The Heart of the Story

The "Parable of the Good Samaritan," as we call it by tradition, is surely among the most beloved and familiar of biblical texts.

We know how the story goes: A traveler who was headed from Jerusalem to Jericho fell into the hands of robbers, who stripped him, beat him, and left him for dead.  A priest and a Levite passed by but neither stopped to help.  Finally, a Samaritan happened along, and he was "moved with pity."  He treated the traveler's wounds, bandaged him, conveyed him to an inn, cared for him, and covered his expenses.

Jesus tells this story in response to a question.  A lawyer, evidently troubled that he might not be living up to the command that he love his neighbor, tries to justify himself by suggesting that there is some ambiguity in the directive.  "Who is my neighbor?" the lawyer asks.

Consistent with the tradition of the great rabbis, Jesus answers the question with a story--this story.  He then asks which of the three was a "neighbor" to the traveler.  The lawyer responds, perhaps grudgingly, that it was the Samaritan, "who showed him mercy."

The story is infinitely rich.  We have an innocent victim, brutally attacked for his clothes and his money.  We have a priest and a Levite, two men that society viewed as important and righteous, passing by without a thought--except for the thought that they better move to the other side of the road so they didn't get involved.  We have a Samaritan, someone society scorned, coming to the rescue.  We have an act of extravagant generosity, the Samaritan giving up his time, his labors, his ride, and his resources.

Even the background interrogator is interesting.  We have a lawyer looking for an angle, hoping to catch Jesus in a technicality that will let the lawyer off the hook.  In this sense, the parable reminds me of a story told about the comic W.C. Fields.  Toward the end of his life, a friend discovered Fields reading a Bible, an act that seemed completely out of character.  The friend asked Fields what he was doing and he replied, "Looking for loopholes."

Ironically, Jesus plays in a rather lawyerly way with the question asked of him.  The lawyer's question puts the onus on others:  Who is my neighbor?  Who are the people worthy of my attention?  Who deserves my love?  At the end of the story, though, Jesus flips the question.  He asks: Who was the neighbor to the traveler?  In other words, Jesus says to the lawyer: "Stop worrying about who merits your compassion.  And start worrying about whether you are a neighbor to the world."

In some respects, though, the parable tells us a great deal by everything it does not say.  It is a wonderful example of what I like to call the "sacred economy" of Luke's storytelling, where the text gives us a simple and elegant narrative while leaving room for our imaginations to roam.

So, in that spirit, roam with me for a moment, if you will, and consider all the questions the text leaves unanswered.

How good was this Samaritan, anyway?  Did he do these things all the time?  Or was this his first, last, and only act of extraordinary grace?  And does that matter to us?  Is the Samaritan's act any less good if, on other days, he was less spectacularly generous?

Were the bad guys caught and punished?  Were the priest and the Levite ostracized for their indifference?  Was the Samaritan showered with honors and accolades and praise?

Or did this story play out as we know stories like this sometimes do in real life?  Did the bad guys get rich?  Did the priest and Levite enjoy even greater prestige in the community because no one knew, or cared much, about some obscure traveler that got mugged?

Did the traveler fail to display the gratitude we might expect of him?  Did he complain that the Samaritan's roadside first aid efforts left him with an infection?  Did the traveler's family protest that the Samaritan was probably just hoping for a reward?

These are realistic considerations.  I encourage my law students to do public service work.  But I also caution them that the legal needs of the poor are often intellectually uninteresting and that some of their impoverished clients will be as ungrateful as some of their wealthy ones.  But that is just it: I urge the students to do the work because of its purity, because (to use Robert Hayden's magnificent phrase) it is one of love's "austere and lonely offices."

I urge them to do it because it makes them a neighbor to the world.  That is the point.  And nothing else is the point.

By not telling us more, the Parable of the Good Samaritan tells us so much more.  It tells us that the ancillary injustices, the awards, the failures of gratefulness, the hearty congratulations, the well-intentioned ones who throw roses in our paths, and the malicious ones who bite at our ankles ... they do not matter to the heart of the story.

Because at the heart of the story is this simple truth:

When we are moved with pity and act like someone's neighbor, we write our own parable of goodness.  This does not make us perfect.  The world may treat us no better for it.  And ideal fairness and justice may not reign--at least not yet.  But none of that matters.

Jesus tells us as much at the end of his tale.  And, again, he does so mostly through the sacred economy of his instructions.  For he says, with exquisite simplicity and without any elaboration or detail:

"Go and do likewise."

Amen.

And amen.