Saugatuck Congregational Church, UCC
© Rev. Alison J. Buttrick Patton
July 14, 2019
Scripture: Luke 10:26-37
Maybe this is Part II. Just last week, I suggested that hospitality is a fundamental value in God’s Kin-dom – a core characteristic of the Divine, and so a principle we should all practice. We are called to extend an expansive welcome to those in need – the iconic widows, orphans and wayfarers of the Old Testament – and to accept the hospitality of those we meet along the way.
I shared examples from both sides of this coin last week: stories about being warmly welcomed by our Navajo hosts in Black Mesa, Arizona, during our youth mission trip; and of witnessing the efforts of over 1,000 volunteers who are working together in Tucson, Arizona to support and accompany asylum seekers on our southern border. That was last Sunday.
On Monday, I realized that this week’s scripture text is the story of the Good Samaritan. So we continue the conversation – maybe dig a little deeper – as we ask that most pressing question, “Who IS my neighbor?”
Let’s be honest: the scholar who first asked that question may well have been hoping that Jesus would draw some line in the sand, might make it clear which people meritted his attention and who, by extension, were NOT his responsibility.
However genuine – or disingenuous – Jesus rose to the occasion, responding to the question with … another question. And when the scholar pressed his point, Jesus did what he so often does: he told a story. A story with a twist, because the hero of this particular parable was a Samaritan. And while the term “Good Samaritan” has made its way into our popular vernacular, Samaritans were nothing like good, in the eyes of the Israelites. The people of Samaria were religious adversaries; the ones who read the same ancient texts as the Israelites, but came to different conclusions; the ones who worshipped on a different mountain, and shunned the ways of the Israelites.
Why on earth would Jesus choose a Samaritan as the hero?
Here’s a reminder that it’s always helpful to read these stories in context. Back up a few verses to chapter 9 (vs 51-56), and you’ll see that just before sending the 70 followers out on their first mission, Jesus had his own encounter with Samaritans. He had decided that it was time to turn toward Jerusalem. Traveling to Jerusalem meant passing through a Samaritan village, so Jesus sent a couple disciples ahead to arrange a place for him to stay. But when the Samaritans heard that Jesus was headed to the temple in Jerusalem, they refused to host him (It was a kind of “this man bats for the wrong team…” response). James and John fumed, suggesting in their anger that someone ought to smite the village (Specifically, “shall we reign down fire on them?”).
They were undoubtedly speaking in hyperbole. There’s no reference anywhere in the gospels to Jesus calling down fire and brimstone on his adversaries. Ever. That just was not his M.O. But there is a well-known example of this kind of divine destruction in the Hebrew Bible, back in the book of Genesis chapter 19. It concerns the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah. In response to the wickedness of the towns’ inhabitants, the story goes, God “rained on Sodom and Gomorrah sulfur and fire…” (Gen 19:24)
Perhaps you were taught, somewhere along the way, that the egregious sin of Sodom was homosexuality – a contemporary interpretation that has caused all kinds of damage to our lesbian, gay and bisexual siblings. In fact, the behavior that so enraged God was the abusive treatment of strangers. Sodom and Gomorrah failed to extend appropriate hospitality to two wayfarers (who, in the story, turn out to be angels in disguise). Instead, residents threaten to rape the visitors.
Here again is evidence that for the God of Israel, hospitality is the very heart of the matter. So appalled was God by the town’s poor treatment of outsiders, that even Abraham’s appeals for mercy on behalf of the city could not finally dissuade God from destroying the whole place.
To be clear: this is not a literal, historical event. The stories of Genesis belong to what we call ‘pre-history.’ They are powerful myths meant to lay the foundation for our relationship with the Divine. Who is the Creator, and who, by extension, are we? What matters to God and so what should matter to us? The purpose of Genesis is to contemplate these questions.
So the story of Sodom and Gomorrah makes clear: ours is a God who places high priority on welcoming the stranger. we are not to turn our backs on those in need; in fact, we have a holy obligation to those beyond our own tribe.
James and John surely knew they were invoking that earlier story when they offered to ‘rain fire on the Samaritans.’ and whether they expected Jesus to mirror their outrage or to share a conspiratorial laugh at the Samaritans’ expense, they likely did NOT anticipate that Jesus would just… let it go.
But that’s what Jesus did. He moved on. And his message was clear enough: we do not condemn – not even our enemies. And in case they had failed to absorb this point, Jesus wrapped back around to it, the first opportunity he got. When one of his followers asked, “Who IS my neighbor?” he wove a tale that located one of those troublesome Samaritans at the very center of events.
“WHO is your neighbor? Your neighbor is the Samaritan. The Adversary. The despised. The one you would scarcely expect to give you the time of day, much less rescue you in your hour of need… That one might just surprise you, might one day give you the provisions from his pack, the money from his purse, his own mule to ride when you need it most.
“Go and do likewise.”
Jesus turned his own bitter experience into an object lesson. He engaged in a little creative projection: What if it was a Samaritan that showed up on that dangerous road and embodied extravagant hospitality, when our ‘own people’ walked by? What if hewas the one who offered first aid, delayed his own travels long enough to get the wounded man to safety; dug into his own purse, to cover the cost of that Isrealite’s care… without respect for their differences? Smite all your adversaries, and you eliminate the chance for a future encounter that may just turn your assumptions on their head.
The Samaritan is your neighbor. End of lesson.
This parable is so provocative, that we’ve been telling it, and mulling it over, for two thousand years. For much of that time, we’ve allowed it’s edges to be dulled and it’s message to be muted, concluding that it’s primary point is that we should be charitable to those in need.
And yes, we should. That is the bare minimum, the low bar. When we have two shirts, it is good to give one to the person without any. When we have a home, it is good to attend to the one with no shelter. When a person arrives at our borders wearing shoes worn to shreds because they have walked untold miles to escape psyche-destroying violence, it is good to give that person a new pair of shoes, food to eat and a safe place to rest.
But there’s something more here. Something deeper. There’s a tendency to regard charity as something we do for strangers. Giving charity allows us to keep our distance, stay on top. We are the helpers. They, the receivers.
But Jesus and the scholar talk about neighbors. Think about it: We help our literal neighbors – the ones who live on our street – with a cup of sugar, or an emergency blanket; a hot dish or an offer to shovel the sidewalk. Why? Because we feel some sense of kinship, some connection – personal or merely geographic – because our children go to school together, or because we run into each other every time we go out to retrieve the mail, AND because one day, we might need the help ourselves. The relationship between neighbors is reciprocal, cultivated by proximity and rooted in our shared humanity.
THAT’s the bottom line. To the question, “Who is my neighbor?” Jesus responds, “Whoever shows up at your door. Whomever you meet on the road.” Whoever you encounter deserves the same care and dignity that you hope to receive, when you are the one in the ditch.
It is not tribe, or language, or country of origin, or political bent or legal status that determines whether a person is my neighbor. It is not even whether they would welcome me in return. It is not whether they have earned my respect; whether they have made ‘good’ or ‘bad’ choices, or whether their need is justified in my eyes. It is the fact that they are knocking. It is the fact that they, like I, are children of the one God.
In the end, ‘Neighbor’ is a category divinely assigned, a lens through which God instructs us to gaze, an attitude we are called to cultivate with everyone we meet.
We learn to be neighbors, by spending time in close proximity – physically or emotionally. This is the opposite of closing our doors or walking by on the other side.
- When a woman and child are abducted and extorted for thousands of dollars while fleeing north to the US border;
- When a family who arrives at the border dripping wet, after being nearly swept away while crossing the river;
- When vigilantes harass and endanger asylum seekers,
- When involuntary migrants risk their lives by hopping trains, because the buses are so often stopped and searched by border patrol;
- When our practices, official and unofficial, deny the legal right to approach our border and ask for help…
We can refuse to turn away. We can listen to the stories. We can pour out our own provisions. We can fiercely defend their dignity, tend wounds, offer sanctuary. We can ask the question: What has caused my neighbor such distress? We can look beyond the borders, to the tumult that causes involuntary migration in the first place? Why is the road so dangerous?
This is what it means to be neighbors. It means living as though we were all residents of the same community of God. Because we are.
Thanks be to God. Amen.