July 10, 2022
Fifth Sunday After Pentecost
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Weekly Prayer Recording
The Quality of Mercy
The Reverend Linda Mackie Griggs
5 Pentecost Proper 10 Year C
10 July 2022
Luke 10:25-37
Recording of the sermon:
To most 21st-century Christian ears, the exchange between Jesus and the lawyer is perceived as a conflict—a hostile encounter between the Son of God and a representative of Temple authority. But if we read it as Luke intended, this passage is a Jewish text written for a first-century Jewish audience about two Jewish men who are well-versed in Jewish scripture– Torah. Biblical storyteller Richard Swanson tells us that this is not a conflict; it is an argument, which is something students and teachers of Torah actually find interesting and engaging, and more to the point, honorable and respectful. The purpose of argument would be to explore and plumb the depths of the truth of their faith. And the more challenging the exchange, the more respect the interlocutors would have for one another, and the more they learn.
This is what is happening here in today’s Gospel–a brainstorming session as opposed to a fistfight. There is nothing in the text that indicates that the lawyer—the Torah expert—is being hostile; after all, he calls Jesus “Teacher.” It is an atmosphere of inquiry that pervades this exchange, not conflict. That said, we can look again at the lawyer’s final question:
“But wanting to justify himself, he asked Jesus, ‘And who is my neighbor?’”
Swanson argues that the translation, “wanting to justify himself”, reflects a contemporary Christian perspective, not a first-century Jewish perspective. A better way of saying it is,
“He wanted to be strictly observant. He said to [Jeshua]: and who is my neighbor?”
See how different this is? This is not about self-righteous self-justification; it’s a quest for truth in partnership with Jesus. His question is really, how do I live a life that truly honors God’s goodness and lovingkindness?
And of course, Jesus’ response is a parable; surprising, even shocking in its content and implication.
We will return to Jesus and the lawyer, but now we need to look at the story within the story. We know it as the Parable of the Good Samaritan, one of the Gospels’ Greatest Hits. The concept of the Good Samaritan is part of our culture, representing one who Does Good Things for Others in Need–Good Samaritan hospitals, Good Samaritan laws, etc. We are told to be Good Samaritans. And this parable often invites us to imagine ourselves in the place of the Samaritan–the one who does good for someone who is suffering. Often, we are called to envision the Samaritan in contemporary terms as an outcast, as an oppressed minority who earns our sympathy by his surprising act of care and mercy. Sometimes we find ourselves challenged by these images–learning to see a certain marginalized group with new eyes. New Testament scholar Amy Jill Levine says that this interpretation is good as far as it goes, but it doesn’t go far enough to reflect the perspective of the first-century Jewish audience to which it was addressed. The conventional interpretation challenges, yes, but it has yet to provoke, or shock.
Remember that a parable was intended to provoke, or indict. If it didn’t leave you feeling seriously challenged or disturbed, it hadn’t done its job. And Jesus was a master at parables; while his healing could comfort the afflicted, his parables definitely afflicted the comfortable.
The Parable of the Good Samaritan was originally known as the Parable of the Man Who Fell Among Robbers. Which is a really important point. Because if we do what we usually do with this parable, which is to imagine ourselves as the focus of the story, we must imagine ourselves, not walking along the dangerous road to Jericho, but in the ditch. Beaten, robbed, stripped, and left for dead.
“Who is going to help me???”
A priest comes up the road, sees you in the ditch, and crosses by on the other side. A Levite comes up the road a little later, sees you in the ditch, and likewise crosses by on the other side. (A priest is a Levite who has been set aside for special service in the Temple. A Levite is a member of the tribe of Levi who is not necessarily trained as a priest. All priests are Levites, but not all Levites are priests.)
Why did the priest and the Levite see you suffering and pass by? Why would they do that?
Richard Swanson and many, many interpreters of this story (including me) have stated that the reason was that the priest and the Levite were obligated by purity codes not to come in contact with your half-dead body, or if you are actually dead, your corpse. The conventional wisdom is that the priest and the Levite, like a doctor doing triage, have made a difficult but understandable choice to tend to the well-being of their faith rather than to attend to your suffering.
To which Amy Jill Levine delicately replies, “Hogwash.”
“Arguments that read the parable in terms of “uncleanness” or “purity” are made by modern Christians, not by Jesus or Luke. Neither gives the priest or Levite an excuse. Nor would any excuse be acceptable. Their responsibility was to save a life; they failed. Saving a life is so important that Jewish Law mandates that it override every other concern, including keeping the Sabbath. Their responsibility, should the man have died, was to bury the corpse. They failed here as well.”
Who comes down the road next? The power of what comes next is dictated by what Levine calls, “The Rule of Three.” The Rule of Three says that if you can name two things in a set, that everybody will know the third. For example: “Larry, Moe, [Curly]” or “Father, Son, [Holy Spirit/Ghost]. In the case of the parable everybody hearing it knew that the sequence was, “Priest, Levite, Israelite.”
So, you’re dying in the ditch; do you see an Israelite coming down the road to save you?
Nope.
Jesus tells his audience, including his lawyer questioner, that the third person is a Samaritan. That, says Levine, is as shocking as saying, “Larry, Moe, Hitler.” It is unspeakable, even unthinkable.
We need to understand this comparison because most of us don’t understand the antipathy between Samaritans and Jews in Luke’s and Jesus’ time. When we usually hear this story we might see the Samaritan as a repressed minority, one to be shunned, when actually the feeling between the two groups was much more like enmity. Levine says,
“We should think of ourselves as the person in the ditch and then ask, “Is there anyone, from any group, about whom we’d rather die than acknowledge, ‘She offered help’ or ‘He showed compassion’?” More, is there any group whose members might rather die than help us? If so, then we know how to find the modern equivalent for the Samaritan.”
You would rather die than have this third person help you. Worse, you aren’t even sure you can feel safe in this person’s care. It’s that bad.
But he stops. He has pity on you. He treats your wounds. He makes sure you will receive care. He saves your life.
Martin Luther King, Jr. shared his theory about the parable. He said he thought that maybe the priest and the Levite, faced with the choice to help or pass by, worried about what would happen to them if they stopped. Even without the excuse of purity codes, it wasn’t safe; there were bandits on this road. The Samaritan was also worried, but he saw it another way: If he didn’t stop, what would happen, not to him, but to the man in the ditch?
Jesus asked one final question of the Torah expert: “Which of these three was a neighbor to the man who fell among the robbers?”
The lawyer responded, “The one who showed him mercy.”
Mercy is what God does. The shock of the parable comes not only in seeing true humanity in someone usually viewed as dangerous and subhuman, but also in realizing that that same person is capable of doing what God does for someone they usually viewed as dangerous and subhuman.
“The one who showed him mercy.”
The lawyer couldn’t even say the word, “Samaritan.” He was shocked by Jesus’ parable, but he recognized the truth of the argument: that the face of the one we most despise and fear–even though we say we would rather die than admit that this person could show mercy–the truth is that this person has a human face in the image and likeness of God. The truth is that this very person is still capable of saving our life as we lie in the ditch. Even if we cannot speak their name.
If we can even begin to wrap our hearts and heads around this, then the parable has done its work.
To most 21st-century Christian ears, the exchange between Jesus and the lawyer is perceived as a conflict—a hostile encounter between the Son of God and a representative of Temple authority. But if we read it as Luke intended, this passage is a Jewish text written for a first-century Jewish audience about two Jewish men who are well-versed in Jewish scripture– Torah. Biblical storyteller Richard Swanson tells us that this is not a conflict; it is an argument, which is something students and teachers of Torah actually find interesting and engaging, and more to the point, honorable and respectful. The purpose of argument would be to explore and plumb the depths of the truth of their faith. And the more challenging the exchange, the more respect the interlocutors would have for one another, and the more they learn.
This is what is happening here in today’s Gospel–a brainstorming session as opposed to a fistfight. There is nothing in the text that indicates that the lawyer—the Torah expert—is being hostile; after all, he calls Jesus “Teacher.” It is an atmosphere of inquiry that pervades this exchange, not conflict. That said, we can look again at the lawyer’s final question:
“But wanting to justify himself, he asked Jesus, ‘And who is my neighbor?’”
Swanson argues that the translation, “wanting to justify himself”, reflects a contemporary Christian perspective, not a first-century Jewish perspective. A better way of saying it is,
“He wanted to be strictly observant. He said to [Jeshua]: and who is my neighbor?”
See how different this is? This is not about self-righteous self-justification; it’s a quest for truth in partnership with Jesus. His question is really, how do I live a life that truly honors God’s goodness and lovingkindness?
And of course, Jesus’ response is a parable; surprising, even shocking in its content and implication.
We will return to Jesus and the lawyer, but now we need to look at the story within the story. We know it as the Parable of the Good Samaritan, one of the Gospels’ Greatest Hits. The concept of the Good Samaritan is part of our culture, representing one who Does Good Things for Others in Need–Good Samaritan hospitals, Good Samaritan laws, etc. We are told to be Good Samaritans. And this parable often invites us to imagine ourselves in the place of the Samaritan–the one who does good for someone who is suffering. Often, we are called to envision the Samaritan in contemporary terms as an outcast, as an oppressed minority who earns our sympathy by his surprising act of care and mercy. Sometimes we find ourselves challenged by these images–learning to see a certain marginalized group with new eyes. New Testament scholar Amy Jill Levine says that this interpretation is good as far as it goes, but it doesn’t go far enough to reflect the perspective of the first-century Jewish audience to which it was addressed. The conventional interpretation challenges, yes, but it has yet to provoke, or shock.
Remember that a parable was intended to provoke, or indict. If it didn’t leave you feeling seriously challenged or disturbed, it hadn’t done its job. And Jesus was a master at parables; while his healing could comfort the afflicted, his parables definitely afflicted the comfortable.
The Parable of the Good Samaritan was originally known as the Parable of the Man Who Fell Among Robbers. Which is a really important point. Because if we do what we usually do with this parable, which is to imagine ourselves as the focus of the story, we must imagine ourselves, not walking along the dangerous road to Jericho, but in the ditch. Beaten, robbed, stripped, and left for dead.
“Who is going to help me???”
A priest comes up the road, sees you in the ditch, and crosses by on the other side. A Levite comes up the road a little later, sees you in the ditch, and likewise crosses by on the other side. (A priest is a Levite who has been set aside for special service in the Temple. A Levite is a member of the tribe of Levi who is not necessarily trained as a priest. All priests are Levites, but not all Levites are priests.)
Why did the priest and the Levite see you suffering and pass by? Why would they do that?
Richard Swanson and many, many interpreters of this story (including me) have stated that the reason was that the priest and the Levite were obligated by purity codes not to come in contact with your half-dead body, or if you are actually dead, your corpse. The conventional wisdom is that the priest and the Levite, like a doctor doing triage, have made a difficult but understandable choice to tend to the well-being of their faith rather than to attend to your suffering.
To which Amy Jill Levine delicately replies, “Hogwash.”
“Arguments that read the parable in terms of “uncleanness” or “purity” are made by modern Christians, not by Jesus or Luke. Neither gives the priest or Levite an excuse. Nor would any excuse be acceptable. Their responsibility was to save a life; they failed. Saving a life is so important that Jewish Law mandates that it override every other concern, including keeping the Sabbath. Their responsibility, should the man have died, was to bury the corpse. They failed here as well.”
Who comes down the road next? The power of what comes next is dictated by what Levine calls, “The Rule of Three.” The Rule of Three says that if you can name two things in a set, that everybody will know the third. For example: “Larry, Moe, [Curly]” or “Father, Son, [Holy Spirit/Ghost]. In the case of the parable everybody hearing it knew that the sequence was, “Priest, Levite, Israelite.”
So, you’re dying in the ditch; do you see an Israelite coming down the road to save you?
Nope.
Jesus tells his audience, including his lawyer questioner, that the third person is a Samaritan. That, says Levine, is as shocking as saying, “Larry, Moe, Hitler.” It is unspeakable, even unthinkable.
We need to understand this comparison because most of us don’t understand the antipathy between Samaritans and Jews in Luke’s and Jesus’ time. When we usually hear this story we might see the Samaritan as a repressed minority, one to be shunned, when actually the feeling between the two groups was much more like enmity. Levine says,
“We should think of ourselves as the person in the ditch and then ask, “Is there anyone, from any group, about whom we’d rather die than acknowledge, ‘She offered help’ or ‘He showed compassion’?” More, is there any group whose members might rather die than help us? If so, then we know how to find the modern equivalent for the Samaritan.”
You would rather die than have this third person help you. Worse, you aren’t even sure you can feel safe in this person’s care. It’s that bad.
But he stops. He has pity on you. He treats your wounds. He makes sure you will receive care. He saves your life.
Martin Luther King, Jr. shared his theory about the parable. He said he thought that maybe the priest and the Levite, faced with the choice to help or pass by, worried about what would happen to them if they stopped. Even without the excuse of purity codes, it wasn’t safe; there were bandits on this road. The Samaritan was also worried, but he saw it another way: If he didn’t stop, what would happen, not to him, but to the man in the ditch?
Jesus asked one final question of the Torah expert: “Which of these three was a neighbor to the man who fell among the robbers?”
The lawyer responded, “The one who showed him mercy.”
Mercy is what God does. The shock of the parable comes not only in seeing true humanity in someone usually viewed as dangerous and subhuman, but also in realizing that that same person is capable of doing what God does for someone they usually viewed as dangerous and subhuman.
“The one who showed him mercy.”
The lawyer couldn’t even say the word, “Samaritan.” He was shocked by Jesus’ parable, but he recognized the truth of the argument: that the face of the one we most despise and fear–even though we say we would rather die than admit that this person could show mercy–the truth is that this person has a human face in the image and likeness of God. The truth is that this very person is still capable of saving our life as we lie in the ditch. Even if we cannot speak their name.
If we can even begin to wrap our hearts and heads around this, then the parable has done its work.
