Proper 10C

If I were to say simply the words, good Samaritan, I bet most of you could recite the story back to me with all the details. And perhaps, even, if I were to ask you what the gist of the story is, you could come up with some good answers. Were we doing a sermon the base community way (which, by the way, the brothers at Weston Priory in Weston Vermont model), I would stop talking and let the question flow… ‘What is the story of the Good Samaritan about?’ Maybe I should...!

Moses wrote, ‘This law is not beyond your strength or beyond your reach. It is not in heaven. It is not beyond the seas. No, it is very near to you. It is in your mouth, it is in your heart.’

The law of which Moses speaks and which appears in the story of the Good Samaritan is one which Rite One goers hear every Sunday: Love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your mind, and with all your strength. Love your neighbor as yourself. The lawyer recites these verses to Jesus when asked what is written in the law? Jesus says he has answered correctly. But there is more to merely answering a question.

And that is what the rest of the story seems to be about. The rest of the story is about what it means to live the answer of loving God and neighbour from within, from the heart, not just from the mind.

Moving from understanding intellectually the law which demands that we care for and love our neighbour to living this law out in our hearts is part of our life-long journey. It is not something we do overnight. But over time we understand what it means to care for our neighbour because doing so is what we are called to do as baptised persons.

It seems strange that a story that would have been so threatening to Jesus’ listeners would have become one of Christianity’s favourites. It seems strange that a story that appears only once in the gospels, in the gospel according to Luke, should so capture people’s imaginations. But it has and, for a multitude of reasons, the story of the Good Samaritan clearly is one of the most well-known and popular stories of the New Testament.

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A lawyer, otherwise presented as a Torah expert, engages Jesus in a debate. Perhaps the conversation is a test of Jesus’ credibility. Richard Swanson points out that most interpretations of this scene focus on the seeming self-justification of the Torah expert. However, he is not attempting to justify himself. He is attempting to find out how he can be ‘strictly observant’ to the dictates of the Torah. In this sense, a person who is observant, ‘aims his or her whole life so that it adds up to a witness to the stable and orderly love of God.’ Moreover, the lawyer is not seeking to justify himself, he wishes to be justified, that is, to recognise God’s grace as a free gift.

Lastly, Swanson reminds us that this scene takes place between two Jews who are familiar with a Jewish text. In this case, then, ‘be justified,’ ought to be translated as ‘be strictly observant,’ meaning to ‘live a life that is shaped by Torah, a life which points to the goodness of God and to the possibility of safety. ‘For Jewish faith the issue of “justifying himself” does not come up because Jewish faith is, and has always been, quite clear that God’s gracious choice comes first.’ As Swanson succinctly notes, ‘This changes everything.’

In this case, the Torah expert is seeking a proper interpretation, halakha. To do so is a honourable activity and not one of antagonism. So his first question is pretty simple: What do you do to inherit eternal life? Jesus understands that this is an easy question and throws the question back to the Torah expert: What do you find in Torah? The Torah expert answers with the second half of the Shema from Deuteronomy 6: ‘Hear O Israel, You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your strength, with all your mind, with all your soul… and you shall love your neighbour as yourself.’ He has answered correctly. Realising he is dealing with a sharp person, the Torah expert next asks, Who is my neighbour? Now the conversation is morphing into a catechism class or a philosophy class. Obviously the neighbour is someone who lives nearby. But what about those who don’t live nearby but who are still neighbours? So that is where Jesus launches into the story.

Again, remember this conversation takes place between two Jewish characters. The people who walk by the injured man have a ritual obligation to avoid corpse-uncleanliness. They make a conscious choice based on the value system they know. The choice is painful but easy. For the stability of the world, they cannot risk defilement by touching this now unclean, apparently dead man.

Then Jesus inserts a masterful complication: ‘Along comes a Samaritan…,’ referring to yet another unclean collection of people. Surely the Torah master knows he has met his match. When Jesus asks him ‘who was the neighbour?’ he can only answer as he does, ‘the one who showed compassion’. And Jesus can only answer, ‘Go and do likewise’ because in doing, the Torah expert will show himself to be an observant Jew. (1)

Coming then at this gospel with the understanding that the Torah expert was not trying to trap or trick Jesus but was truly trying to understand better how he could live according to God’s desire for stability in the world, the question remains: Who is our neighbour? And how do we respond to our neighbour?

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The story is not just about showing compassion to the ‘unclean’ and outsider — it is pure and simply about showing compassion. Who has shown compassion? Is it

the priest who befriended people in jail while serving a three-month sentence for civil disobedience for a cause in which he deeply believed

the congregation that reached out to an unknown woman undergoing extreme chemo in a hospital 400 miles away from her home by bringing to the hospital a huge icechest and various containers, proceeding to produce an entire feast for her and the next day bringing over three blankets to keep her warm

the man who stopped on a hot highway to offer a stranded motorist water for her car’s radiator that had boiled over

people who spend a Saturday hosting a community luncheon to those who haven’t had anything to eat for several days

the two who scrambled over the rubble of the collapsed house in Port au Prince the night of January 12th to bring a flashlight to their neighbour because she was outside in the dark on the ground, unable to move because of her injuries

Who has shown compassion? I am sure you can generate your own examples.

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Hymn 602, Chereponi, otherwise known as ‘Jesu, Jesu,’ a Ghanaian melody from the early 1960s, defines well for us who our neighbour is. In the second verse, the original text says:

Neighbours are rich folk and poor,

neighbours are black, brown and white,

neighbours are nearby and far away.

Then the hymn tells us how we should respond to them:

These are the ones we should serve,

these are the ones we should love.

All are neighbours to us and you.

Finally, the hymn states how we are transformed:

Loving puts us on our knees,

serving us though we are slaves,

This is the way we should live with you.

The chorus reiterates all these themes:

Jesu, Jesu, fill us with your love,

Show us how to serve the neighbours we have in you.
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The only thing that needs to be added is to remember that we never know when the person we help is Christ in front of us. If we respond to each person as Christ, for each person abides in Christ and Christ in them, then we, too, will find ourselves unexpectedly reaching out to others we never expected… and likewise, being cared for by unexpected people. If we do that, then we will find that the plumb line of compassion in our lives will always hang straight. And in that compassion, we will find the energy and presence of the kingdom of God come near, as we love God and neighbour alike.

END NOTE
(1) Richard W. Swanson, Provoking the Gospel of Luke (Cleveland, OH: Pilgrim Press, 2006), 162-67.

Proper 9C

Proper 9C • 4 July 2010

Thirty or so miles down the road in little Plymouth, Vermont, a crowd of people is gathering for the annual Fourth of July observance. It wasn’t until after purchasing property just up the road from the historic village that I realised that Calvin Coolidge was born in Plymouth, sworn into the presidency upon the occasion of Warren Harding’s death and ultimately was buried in the Plymouth Notch Cemetery. Nor did I know that his birthday is July 4th (he is the only president to have that birth date) and that every year, the White House sends a wreath to be placed on a deceased president’s grave on his birthday. I learned all these things 18 years ago and whenever I can (i.e., when the Fourth does not land on a Sunday), attend the ceremony.

The noon ceremony is one of those slices of Americana: tourists and locals gather in front of the summer White House and then process the short distance from there across Route 100A to the cemetery. They follow a rag-tag colour guard, mostly Viet Nam vets, though when I first started attending there were some Korean and WWII vets. Members of Vermont’s National Guard also march.

Once across Rte 100A and in front of the cemetery, the participants go up onto the little knoll where one sees four tall gravestones. The only thing that distinguishes Coolidge’s tombstone from the others is the presidential seal etched into the granite. The colour guard stops, and the representative from the Vermont National Guard places the floral wreath on a stand in front of the president’s tomb. In years past, a local member of the clergy would speak… longer than any of us wanted to hear (!), but now the Adjutant General or like person just says a couple of words, containing a good quote from Silent Cal. Up until the late 1990s, John Coolidge, Cooldige’s oldest child, attended; after his death, grandchildren and great grandchildren show up.

At the end of the fifteen-minute ceremony, two buglers play echo taps. Even though I expect that song, every year it brings tears to my eyes. And, yes, even participating in this small slice of Americana reminds me of one of my identities.

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When the Fourth of July falls on a Sunday, the preacher and liturgist is faced with a conundrum: do we observe the Fourth or do we continue with the Sunday lectionary? I am sort of a ‘strict liturgist’ here; the Sunday lectionary takes precedence over feast days like the Fourth, which is only one of two national holidays that are included in our church calendar (Thanksgiving being the other). Hence, we hear the Sunday readings as they fall in their course. But we have also made note of today through our hymnody and the choral anthem written by the 18th-century US composer, William Billings. You can call it trying to have the best of two worlds.

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Back to what I said about one of my identities… I don’t dwell on the fact that I am a national of the United States, though I am reminded of it every time I travel outside of the country and have to show my passport, aware of how easy it is for me coming from here, and then as I go about because I look and sound different. I do, however, tend to spend more time thinking about my other major identity, one given to me but one that is not automatic the way my nationality is: that is, a Christian, a follower of Jesus. That identity I have chosen over and over again. That identification is a conscious one. With that identification, comes the responsibility of sharing and there I wonder how well I do it or, for that matter, any of us do. Sharing – in church-speak, the dreaded word of evangelism, which simply comes from the Greek root from which also dervies our word, gospel. As I remind my mother often, evangelism is quite a different entity from evangelical.

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Luke’s gospel, for the second time, directs us to be evangelists whose message is simple: ‘The kingdom of God is near.’ The first time Luke sends people out, he chooses twelve — the apostles — and gives them power and authority over all demons, to cure diseases, to preach the kingdom of God and to heal. The first go-round in Luke, Jesus tells the disciples, ‘Take nothing for your journey, no staff, nor bag, nor bread, nor money — not even an extra tunic. Whatever house you enter, stay there, and leave from there. Wherever they do not welcome you, as you are leaving that town shake the dust off your feet as a testimony against them.’ Off the twelve go, preaching the gospel and healing everywhere.

A chapter later, Jesus sends out seventy (or seventy-two, depending on the translation used). If we go with seventy, it represents for Israel historically and traditionally the number of nations. Seventy also represents the number of persons involved in translating the Hebrew Scriptures into Greek. Most important, it represents the seed and sanction for the continuing evangelism portrayed in Luke’s second book, the Book of Acts.

But something interesting happens in Jesus’ instructions to the seventy. He makes clear it is not the evangelist who barges in, imposing his or her message on someone unsuspecting. It is not the evangelist who holds the power, who holds the person captive. Instead, Jesus states emphatically that it is the evangelist who is a guest in someone else’s space. The evangelist is the one who is received — or not received — by the host. The evangelist is the one who listens first before proclaiming.

Notice also the utter vulnerability of the evangelist. There is nothing of the armed camp of Christendom riding roughshod over the supposed pagans. Instead, the evangelist is stripped down to the bare minimum of possessions — so stripped down that he or she has to rely on the hospitality of the very persons to whom he or she wishes to proclaim the good news of God’s love and salvation through Christ. (1)

This picture of the evangelist is a very different one than the one with which I grew up — you know, the Billy Graham sort, standing in a stadium issuing an altar call for people to come up and accept Jesus as their personal Lord and Saviour. In some ways, that picture is almost too easy.

Perhaps that is why the image that Luke offers — one of utter vulnerability and humility — appeals to me more. The fact that the evangelist is called to respect the cultural traditions and norms of the people in whose space she or he enters, the fact that the evangelist listens, and then proclaims the message of God’s grace, appeal. And buried deep down inside of Luke’s message is also one of reconciliation. This deeper message of reconciliation is perhaps harder to get at since the gospel tells the apostles they are to shake the dust from their feet if they are not received. But that is all they do. They do not shove the message down people’s throats.

Now some may criticise me for not being aggressive enough… for not going out to bring in all the lost souls. Forgive me if my approach does not seem forceful enough. Perhaps there is room for all of us. There are those of us who would rather woo people toward God, just as God woos us to know God. Bear with me as I speak of an evangelistic approach that is non-threatening, non-invasive.

What can evangelism mean?
Nothing extravagant, nothing coercive, nothing invasive.
What can evangelism mean?
Something caring, something gentle, something that will let others know the kingdom of God is near. Something that conveys the message that ‘God loves you.’

Now that’s evangelism! Not a pollyana sort — but witnessing to a deep, down abiding faith that God loves you. And the power to remind gently someone of God’s love for them, too.

A gentle evangelism is like the witness of a Salvadoran woman I once met who told me that when she was shoved by someone on the crowded bus, she didn’t lash out with unkind words as would have been justified. Instead, she remembered her baptismal promise to be a reconciler and kept her mouth shut… already a start.

Indeed, being reconcilers in this world is a powerful form of evangelism and one that I think we can do well. It certainly is part of our baptismal covenant: to carry on Christ’s reconciliation in and to the world.

That reconciliation means that we love those who offend us anyway, regardless of how they treat us because they are also God’s beloved children. Tell others of God’s love for them, with no conditions, no strings attached other than they are already God’s beloved… even if they have wandered far away from God or never knew God. Maybe you have been the recipient of that message, that God loves you anyway and always has.

One of the stories that emerged from the great floods of 1998 concerns an 85 year-old man who was rescued from his swamped trailer up in Bristol. During the whole ordeal of being carried out in EMT personnel’s arms, he kept up a steady stream of bantering. He allowed the press to interview him, joking all the way. He kidded around with the ambulance crew as they took him to the hospital to be checked out. But when all the people left, and the only person standing by him was an EMT, one of my brother priests, the old Vermonter began to cry. In his tears, he said that all he owned was in that trailer. And worse, his cat was somewhere in there, and he was afraid it had drowned. The priest covered up his EMT badge, leaned over and said quietly into the old man’s ear, ‘You know, God loves you.’

That priest is Don Morris, the interim who served here before my arrival. What a gentle but strong example! We all can learn from him and others who are not afraid to speak out of God’s love.

How do you proclaim to others that God loves them? When was the last time you invited someone to come and see, to join you here for church? When was the last time you claimed being an evangelist?

We inhabit many worlds but give thanks to God that we live in a place where we can proclaim our faith without fear and share it with others. So, let’s not squander this gift. Go out and tell others that God loves them. And then bring them here so we can join them on their journey to know this amazing God. It’s all a part of who we are… followers of Jesus.





END NOTE
(1) These paragraphs are based, in part, on an article by Bill Wylie-Kellerman, ‘Singing the Lord’s Song to people and powers’ in The Witness, Vol. 75, No 1, January 1992, 8-10.