The last time I was here, I said a few words about the bible as a book of stories. In the Parable of the Good Samaritan, we have one of the best known and best loved stories in the whole bible. It’s told with such vividness of detail that we can easily picture the whole sequence of events: how the robbers stripped the traveller, beat him and left him half-dead. How the priest and the Levite passed on by, the Levite even venturing over to have a look before he decides not to get involved. We imagine the oil and wine being used to bathe the wounds, the slow walk to the inn, with the injured man balanced on the donkey, we can see the two silver coins coming out of the purse, and be with the innkeeper as he takes stock of the situation.
It’s all so real to us, that it comes as a slight shock to realise that it didn’t actually happen. It might have happened, because, unlike some of Jesus’s stories, it is 100% realistic. But it’s set within the context of the story Luke tells us of the expert in the law asking Jesus those probing questions: “What must I do to inherit eternal life?” and “Who is my neighbour?” That story did happen. But it flows so seamlessly into the parable that we almost don’t know where fact ends and fiction begins.
We might catch ourselves wondering about some of the things Jesus doesn’t tell us, as if we wanted to get closer to the truth of what really happened, forgetting that none of it did. What, for instance, were all these separate people up to, travelling along that rugged and notorious 20 miles each of them apparently by themselves? Why did the Samaritan have a donkey, and the others seemingly not? What was he carrying oil for? Wine we can understand, for refreshment. But how about the bandaging? I don’t suppose he had a first aid kit with him, so bandaging must have meant ripping off strips of fabric, probably off something he was wearing. And how come we hear nothing more of the thieves? Surely they wouldn’t be content with just one robbery. Here’s a guy with a donkey and panniers; why aren’t they still on the lookout for more likely victims?
And there’s no answer to any of these things. Luckily for us, none of it matters. Jesus gives us the details we need to fire our imaginations, so that the point of the parable can be clearly understood. But there are two things that we can usefully do. One is to reflect on the things he does tell us about in the made-up story. And the other is to consider some of the details of the story that did really happen: the story of the expert in the law and his conversation with Jesus.
Now, I don’t know about you, but I really can’t make up my mind about this expert in the law. All we really have against him is that he stood up, as Luke tells us, to test Jesus. The idea is that he didn’t really want to learn anything new from Jesus: he knew all the answers himself – he was an expert – he just wanted to see if Jesus could come out with the right answers. Well, there’s nothing hugely wrong with that. He might be a bit narrow-minded and self-righteous, but presumably he was a respectable Pharisee, who had devoted himself to what he thought best in his cultural context. We know Jesus was at times very intent on showing that the reality of God was not to be found in the observance of the law, especially where it meant that people were being judged as unworthy, and in consequence felt themselves excluded from the love of God.
But leaving to one side the answers the Pharisee might have in his mind, what about the questions he asks? Well, he asks two questions, and they do seem to show that at least he is interested in the right kind of things. Aren’t they questions which we could easily be asking, ourselves? “What must I do to inherit eternal life?” and “Who is my neighbour?” At least his mind isn’t focused on questions like “What must I do to inherit a million pounds?” and “Who can I get the better of today?”
And, knowing how Jesus could be, don’t you think he treats this Pharisee incredibly gently? How he immediately turns the question back to him, giving him the chance to show his true expertise; he says, “What is written in the Law? How do you read it?” And the expert gives that wonderful summary of the law, made up of two key statements picked from just two verses of the Old Testament, one of them from Deuteronomy, and the other from Leviticus. “Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind.” and “Love your neighbour as yourself.” And if anyone wanted absolute proof that observing the law could not possibly be the way to bring us to God, it’s contained in those two simple rules. Because simple as they are, there’s no way any of us can ever achieve either of them! Judged by those standards we are all wanting.
Now I don’t know whether that was a commonly used summary, or whether that was just how this one particular expert felt, but in any case, it is worth noticing that they both place love at the centre of our spiritual life. With so many laws to choose from on such a broad range of topics, this expert picks the two which most closely reflect Jesus’s own attitude: love God; love your neighbour. If this was indeed what the Jewish law really meant, then it makes perfect sense of Jesus’s statement that he did not come to abolish the Law or the Prophets, but to fulfil them.
I think Jesus already respected this expert in the law from his first question. This must have been reinforced by that declaration of love as the summary of the law. And then he asks his second question, which suggests a person who is concerned to understand how to interpret what he has studied when he is out in the complexities of day-to-day life. He may have felt he knew God’s will, but he still needed help with doing it. I’m sure many of us can feel a great sense of fellowship with this guy in that respect.
About the man’s reason for asking, “Who is my neighbour?” Luke tells us, “He wanted to justify himself.” Now, I think it’s easy to get the wrong idea about this, and blame him for wanting to justify himself. The trouble is that ‘justify’ has several meanings, and we more commonly use it to suggest that we want to defend the idea that something is actually right that most people usually regard as wrong. We might, for example, say that in a particular case we were justified in smacking a child, or in, say … bombing a city. You see how self-justification can be a very negative thing, and a very dangerous one. Yet here, I think, all the man wants to do is to be able to think of himself as ‘on the right lines’. In this sense, to justify is to ‘declare righteous’, and righteous doesn’t mean ‘perfect’, it just means ‘wanting to do right’. In that sense, don’t we all want to justify ourselves – to believe that, in respect of our spiritual lives, we are ‘on the right lines’?
And so he asks his famous question, “And who is my neighbour?” …and becomes the first person ever to hear this fantastic story, the story of the Good Samaritan. Not only was he at the world première, but more than that, it was his question which inspired it! Now there’s a claim to fame!
We’ve spent a good bit of time considering the factual story, but what about the made-up tale that Jesus tells? I’ve already said that there’s not much use wanting to know about the things Jesus doesn’t tell us in the story, but we ought to be as clear as possible about what he does tell us, and just perhaps be aware of some of the things he chooses not to mention. We all know the story well enough to know how it illustrates the answer to the question: the neighbour is the one who showed mercy. In good story-telling style, Jesus uses the rule of three: telling us about the two passers-by who don’t help, and so preparing us to hear about the third one who does.
But as we know, it’s not just any old three people: Jesus deliberately weaves in other ideas by making them a priest, a Levite and a Samaritan. He is really asking the question, “Who really shows the way to the heart of God?” Is it the one who through his priestly functions claims to be the channel without whom ordinary folk are unable to approach God? No, Jesus says, that claim of special access is false. The will of God is clear: “Love your neighbour,” and being a priest doesn’t necessarily mean you do. (Present company excepted…)
Is it the one who, as a Levite, devotes his life to the service of God in the temple, making sure that all the candles are lit, the right hymns chosen and the service sheets printed and given out? No, Jesus says. Spending your time arranging the smooth running of church services does not bring you any closer to the heart of God. It doesn’t necessarily mean you love your neighbour either. (Present company excepted…)
And who is the one who gets closest to the heart of God? It is the one whose beliefs aren’t the same as ours. I think we need to pause to take that in a moment. In Jesus’s story, it is the one whose beliefs are not the same as ours who gets closest to the heart of God.
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How do we feel about people whose beliefs are different from ours? Do we think that if we stop to help them, maybe they will come to believe as we do? What do belief and helping actually have to do with each other? Well, from the point of view of the expert in the law, it was the Samaritan whose beliefs were suspect, yet the Samaritan wasn’t the one who needed help: he was the one giving the help. Jesus makes it very clear that, in the words of that well-known chorus, “The creed and the colour and the name won’t matter, I’ll be there.” It’s not what we believe in when we do something that matters: it’s the fact that we have the heart to feel pity, and the courage to get involved. Jesus didn’t disparage the expert’s hard-won expertise for one moment, but when it’s time for action, he should behave like the Samaritan, crossing over the boundaries of faith.
Both questions show how study alone couldn’t provide the expert with the knowledge of how to apply what he had studied. He needed practicalities. Wanting to inherit eternal life, his question was, “What must I do?” And knowing the injunction, “Love your neighbour as yourself,” his question was “Who am I to think of as my neighbour?” Jesus’s answer brings the law so perfectly to life, that like the first hearer, we are not left in any doubt about how we should behave. When Jesus says, “Go and do likewise,” the expert has no need to ask any further questions. Clearly, our neighbour in this sense might not be someone from our street or our village, might not be someone who is near or dear to us, might not even be someone with whom we feel we share anything at all. It might be just some totally random stranger that, as we go about our normal business, we happen to see is in trouble and in need of help.
But what about the thieves? OK, the priest and the Levite didn’t help, but they didn’t cause the harm in the first place, did they? Aren’t the thieves the real villains of the piece? Shouldn’t Jesus have been even harder on them than on the priest and the Levite. Couldn’t he have included something in his story to show that their wicked ways turned out badly for them in the end, or that they had a change of heart, as they stood behind a rocky cliff, watching the good Samaritan stop and help the man they had robbed? But no, there’s not a word to this effect. The thieves are simply not mentioned again. Maybe they got away scot free. We don’t know. They are not the point of the story. The Samaritan could have gone after them, but he doesn’t. His priority isn’t to clear the area of law-breaking criminals but to help someone who, for whatever reason, is in need. The law takes second place.
Now Jesus is no anarchist. We know that he himself referred to the commandments “Love the Lord your God” and “Love your neighbour as yourself.” as the great commandments. And we need those commandments today just as much as anyone ever did. But we also need practical help in knowing how to apply them in our day-to-day life. And so, it might be no bad thing, every now and then, to turn to Jesus, as that expert did so long ago, and ask him the same question: “Who is my neighbour?” We might find the response equally surprising and challenging.