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.

A Prayer for Healing

A few days ago, I received the hard news that a beloved friend was just given a stage 3 cancer diagnosis.  He has good doctors, so there are reasons for hope, and he is even ornerier than I am, so he's not going anywhere without a fight.  But news like this reminds us that life is fragile and that, sooner or later, this is a battle we all lose.

As if on cue, my recent morning readings reinforced this message.  On Thursday, I read this in Psalms: "So teach us to count our days that we may gain a wise heart."  (90:12)  On Friday, I encountered this plaintive cry in Job: "Let me alone, for my days are a breath."  (7:16)

We know these realities: that life is short and that death is certain.  In my faith, we embrace an additional reality: that death is not final.  I have great confidence in this principle.  I have seen too much evidence of grace and rebirth to believe otherwise.

But there is a psychological reality at work here, too.  I want my loved ones to stick around.  I want as many days with them in this life as I can get.

So whenever news like this comes my way--and I think I've gotten my fair share of it--I find myself earnestly and eagerly praying to God that this person I love will be healed.  I ask others to join me in this prayer.  I do it every time, and I am doing it this time.

I do it even though I have serious questions about its intellectual and theological coherence.  After all, I believe that God brought order out of chaos; that order means the universe functions according to certain laws; and that those laws sometimes play out in terrible and tragic ways.  In this sense, my prayer is a petition for a departure from the laws of nature.

I believe that God does sometimes override those laws.  Those are the things we call miracles.  But I know that God cannot offer up a miracle every time somebody wants one.  That would be a return to a kind of chaos.

In my view, miracles are the business of God and God alone and I cannot hope to understand when or why they will occur.  My petitioning is therefore either pointless (because God already has a miracle afoot) or presumptuous (because God has other plans).  So my head says: this prayer doesn't make any sense.  But my heart says: pray it anyway.

Over the years, though, this prayer has changed form.  Long ago, I prayed that my loved one would recover and would be healthy again.  But I have come to believe that this is too narrow an understanding of healing.  So, these days, my prayer sounds different.

I now pray that my loved one might know and feel the presence of God.  I believe that, on some occasions, this will mean that God will chase the illness away, my loved one will physically improve, and I will have more time with them.  I am praying and hoping for a miracle, and I have been blessed to witness more than a few of them.

But this form of healing prayer has broader implications as well.  My faith teaches me that, if someone can know and feel the presence of the living and loving God, then they are already healed.  They are healed regardless of what their test results show.  They are healed regardless of predictions and prognoses.  They are healed regardless of what else happens on this side of the door to immortality.

It is perhaps ridiculous to place rankings on blessings.  But I think that this broader sense of healing is actually more important than the miraculous sense.  After all, the miracle simply adjourns an appointment that all of us must ultimately keep--we are nowhere told that Lazarus lived forever.

In contrast, knowing and feeling the presence of God is a healing that follows us to the end of this life and into the next.  It follows us to that place where God, like the father to the Prodigal Son, runs to embrace us, to welcome us home, and to celebrate the end of all those things from which we have prayed we might be delivered and of which we have prayed we might be healed. 

It is a healing that follows us, that stays with us, forever.

And forever.

And forever.

Amen.

The Healing Place

In the fifth chapter of the Gospel of John, Jesus finds a man who has been ill for thirty-eight years lying beside a pool. We all know what happens next. Jesus heals the man, who picks up his mat and strides away.


We should not, however, read past an important detail in the story. When Jesus asks the man whether he wants to be made well, he replies by complaining about how no one ever helps him get into the water and about how others cut in front of him when he tries to move there himself. The man has settled on a notion of what it would mean to experience healing: get into the pool. And, of course, Jesus has something else in mind entirely.


We tend to become fixed in our bad habits, our weaknesses, our failures of forgiveness and perpetuities of prejudice. But this story sounds a different cautionary note. It reminds us that we can also become fixed in our vision of what it would mean to be healed, to be made well, to be made whole. And it warns us not to miss the still small voice of a better way in our eagerness to get to the places in which we have firmly settled the confidence of the unknowing.