The Mercy of Seeing

by Krista Mournet

Krista Mournet (MA, Durham University) is a Ph.D. candidate in theology at Durham University in England. This was presented as a sermon and so retains its oral character.

I often wonder why the Parable of the Good Samaritan isn’t called “The Parable of the Wounded Man.” Other parables, at least in popular parlance, are titled with reference to the one acted upon: “The Parable of the Prodigal Son,” “The Lost Coin,” “The Lost Sheep,” “The Pearl of Great Price,” why not “The Parable of the Wounded Man”? In any case, whatever you call it, this very brief story is powerful in itself, and made even more so by its location in the midst of a dynamic encounter in Jesus’ ministry.

But before we get to the main text, let’s take note of a couple of key features at play in the larger context of the story. First, we read at the beginning of Luke 10 that Jesus has sent out seventy followers to go ahead of him, preparing the way for his arrival and preaching the kingdom of God (10:1–12). As they go out “like lambs in the midst of wolves” (10:3), they are to carry nothing with them, rely on the charity of strangers they meet and receive their hospitality as they preach. The text tells us in 10:17 that these first seventy returned joyfully to Jesus, reporting of the miraculous events that have occurred in their journeys. But surely, as the first Jesus followers continued in this pattern of itinerant ministry, they would have encountered treachery along the way; so the story told by Jesus just a few verses later would have been a very real possibility for these first Jesus followers.

Second, we need to remember the unique staying power that parables have as over the millennia we return to them again and again. They are fictional stories—they never really happened. And yet, on an experiential level, they happen all the time. We all know what it feels like to be abandoned and forgotten; to find ourselves lost and in need of rescue; to be in desperate need of reconciliation, at the mercy of those who have every right to hate and punish us, only to find in awestruck relief that we have been forgiven instead. These stories speak to our common experiences as a human community; the unique joys and sorrows that bless and plague us. And so as the years pass, we return to them—we mine them anew for the ancient truths they tell us.

The Game is Afoot

As we approach our main text, Luke 10:25–37, we notice that Jesus has been speaking to a large group of his followers, including those seventy who have just returned from their itinerant journeys, as well as his closest disciples (10:23–24). It is in this setting that a “lawyer” stands up to grill Jesus. A lawyer in a Jewish community would have been one well-versed in Torah, the tradition of legal codes preserved in the first five books of the Hebrew (and Christian) Bible. In those days there was no distinction between religious moral codes and secular law—it was all one and the same. So an expert in “the law” would also have been an expert in the interpretation of scripture and theology. This guy was a heavy hitter, and he knew it. So this “expert” lobs a tough question at Jesus, fully intending to entrap him in a theological quagmire; “what must I do to inherit eternal life?” (10:25). It’s the same question the rich young ruler asks Jesus later, in Luke 18:18–25.

What may not be readily apparent to us is that with this particular question, the lawyer is already trying to box Jesus in—he’s trying to lump him with one or another group of his contemporary Jews. In first century Judea, a Jew from any of several particular groups—a Pharisee, a Sadducee, an Essene, or a Jesus follower, for example—could have very different views on “eternal life,” respectively: that is, if one believed in it at all. So this lawyer is “testing” Jesus, in every sense of the word. And Jesus agrees to play the game, if not by the rules the lawyer intended. Instead of answering the question, Jesus throws the lawyer’s hot potato right back at him; “What is written in the Law? What do you read there?” (10:26)

The “Right Answer”

The lawyer obliges by giving what Jesus affirms as “the right answer:” “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind; and your neighbor as yourself.” How ironic that out of the antagonist’s mouth comes a core teaching of Jesus—quoted by him in Matthew (22:37–40) and Mark (12:28–31), and widely known to have been disseminated by the earliest followers of Jesus from the beginning. The answer the lawyer gives is a combination of two key Torah teachings: Deuteronomy 6:5 and Leviticus 19:18. Here’s how it breaks down:

Deuteronomy 6:5: “Love the LORD your God with all your heart, all your being, and all your strength.” (CEB) 

Leviticus 19:18: “You must not take revenge nor hold a grudge against any of your people; instead, you must love your neighbor as yourself; I am the LORD.”

The first of these verses, along with Deut. 6:4, has been quoted twice a day for millennia by faithful Jews as part of their daily prayers. The second verse appears in a chapter largely occupied with regulations on how to treat others, be they fellow Jews or foreigners. It is hard to say for certain whether this particular combination of scriptures originated with the followers of Jesus; the textual evidence is ambiguous. But it is very clear that the early church propagated and disseminated it in its documents as one of the foundational teachings of Jesus.

So this lawyer has done his homework. He knows his opponent. And Jesus rewards him with a pat on the head and an “off you go, now”: “You have answered correctly. Do this and you will live” (10:28). It’s hard to say whether Jesus said this with a wry smile twitching at the corner of his lips—whether he knew this wouldn’t be the end of the debate. But in any case, the lawyer continues to prod him, by lobbing another hot potato his way: “And who is my neighbor?”

The Question of “Neighbor”

As those who don’t generally spend a lot of time in Leviticus, we might be forgiven for thinking that Lev. 19:18 encompasses the whole of Jewish teaching on how to treat others. We might mistakenly assume that ancient Jews only thought it necessary to show compassion to other Jews—those inside the fold—their “neighbors.” And clearly this verse does relate only to one’s fellow Jews: “your people.” But the matter is not so simple, as both Jesus and his opponent well knew. And we don’t have to look far to find out why.

In the same chapter of Leviticus, verses 9–10 say:

‘When you harvest your land’s produce, you must not harvest all the way to the edge of your field; and don’t gather up every remaining bit of your harvest. Also do not pick your vineyard clean or gather up all the grapes that have fallen there. Leave these items for the poor and the immigrant; I am the LORD your God.’

So a faithful Jew was to show at least some measure of compassion to the poor and to immigrants, that is, foreigners living in their land. But the Torah does not stop there. Notice what is said in verses 33–34 of the same chapter:

‘When immigrants live in your land with you, you must not cheat them. Any immigrant who lives with you must be treated as if they were one of your citizens. You must love them as yourself, because you were immigrants in the land of Egypt; I am the LORD your God.’ (italics mine)

So according to Torah, the foreigner, or immigrant, was to be treated as if he or she were a fellow Jew; that is, as a neighbor. Even the same words are used: “love them as yourself.” The way one interpreted this Torah teaching could have far-reaching consequences for daily life in a community riddled with sectarian strife and filled with many different flavors of people, both Jewish and Gentile. It could get messy. So when the lawyer is asking “who is my neighbor?”, he is bringing up yet another theological quagmire for Jesus to step into—and another matter of heated debate among the Jews of the time. And again, Jesus refuses to play by the lawyer’s rules.

The Parable

In verse 30, we begin to approach the heart of this debate, presented artfully by Jesus, and uniquely in Luke, in the form of a story. “Once upon a time,” Jesus effectively says, “a man went down from Jerusalem to Jericho.”

Before we get to what happens to the unnamed man, let’s consider some details on this trek to Jericho. The journey went for eighteen miles west to east, over rocky desert terrain, from an elevation of 2500 feet above sea level in Jerusalem to 770 feet below in Jericho. It was a treacherous road, with plenty of rocky crags in which robbers could hide. It is very likely that scenarios like the one Jesus tells happened all the time. Jericho was also known, according to rabbinic tradition, as a priestly suburb; many of the priestly class lived there during the times when they were not required to serve at the temple. So priests and Levites likely traversed that road often. Add to that the scriptural context, just after Jesus sent out his itinerant apostles, and you get a very likely real world scenario for the earliest Jesus followers.

So what happens to this unfortunate, unnamed man? We read that he is beaten, robbed, stripped and left for dead on the side of the road. And to add to the tragedy, a priest and a Levite, upon noticing him lying there, choose to avoid him, crossing over to the other side as they hurry on their way (vv. 30–32); a tragic story, indeed. What might have motivated these men to act so inhumanely to this wounded man? And remember, Jesus is telling this story. Why would he choose a priest and a Levite, of all people, to be “the bad guys?”

Interpreters over the years have speculated that perhaps Jesus is leveling an accusation against the institution of the temple and its regulations—that the priest and the Levite forgot their first obligation to mercy in favor of the ease of “following the rules” of Levitical law. Perhaps Jesus was eschewing his Jewish roots in favor of a Torah-free, temple-free alternative. But I’m not sure that’s what Jesus was really getting at, and here are some reasons why.

Yes, it’s true that Leviticus 21 forbids priests, and specifically the sons of Aaron, to touch or go near a dead body (except of their closest kin). So perhaps the priest might have had an excuse, according to Levitical law, to pass by the man. But the Levite, a descendant of the tribe of Levi and charged with the more menial duties of the temple, would have had no such restriction. He could have stopped with no penalty—and in any case, the priest could easily have paused to see if he could see the man’s chest rise and fall, or hear him make a sound. He could have waited for the Levite and asked him to check on the man. If the man was still breathing there would be no problem. So, purity regulations aside, both the priest and the Levite were at fault. Both scurried past this dying man, too busy with their agendas to stop. They simply refused to see him.

Giving Words to the Wounded

We know so little about this wounded man. We don’t know what nationality he was, what his name was, where he came from. He gets no words in the story. He is utterly powerless. Yet scripture has plenty of words for people in his position. And I wanted to pause at this point in the story, at the point of his deepest suffering, and put words to it. Here are some verses from Psalm 88:

1 LORD, God of my salvation, by day I cry out, even at night, before you—2 let my prayer reach you! Turn your ear to my outcry 3 because my whole being is filled with distress; my life is at the very brink of hell. 4 I am considered as one of those plummeting into the pit. I am like those who are beyond help, 5 drifting among the dead lying in the grave, like dead bodies—those you don’t remember anymore, those who are cut off from your power. 6 You placed me down in the deepest pit, in places dark and deep. 7 Your anger smothers me; you subdue me with it, wave after wave. 8 You’ve made my friends distant. You’ve made me disgusting to them. I can’t escape. I’m trapped! 

14 Why do you reject my very being, LORD? Why do you hide your face from me? 15 Since I was young I’ve been afflicted, I’ve been dying. I’ve endured your terrors. I’m lifeless. 16 Your fiery anger has overwhelmed me; your terrors have destroyed me. 17 They surround me all day long like water; they engulf me completely. 18 You’ve made my loved ones and companions distant. My only friend is darkness.

Psalm 88 is unique among lament psalms because of the way it ends. Unlike other lament psalms that seem to wend their way eventually to a declaration of trust in God’s “unfailing love” (see Psalm 13, for example), Psalm 88 ends, at verse 18, in darkness, at the bottom of the pit. How like this moment in the story for the unnamed man. Imagine if his story ended here. What if the man had died believing God had abandoned him simply because no one stopped? No one came to help him?

Mahatma Gandhi, whose non-violent resistance led in large part to the freeing of India from British colonial rule in 1947, and who inspired Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. to found the non-violent civil rights movement in America, is known to have said: “There are people in the world so hungry, that God cannot appear to them except in the form of bread.”

Imagine being so hungry that God would only make sense to you in the tangible meeting of your deepest need. Maybe there are people in the world so lonely that God cannot appear to them except in the form of a flesh and blood human being, with arms outstretched in mercy, ready to help. Imagine if this man’s story ended at the side of the road.

The Subversion

Thankfully, the man’s story does not end there. Someone does stop to help him. And that person is a Samaritan. In verse 33, we read that, like the priest and the Levite, the Samaritan notices the man. But instead of passing by on the other side, he is “moved with compassion,” and he takes extraordinary, sacrificial measures to help him. He offers himself, his provisions, his time and his money, even making sure the man will be taken care of after he leaves to continue his journey. These costly acts distinguish him from the earlier passersby in stark fashion. The difference is like night and day.

Many people who hear or read this message will likely already know that Samaritans and Jews have never gotten along. Since at least the 6th century BCE, they have differed in their opinion of where the temple should be located; Samaritans believe it should be on Mt. Gerizim in modern day Nablus, northern Israel. Jews of course believe its rightful place is on the temple mount in Jerusalem. They even differ in their opinion of Samaritan origins: Samaritans believe themselves to be descended form the northern tribes of Ephraim and Manasseh, while Jews historically have believed them to have descended from Assyrian foreign refugees brought to northern Israel in the 8th century BCE (See 2 Kings 17:24–28).

For these and many other reasons, the relationship between Jews and Samaritans has always been dicey. And the rhetoric exchanged between them has surely been divisive, in much the same way that political rhetoric, especially in this American election year, can be. Consider these two statements, which I found on a graphic circulating online: “Republicans Love America: They just hate half the people living there.” And it’s corollary: “Democrats: We are the party of tolerance, so long as you agree with us.” Neither of these statements is actually true. But that is the nature of partisan rhetoric; it gets dirty quickly. I suspect much the same sort of rhetoric circulated in Jesus’ day between Jews and Samaritans.

Jesus throws quite a twist into this story by making a Samaritan the good guy. And here is where we get to the essence of Jesus’ subversion, and I don’t think it has anything to do with abolishing Torah or defaming the temple. Rather, it has everything to do with insiders and outsiders and the great surprise of mercy. In this story it is the outsider who observes Torah! And he does a better job of it than the insiders did! Remember Leviticus 19? As commanded in this challenging Torah teaching, the Samaritan is the one who loves the wounded man as himself, giving no thought to whether he is Jewish, Gentile or whatever. What a scandal this must have been to Jesus’ listeners, the lawyer included.

And once more, as we near the end of this passage, Jesus questions the lawyer; “which one of these three was a neighbor to the man who encountered thieves?” (10:36). Notice how he reframes the question. And the lawyer, who gets to be right again, can only mutter, “The one who showed him mercy.” He can’t even bring himself to say “The Samaritan.” Or maybe it doesn’t matter.

Who is the Neighbor?

The lawyer asks Jesus questions of interpretation; of boundaries and best practices. And in response to the lawyer’s question; “Who am I legally bound to consider my neighbor?,” Jesus completely reframes the issue. To the “expert” he says; “Stop worrying about that and BE the neighbor.” You are the neighbor! Be a good one!

Jesus redefines the debate: it is not about who is in and who is out—it’s about how we treat each other. We learn this stuff by the time we’re in kindergarten, or at least we should. A neighbor is one who shows mercy—to anybody and everybody. It doesn’t matter whether you are Jewish or Samaritan, rich or poor, sick or healthy, thin or fat, young or old, Democrat or Republican, gay or straight, Christian or non-Christian. According to Jesus, there are no categories. Everyone deserves mercy, and you, follower, are to show it to them. Will it cost you something? Probably. Will it require you to put your agenda on hold for a while? Likely—you may have to give it up entirely from time to time. Will it get messy? Absolutely. But this is the life to which we have been called.

Won’t you be?

I couldn’t spend this much time talking about what it means to be a neighbor without giving a nod to one of the best known neighbors in the twentieth century: Fred Rogers. Mister Rogers, as the world knew him, was an ordained Presbyterian minister whose parish was children’s television. He spent his entire life, including over 900 episodes of Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood, modeling what good neighbors look like. And on one of those 900 episodes, Mister Rogers said this; “If only you could sense how important you are to the lives of those you meet; how important you can be to people you may never even dream of. There is something of yourself that you leave at every meeting with another person.”

What part of yourself do you leave with people you meet? And what about people you choose not to meet at all? What are you both missing out on? Imagine if there were people in our towns, in our shopping malls, in our schools, in our workplaces, in our families, in our churches, who thought God had abandoned them, simply because we chose not to see them. What if their story ended there?

I am grateful that God saw our need for salvation to be so great that God came down in the form of a flesh and blood human being. Jesus, God enfleshed, walked with us in our need and pain, and when the time came, he gave up his human life so that we could be raised with him to eternal fellowship with God and the saints. What a great sacrifice, indeed.