Catholic priest (same
title, different era). Priest passes by. Levite comes by….same
title, lesser status. Levite passes by as well. Samaritan
comes by (color him the enemy….disliked enemy….despised
enemy….500 years of bad blood between ‘em enemy) and, lo
and behold, does the right thing. How about that, sports fans?
You never know when you’re going to need help or from whom
you’re going to get it.
Sunday school
teachers love this story because it can be acted out. Tommy,
you be the victim. Mary, you be the priest (Mary, the priest?….whatever).
Freddy, you be the Levite. Billy Ritter, you be the Good
Samaritan. I don’t know what kind of signals I gave off as a
kid, but my Sunday school teachers always gave me the
goody-goody parts. In truth, there was a time when I longed
for my Sunday school teacher to say: "Billy Ritter, you
play the robber. And, when I point to you at the appropriate
moment in the story, you come running from behind the flannel
board and beat up Tommy, all but killing him." But no
teacher ever said that to me. So I got to be the kid with the
bandages, instead. Which prepared me, in a way….I suppose.
For isn’t that one of the things Sunday school is supposed
to do….prepare preachers (and other Christians)?
Several summers
ago, when many of you were swimming in lakes rather than
scriptures, I retold this story under the heading "View
From the Ditch." In that sermon I suggested inserting
ourselves into the story….not in the shoes of the robber….not
in the shoes of the helper….not in the shoes of the bypasser….not
in the shoes of the innkeeper….but in the shoes of the
half-dead guy (who, after seeing two of his own spot him and
pass him, suddenly sees one of "them" spot him and
help him). What must it be like when you are hurting as never
you’ve hurt before, to see your last chance represented by
someone your people have hated, as never they’ve hated
before? At the time, I asked you to imagine what it would be
like to be a Jew….lying in a ditch…. opening one oozing
and swollen eye, just a slit….only to realize that the one
bending over your broken body was Yasser Arafat. I suppose
that today you might re-image that. Same Jew. Same ditch. Same
eye. Same slit. Same gaze. New face. Whose face? Osama bin
Laden’s face.
If that jars you….and
I would expect it to jar you….you are beginning to
understand how jarring this story was (once upon a time) when
Jesus first told it, the lawyer first heard it, and Luke first
wrote it.
Lawyer? What
lawyer? Why, the one who, while not in the story, is very much
in the text. I’m talking about the lawyer who wanted Jesus
to tell him what he needed to do (in this life) to guarantee
placement in the next. Jesus said, in effect: "Why ask
me? That’s already been answered. You can look it up. Most
likely, you’ve already looked it up. So what do you
read?" Leading the lawyer to answer: "Love God with
mind, heart, soul and strength. Love the neighbor, too."
"See," said Jesus, "you did know." Leading
the lawyer to say: "Neighbor…. which? Neighbor….who?"
In response to which Jesus told this little story….the point
of which couldn’t be clearer….couldn’t be any
clearer. Point being: "Your neighbor is anyone who needs
you….or who responds to the need that is in you."
"Neighbor" is not defined by proximity, geography,
nationality or theology. "Neighbor" is defined by
need.
About which we
Christians have never disagreed. I mean, we "get"
this story. Many of them, we don’t get. But we get this one.
We may not always like it. And we certainly don’t always do
it. But we do get it. Pardon me, but you’ve got to be a
little bit dumb to miss it.
No, the thing that
trips us up (here) is not so much theology as strategy. How is
it that one best loves the neighbor? Do we love him best by
the words we say to him….or by the things we do for him?
I mean every word
when I tell you (and continue to tell you) that, even after
all this time, the ministry excites me as much as it ever did.
Maybe more. But I will admit that there are things that weary
me and have gotten "old" for me. Still, it would
probably surprise you to learn that those "things"
have less to do with tiresome tasks than with tiresome
debates. I have reached the point where I am tired of fighting
the same old battles. And, at the very top of my list (far
above the second place battle) is the one that pits the
would-be evangelists among us against the would-be activists
among us (the former being energized around the issue of the
neighbor’s conversion, the latter being energized around the
issue of the neighbor’s care). Save the neighbor? Serve the
neighbor? Save the neighbor? Serve the neighbor? Save the
neighbor? Serve the neighbor? Most of us know it’s not an
either/or thing so much as both/and thing, and that God can
use us, wherever (on that spectrum) we care to participate.
Some of us will lead the neighbor into the Lord’s house.
Others of us will take hammer in hand and build the neighbor
his own house. And 37 years have taught me that our leaning
(whichever way we happen to lean) is primarily an outgrowth of
our nature rather than our instruction.
Several years ago,
a pastor announced (via the sign board in front of his church)
that, come Sunday, he was going to preach on "The Member
of This Church I Would Most Like to See in Hell." What
excitement he caused. What a crowd he drew. The church was
filled with people who hadn’t been there in ages….kids who
usually walked home after Sunday school….the C and E crowd….
and a bunch of curious Presbyterians who wandered over from
next door. Everybody was there.
Well, when he
finally called a name….he really did call a name…. it was
the name of everybody’s favorite Sunday school teacher. Then
he went on to say that the reason he most wanted to see her in
hell was because he was sure that, in two or three weeks,
given her saintly nature, hell would be converted and emptied.
He didn’t say whether her primary means of accomplishing
this would be passing out tracts or by handing out cups of
cold water. But he left no doubt that her love of God and
neighbor would not allow her to rest comfortably in her place
while the rest of us fared miserably in ours.
During my recent
seminar in Georgia, I was privileged to sit under the tutelage
of Jean Bethke Elshtain, who teaches both divinity and
graduate students at the University of Chicago. In the course
of her lectures, she added a third slant on the be-a-neighbor,
love-a-neighbor discussion. Growing out of a decade-long study
of family and culture, she told us that an interesting set of
statistics are emerging. In any given neighborhood, if there
is a family of practicing Christians (including school-aged
children) living in one house, and a similarly-constituted
family of non-practicing anythings next door, the children in
the home with no religious orientation will, over time, have
deviancy, truancy, and out-of-wedlock pregnancy rates that are
lower than the norm in that community. Moreover, when compared
to their peers, they will not only get higher grades but will
take fewer drugs. Which does not mean that they are being
pressured, proselytized or instructed by their church-going
neighbors, so much as that their church-going neighbors are
modeling their faith and practice in ways that produce
benefits in those nearby. In fact, Dr. Elshtain suggested that
such studies are generating increasing interest in what is
often referred to as "the spillover effect"….which
goes beyond what the neighbor says or what the neighbor does
to consider who (in the world) the neighbor is.
Over the years, I
have heard it said: "Always remember, you may be the only
Bible your neighbor ever reads….the only Jesus your neighbor
ever meets….the only God your neighbor ever sees."
Which is trite. But which may just be true.
Back when I wore a
younger man’s clothes, Harold Stassen (sometimes referred to
as the "boy governor of Minnesota") sought, as a
political gadfly, the Republican nomination for president at
eight separate conventions. Never got it. Never came close to
getting it. But he never stopped going for it.
In later life,
having missed out on the presidency, he settled comfortably
into his role as a grandfather. In fact, so close were he and
his grandson that every time the boy’s parents missed the
mark….in speech or in deed….the boy would remind them:
"Harold wouldn’t like that." They thought it odd
that their kid would refer to his grandfather by his first
name. But they had to admit that the point was often well
taken. Then, one night, they overheard the boy saying his
prayers. Which, after the "now I lay me down to
sleep" part, he continued with: "Our father, which
art in heaven, Harold be thy name."
Now, I ask you,
how could an otherwise bright and intelligent kid fail to make
a distinction between God’s name and his grandfather’s?
Unless….
Unless….
|
