And who is my neighbor --Some thoughts for the 15th Sunday of Ordinary Time & the Parable of the Good Samaritan

 "But wanting to justify himself,
he said to Jesus: And who is my neighbor?"
Luke 10:25-37

The Catholic church follows a liturgical cycle of readings. What this means is that the readings at each mass are pre-determined, scheduled, following a 3-year plan. The cycle completes itself and starts over every 3 years. Years are designated A, B & C---and currently, we are in year C.  What this means in practice is that instead of a priest or liturgist selecting particular passages from scripture because they fit some pastoral concern or address a specific issue, the readings are determined by the cycle and every 3 years on the 15^th Sunday of Ordinary Time, we hear the same series of readings including the story of the Good Samaritan. One of the odd blessings about such a system, is that the choice is not ours, the message is not selected by us, but imposed upon us and that imposition, if we allow it, can become a blessing of opportunity.  It calls us out of the hamster-wheel of our habits and hungers and preferences, and invites us to look at life through a different lens, see the world around us from a different point of view.

 

And so, in the midst of all the strange and terrible goings on in our country, a president who seems to think he is a king, a congress that acts like cartoon minions, and agents of the government running around in masks arresting nursing mothers, day-laborers, and college students, we might have wanted to hear a message about justice or about the collapse of society, about God’s wrath on corrupt leaders… But, instead this Sunday at mass we will hear the parable of the Good Samaritan, and each of us will be given the opportunity to consider: what kind of neighbor am I?  

 

The story of the good Samaritan is probably one of the most familiar of all the parables. It is the story of a man who is beaten and robbed and left for dead on a roadside and three people who walk by his naked body.  Two of them, a priest and a lawyer, keep going. They see the man, but walk on without helping.  Only the third, a Samaritan (someone Jesus’s audience wouldn’t have wanted to associate with), stops and helps the man, caring for his wounds and taking him to safety.  Re-reading this parable I have come to wonder if it may be the most radical of all the parables.  Not only does the Samaritan stop and help the wounded man, but he takes him to an inn, watches over him, then pays the inn-keeper extra money to help.

 

And it all starts with a lawyer asking about the law, about the rules, asking about what is required to be a good Jew; as if he is trying to get Jesus to say: these are the minimum requirements to avoid breaking the law, to stay out of trouble with God.  The lawyer has quoted the law to Jesus, the rules: You must love God with all your heart, and love your neighbor as yourself.  And when Jesus affirms it, the lawyer, as if looking for a loophole, asks: But, who is my neighbor?

 

The lawyer’s simple question reverberates with the self-justifying sound of fear. Behind it one senses a fear of obligations and limitations, and the very human worry about having enough, about running out of time, energy, resources. But instead, Jesus answers with a story of generosity and compassion, discomfort and self-sacrifice.  The Samaritan is on a trip, headed somewhere, he doesn’t know the man, has no obligations toward him, and yet he alone, of the three responds with love; he alone sets his own plans and needs, perhaps his own obligations and limitations aside responds with compassion, selflessly allowing the needs of another to become an opportunity to serve.   Historically, Samaritans were seen by the Jews as outcasts or rejects; heretics and half-breeds. And yet it is the Samaritan, not the “good Jews,” the Priest and the Levite, who shows concern for the victim, who treats even a stranger with compassion, with love.

 

Instead of answering in legal terms, Jesus flips the question with a story about radical kindness. Shifting the focus from requirements and culpability to generosity, He asks the lawyer: Which of the three, do you think, acted like a neighbor?  He turns the focus away from othering, from borders and tribal distinctions --who is my neighbor—making it personal –what kind of neighbor am I? 

 

Who is my neighbor, the lawyer asks, and Jesus responds with a parable about a stranger, and radical compassion.

 

Jesus is challenging us to act with love not just toward family and friends, classmates or co-workers, not just the easy and the familiar, but to treat with love, with radical generosity, even when its uncomfortable, when its unplanned and disruptive to our schedule, even when it’s scary.  He calls us to see through the Law into the Love. A Love that connects, that binds us all, friend and foe, family and stranger.

 

And there are few stranger than our current president, and few more frightening, and possibly none who needs love more –unless, of course, we count the widows, the orphans, the homeless, the refugees, the prisoner, the naked, the hungry, the thirsting…

 

And yet, even as I write this, I wonder might we not find all these qualities lurking somewhere beneath the prideful and belligerent façade of this man who seems to think he is a king.  And yet, again, are we not called to love all people? Not just those who are easy to love, who make us feel comfortable, or safe. The real opportunity comes unplanned, in the uncomfortable, in the chance to give of ourselves completely, without expecting anything in return.  

 

And one thing this parable makes uncomfortably clear: it is impossible to love someone if we are too busy “othering” them. Whether it is the immigrant, the refugee, the disabled, the different, or just a poor victim left wounded and naked in a ditch.

 

One of the blessings of having a liturgical cycle, is that readings are forced upon us; imposed, instead of proposed. And because they are, they can catch us off-guard, unprepared, surprising us with their prophetic truth and demanding that we pay attention.   In a sense, they come as unexpected as an encounter with a stranger in need. Whether it’s comfortable or not, we are called to listen, to engage, and if we are willing—to respond, to be changed, to let the words challenge and change us.  

 

Perhaps this moment in American history is a similar kind of challenge. We can debate the president’s policies and behavior all we want, but we must realize—he is ours, we elected him, and in some very frightful way—he is us! He is a challenge to be met, and we can either keep walking, pretending we don’t see, or we can stop and say: this cannot be. I must do something.

 

Is this not a time when we musts stop looking at borders and races, memberships and “tribes,” and instead open our eyes to the humanity of all people, look upon even those who don’t look like us, act like us, think like us, not as a problem to be avoided or cast out, but as an opportunity to encounter and become. Instead of asking: Who is my neighbor? we must ask: Who is in need? And what can I do to help?  In this unexpected and unplanned moment, we find not just a challenge or a duty or an obligation, but an opportunity to become the people we all want to be, the person who walks toward the cross, the neighbor who—in our hour of need—we all hope to see.

 

The One Thing Necessary—some thoughts on Martha and Mary

 

“Jesus entered a village
where a woman whose name was Martha welcomed him.
She had a sister named Mary
who sat beside the Lord at his feet listening to him speak.
Martha, burdened with much serving, came to him and said,
"Lord, do you not care
that my sister has left me by myself to do the serving?
Tell her to help me."
The Lord said to her in reply,
"Martha, Martha, you are anxious and worried about many things.
There is need of only one thing.
Mary has chosen the better part
and it will not be taken from her." --Luke 10: 38-42

 

Summer vacations are like crucibles. They try our souls and reveal who we really are. Are you a Martha or a Mary?  Do you fret over many things, or do you focus on the one thing necessary?

 

When our children were younger and we would take them on vacations, my wife would be packing suitcases, making lists, coaching the girls on how many toys or how many books they could bring, planning itineraries, planning menus, snacks for the car, food for the hotel room.  She was the one concerned about tire pressure, gas tanks, seating arrangements, departures and ETAs, even cat care while we were gone, mailboxes, home security, her garden; who would water her hydrangeas? 

 

Me—my main worry was the music for the drive; what CD would we play first? As we backed out of the driveway, what song would signal the start of our adventure?  Van Morrison, The Beatles, Ella Fitzgerald, Joni Mitchell, Pete Seeger, or Sharon, Lois and Bram?

 

Was I choosing the “better part?” Or was I just being a husband? Oblivious to the need for preparation to insure a successful vacation?  One thing I know for certain is this: without Lynne doing all that work, I wouldn’t have been free to go out and buy doughnuts and cue up my favorite song.  Without her taking on the responsibility of making sure everyone packed enough underwear and socks, toothbrushes, and a favorite bedtime toy, the vacation might never have happened. 

 

And the same be said of Martha’s hospitality and service.  Like any good hostess, she is busy making sure every empty glass is filled, every plate piled high, every need cared for, every guest welcomed.  Without her efforts there would be no party… Often, this story is cited as a depiction of two kinds of spirituality: service and contemplation.  Martha is service; all hustle and bustle, Mary is contemplation; sitting quietly at the foot of Jesus. And so, some people read the words of Jesus as a verdict on types of spirituality, i.e. that service may be good, but contemplation is better.

 

But, I don’t think that is what Jesus is saying here.  Think about how Jesus answers Martha; what does He actually say:  You are anxious and worried about many things… But only one thing is necessary.  Ok, Jesus… but what is that one thing?

 

The Anglican theologian N.T. Wright often recommends that when we are confused by a passage in the Gospels we should look at the context of the passage; what comes before it? What comes soon after? Reread the entire chapter…

 

The story of Martha and Mary comes directly after the story of the Good Samaritan.  And the story of the Good Samaritan comes as a kind of answer to the question: What is the one thing? What is necessary? What do I have to do to get into Heaven?  And that question is asked by someone who is “anxious” and worried and trying to put Jesus to the test (cf. Luke 10: 25-37). 

 

The Good Samaritan story is a story about a man who knows the one thing necessary: love, compassion, to care for others. The priest and the Levite cross to the other side of the road when they see the victim, because they are blinded by their cares and anxieties. They’re living not in the what is, but in the what if… What if the man is dead and I become unclean? What if he is contagious? What if his needs are too big, his wounds too serious and I can’t help him? Or I don’t know what to do? Or worse, what if I do the wrong thing? What if he is just faking and it is a trap? What if? What if? What if?  

 

But the Samaritan –who may have his own worries and needs and obligations—doesn’t hesitate; he simply goes to the injured man and show love, acts with compassion, becomes a neighbor.

 

What I hear in this story of Martha and Mary isn’t a dichotomy between service and contemplation, but a lesson about focus, about attending to the one necessary thing.  Martha’s service and food and hospitality were a blessing that even Jesus in the moment was enjoying, consider the story of Abraham and the three visitors (cf. Genesis 18:1-10) if you want another example of someone rushing around to prepare food for his guests.  The difference is, Abraham never complains. He is filled with joy at the opportunity to show hospitality, to serve these three strangers.  He gives himself fully to the one necessary thing. 

 

Jesus doesn’t correct Martha’s actions; He doesn’t tell her to slow down and sit still for a minute or come join with Mary at His feet.  Instead, He addresses her attitude. The scattered focus of her anxiety.  As the psalmist says: All doers of evil are scattered (cf. Psalm 92:9).

 

I think Jesus is calling us to focus; to give ourselves completely to whatever we are doing, whatever we are committing ourselves to.  And to not worry about the what ifs.  Sufficient unto the day are the troubles there of...  or to put it another way: Don’t worry about what other people are doing? Or saying… Or thinking… Just be present to the moment, present to what you are doing, who you are with, and do it with love. Let God take care of the rest. 

Doing what is expected --Some thoughts on The Parable of the Good Samaritan (15th Sunday in ordinary Time)

 This Sunday we had one of the most famous passages in the Bible: The Parable of the Good Samaritan (Luke 10:25-37). This is one of those familiar stories that I can easily listen to with one ear tied behind my… well, you get the idea: because I’ve heard it so many times, I don’t always give it my full attention.  And I’ve heard so many homilies preached on it that I quite easily find myself drifting off during the preaching, wondering about breakfast, whether there is enough buttermilk to make biscuits… Do we have any flour? What about tortillas? We have those ripe avocados. Maybe I should make tacos… Which, of course, leads to trying to remember how old that bottle of salsa in the back of the refrigerator actually is.

 

BUT… that isn’t how I want to treat the Gospel. What I would rather do, is listen to it fully, every time… as if I were hearing it anew. Fresh.  But, I also want to know it. Have it planted in my heart.  And so I have begun reading the Sunday readings earlier in the week, in preparation for church, to kind of get myself ready; to let things start percolating inside me.  And something struck me about this familiar parable that I had not considered before. And that is the scholar who asks the question that gets everything started.  Trying to put Jesus to the test, he asks, “What must I do to inherit eternal life?”  Interestingly, Jesus doesn’t just answer. Instead, He asks the scholar, what does the law say? What do you think?  And the scholar answers that we are to love first God, and then “your neighbor as yourself” (cf. 10:27).  So far so good. But then, even after Jesus has affirmed his answer, the scholar, in an effort to justify himself, pushes the point. He wants to know just exactly who is my neighbor? And this is when Jesus tells the famous parable of the man beset by thieves who leave him to die beside the road and the 3 people who see this poor man. First there was a priest who saw the man and moved to the other side of the road –kept walking. And next a Levite passed by and saw the man and did the same.  Both have avoided contact with the victim who lies bleeding (possibly dying) beside the road.  Now, for me it is easy to see in these two men, a priest and a Levite (a descendent of Levi who assists in the temple), icons of some kind of hypocrisy. They are supposed to be holy men, Godly men, but instead we see them avoiding contact (even eye contact) with someone in need.  And usually, that is all the attention I give to these two sorry figures. But today, this parable opened my eyes in a new way—which is what a parable is supposed to do. First, I began to remember all the times I too avoided eye-contact with someone in need.  With the homeless man at the stoplight who was asking for money, or the needy neighbor who calls to ask for help with her sprinkler—sadly, I must admit there have been times I didn’t answer the phone because I knew it was her and I knew what she wanted, and I didn’t want to do it. Of course there were extenuating circumstances: I didn’t go out in the heat. I had just made myself a sandwich, or I just started watching a show or maybe I’d just poured myself a glass of milk and a plate of Oreos.

 

Anyway, I began wondering about these two, and their extenuating circumstances… What would make them behave this way? And I remembered there are some very strict cleanliness laws in the Torah about contact with the dead, and contact with blood. If the priest were on his way to temple, perhaps to serve at the altar and offer sacrifice, to religious intervene for all the people who had brought offerings, then stopping to help this victim on the road would make him unclean. He wouldn’t be able to fulfill his priestly duties –at least not until he’d gone through a ritual cleansing of his own, which could take seven days (cf. Lev. 19:11).  The same would go for the Levite as well. On top of that, there is a priestly warning in Leviticus 21:11 that says a priest should not profane himself by coming into the presence of a dead body, even for the sake of his mother or father. 

 

Read in this light, these might have seemed appropriate “extenuating circumstances” for the audience Jesus was speaking to, especially with this legal scholar standing there. And I have begun wondering whether those possible extenuating circumstances might be part of the lesson Jesus is teaching.  A lesson about what we are supposed to do, what the world expects of us, and about moving beyond that. Moving beyond the questions of what do I have to do to get my prize; to inherit the Kingdom? What is the minimum requirement to make sure I go to Heaven?  Teaching in parables, I think Jesus is calling us to see the very question of responsibility and reward in a new way.

 

And so we come to the “Good” Samaritan.  He doesn’t concern himself with what he is supposed to do, with what the world expects of him. He simply sees a fellow human in need and stops to offer help, to do what he can—even at his own inconvenience. 

 

That seems enough of a lesson right there. But, because I have my Bible open, I see another lesson that I have missed all along. My blindness keeps becoming more and more clear to me. Perhaps that is why I am writing a series of poems about a blind man… Anyway, back to the Gospel.  Here is one more thing to consider the next time you read this story:  Just before Jesus stops to teach this lesson, he and the disciples tried to pass through a Samaritan village, but the people there would not receive Him. They were upset that He was heading to Jerusalem (cf. 9:51-56). And so we have that context: the Samaritans who rejected Jesus and His disciples, and this Samaritan who has become an exemplar of hospitality and compassion. What does that mean to us? Why would Jesus tell this story in this context? And why make the “good” man a Samaritan?  So many wonderful rich questions. This passage just keeps opening up more deeply, more profoundly, with every reading.

 

I guess that is the real lesson. Don’t think you know the answers. Don’t think you know someone else’s story, their depths, their injuries and their dreams? Like these parables, each and every one of us is a mystery and a revelation. We are all walking contradictions, one moment selfish, the next a saint. One moment a fool, and the next –well, in my case, still a fool, but now a different kind of fool. 

 

I hope this makes some sense.  What I mean to say is this: every time someone asks for your help, they are offering you a blessing. They are sharing with you their God-given grace of “need.”  They are giving you the opportunity to be blessed by helping them, to receive the grace of laying down your life for another; setting aside your own wants and needs for the sake of another.

 

Perhaps the priest and the Levite miss out on that opportunity, because they were too focused on their responsibilities, on their “duties.”  Whereas the Samaritan is simply focused on the person right there in front of him, or next door, or knocking at his car window. He is simply being Christ for others by living in the moment, and receiving every opportunity to serve as a chance to find blessing.  We cannot do everything, but we can do something, instead of walking away.  And that is how the parable opened my eyes today.  How about you?  What is this famous Parable saying to you?

 

 

 

 

 

So Many Things --a Meditation on Advent, Busy-ness, and Luke 10

 

“Martha, Martha,” the Lord answered, “You worry
and fret about so many things and yet
few are needed, indeed only one…” 

--Luke 10:41-42

 

 

Martha and Mary—such a famous story; how often have we heard this tale of these two friends of our Lord?  How often have we listened to that famous plea from Martha:  Lord, do you not care that my sister is leaving me to do the serving all by myself? (cf 10:40) And how often have we felt a tinge of sympathy for her plea?  It is such a human cry for help, for recognition, for affirmation.

 

And I hear it echoing in my own heart here at the start of another Advent.  I hear myself crying out incessantly: I have so much to do. How can I get it all done? Work! Chores! Laundry, dishes… Christmas lights to put up! Decorations to dig out of the garage or the attic! Where did we put that wreath? How about the Christmas pug? Did anyone remember to order groceries this week? What’s on Hallmark tonight?  

 

There is so much that wants to get done, that I want to get done.  And the tension of it, the constant busy-ness of it, can lead me away from the one thing needed—to rest in the Lord. 

 

All my life, I have felt a strong sympathy for Martha.  I hear in her plea a cry that echoes in my own.  It is a cry for fairness, for justice!  And it is a cry for recognition. A desperate cry to be noticed—Lord, Lord! Look at me.  See everything I am doing!  See me.  And I know this plea to well.

 

How often have I bitterly cried out to God as I cleaned the cat litter, or fed the cats, or turned on the bathtub so one of them could drink from the spout, or… And how many times have I resentfully folded the laundry? Or bitterly washed a pile of dishes?  Standing there at the sink feeling unappreciated. Unnoticed. Taken for granted.  Feeling like Martha, my soul crying out:  Lord, Lord! Look at me. Don’t You care? I’m overwhelmed! I’m trying to do everything, and nobody seems to notice!

 

And yet, what does Jesus say to her. Not that her work is unappreciated, or unworthy, but…that she has lost he focus.  She is fretting and anxious over many things, but there is only one thing necessary. Only one thing, needed.  And, I am pretty sure, it isn’t the laundry, or the dishes, or the cats… 

 

Just before this story of Martha and Mary, there is another story about a man who is anxious over many things.  He is the lawyer who asks Jesus what he needs to do to inherit eternal life (10:25ff).  Even when Jesus tells him that he is headed in the right direction, the man can’t rest in peace. He presses the Lord with that famous question: “And who is my neighbor?” (10:29) which prompts the Lord to tell one of His most famous parables—the story of the Good Samaritan (10:30ff). As I was reading this story the other day, I had a strange sense of kinship with the Levite and the priest who simply pass by the Samaritan.  I began to suspect that they weren’t just being cruel and selfish, but that perhaps they were distracted. Maybe the Levite was on his way to HEB to pick up new fuses for the Christmas lights, or the priest was on his way to get cat litter and some worms for his daughter’s turtles!  Maybe they were afraid to stop because they had so many other things they were tying to do… And, perhaps one of the lessons Jesus is teaching us here is the same one He is teaching us in the Martha story.  Don’t get lost in all that busy-ness. Don’t let yourself lose focus.  There really is only thing that matters.  And that is Love.  Act out of love, not out of a desire to be seen, not out of a desire to be affirmed, or to be justified. Not out of guilt or out of bitterness and resentment.  Like St. Therese of Lisieux reminds us, let Love guide your every action, let Love be your focus, because Love is the one thing needed. Whatever you are doing, do it with Love and you will find yourself fulfilled. In fact, the beautiful truth of Jesus is, wherever you turn, whatever you do, you will find Him already there, waiting for you, searching for you, wanting only to let you know you are Loved.  Even in that basket of laundry. Even in that sink of dishes.  Don’t be blinded by the distractions of the many unnecessary things; open your eyes and see the truth of the one thing needed. It is Love, and as the Beatles once sang, All you need is Love.

The Good Samaritan & the Christmas Card

“A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and fell among robbers, and they stripped him 

and beat him, and went away leaving him half dead.  And by chance a priest was going down on 

that road, and when he saw him, he passed by on the other side. Likewise a Levite also, when he came 

to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side. But a Samaritan, who was on a journey, 

came upon him; and when he saw him, he felt compassion, and came to him and bandaged up his 

wounds, pouring oil and wine on them; and he put him on his own beast, and brought him to an inn 

and took care of him. On the next day he took out two denarii and gave them to the innkeeper and 

said, ‘Take care of him; and whatever more you spend, when I return I will repay you.’

--Luke 10:30-35

(This is a passage from a book I am writing. Fr. Leo is an elderly priest at a small inner-city parish.  And he is on the edge of retirement and some of his parishioners whisper that maybe he should have already retired many years ago. But, he carries on quietly and tenderly and awkwardly loving his flock and trying his best to serve them. He is a minor character in the book, but I was having fun with this homily and wanted to share it. I think it fits in with my meditations so far.)

      Fr. Leo closed the gospel and looked at the red leathered cover with the gold embossing. He touched it; lingered his fingers in the indentation of the cross. Perhaps he should shut up, he thought. Looking at the pews he nodded to himself: Yes. Perhaps I should. He sighed, and began to step away from the ambo. But something occurred to him. And he felt a need to just say this one thing. So, he paused in his reticent retreat and turned back. Opening the Gospel again, he smiled—embarrassed. “I thought about not speaking this morning. The Gospel; the parable itself saying so much. What could I add? Why should I try? But… like most priests, I guess I like to muddy the waters.” He laughed.

Margaret smiled politely. Henry nodded and smiled. There were a few polite snickers.

“Nevertheless, I had to say this, because it’s July and the other day I was thinking about Christmas. Like that old Preston Sturges movie: Christmas in July. I think it starred Dick Powell. And who was the woman? I can’t remember. But I remember Powell. I remember him more from the radio. He played Richard Diamond on the radio: the crooning detective. Oh, the memories that can come haunt you. Don’t you know. And they do. As you get older. Right Margaret? I mean, not that you’re old. Oh dear. Never. Oh dear. I didn’t. Anyway. Anyway. I was thinking about Christmas. In July. Isn’t that strange? It sounds strange. To me, at least. But it all started because I found an old flyer on the side of my refrigerator. For the Knights of Columbus; the Friday Fish Fry. During Lent. I was having lunch in the rectory and while my tomato soup was warming up I thought I would clear off some of the old paperwork taped to the refrigerator. So full. Oh, you wouldn’t believe.” He glanced around the church with a sly smile on his lips. “Of course, none of you know what I’m talking about. Right? You don’t have old notes and flyers and artwork taped to your refrigerator? Do you?”

He smiled and waited.

“Of course not. That’s just us old guys.” He glanced at Margaret, but judging by the look in her eyes he realized he should exempt her from any further references. “Well… So, here it is the middle of summer and I am just now removing the Lenten Fish Fry notice off the refrigerator. But, if you think that’s bad, let me tell you. This is the bad part. Beneath the flyer there was a Christmas card. I guess I forgot about it or I was saving it. Who knows. I’m old.” He laughed. No one else did. Except a polite chuckle from the back. Shaking his head, Father began again:

“Feeling a little foolish, I took it off. It was one of those –you know—one of those inexpensive cards. Not even a Hallmark. But I like Christmas cards. I always have. Even the cheap ones. I like the pictures. I like the sentiments. I guess I’m a sentimental kind of guy. Right?”

He shrugged his shoulders and smiled shyly. “The way my voice is always breaking and I’m always tearing up. You know. You’ve seen it. Sometimes it just comes over me and even I think: Oh dear. Here you go again… you old fool!” He took out a handkerchief. “I’m just going to blow my nose. Allergies. I guess…” He blew his nose with a muffled snort into the cloth and then refolded it and put it back into his pocket.

“So… this card. I don’t want to say it was a cheap card. In case someone is here who sent it. But, I will say it was a budget card. Nothing fancy at all. The front of it was a manger scene with the Joseph and Mary and the baby and a cow and a… maybe a sheep and a star. Mostly blue. Night sky and the glow coming from the baby. You know. Very standard. Very sentimental, I guess. The kind of thing that normally appeals to me. So at first I thought that maybe I just kept the card because I liked it. There was that manger and the straw and Mary and Joseph and that little baby with His hands reaching out. I looked at the picture for a moment, and I thought about Christmas and I thought about that stack of thank you notes I still haven’t written. I think I have until November to send them. Right? Anyway, after looking at the card I dropped it into the recycle bin. But, you know how that goes: after a minute, I had to pick it back up and find out who it was from. Why had I saved it? Maybe it was something important. A special note or something. Sentimental. Maybe.” Again he laughed. Alone. “It was from the Pilgrim Cleaners on Washington. I’ve been taking my suits there for over ten years. So… I don’t know. Maybe it was sentimental.” A few people laughed at that. He smiled and shrugged his shoulders tentatively.

“But, here’s the thing. I’d been thinking about this reading. Preparing for it. The Good Samaritan. And thinking about the –I don’t know—the traditional way of reading it. The way we are used to thinking about it. Augustine. The allegorical reading we all know.” He adjusted his glasses and squinted. Looked down at the opened Gospel on the ambo, then coughed.

“Dear me. Some of you may even be saying to yourself –what’s an allegorical reading. But even if you don’t remember what an allegory is, you know it. Everybody has heard someone preach it. And because it is such a familiar story and such a familiar understanding of the story, we don’t really pay attention anymore. It’s like the power of the parable to challenge us has been tamed. If we can wrap it all up with a bow, like a Christmas fruit cake or something, then there’s nothing in it to challenge us any longer, because –like that Christmas card –it’s become kind of a cliché. Think about it. This parable, how many times have you heard it?”

He paused to let people think for a moment. “Yes. Yes. We know it so well, we are so familiar with it; we don’t really hear it anymore. It’s become safe and settled; like a mathematical equation. This equals this. The Samaritan equals God. The wounded man represents our sinful states. The Levite and the judge equal the religious authorities and the law –or the government. Neither one seems to do very well, I might point out. The donkey becomes the incarnation –the fleshly presence of God in the form of Jesus Christ. The Inn is the Church where sinful man comes to be refreshed and healed with oil and wine –which are the sacraments. You see… It’s all very simple. It’s all very mathematical. Not that I would know anything about math. Right? You should see my check book. Or the parish accounts… No. No. Just joking. Please. Don’t write the Bishop.” 

He laughed. A few polite responses came from the pews.

“But here is what I am trying to say. Here is what I meant to say and then I will sit down and shut up. I took that sentimental card out of the recycling and looked at it, without really thinking about it. It was just your normal, standard baby Jesus and manger with Mary and Joseph there smiling and looking like they just came from the beauty salon. They are gazing down on their new baby with awe and joy. Lots of radiance and glowing and just a hint of a breeze in their freshly washed hair and their perfectly clean robes and scarves. Even the shepherd and the sheep look like they just stepped out of a spa or something. Very Hollywood looking. And I was about to throw it away again when something caught my eye. The naked hand of the baby Jesus reaching out of the manger to His blessed Mother, and for some reason that hand struck me. Even after I put the card back in the trash, I thought about that naked hand and how vulnerable and helpless it was. How helpless and naked and vulnerable all babies are. They need to be cared for –completely. And I thought of Mary and Joseph there, watching over Him. Not the Hallmark card versions or the Hollywood versions, but the real ones. Mary and Joseph. Taking care of Him. Changing His diapers and kissing his boo boos. And thinking about that, thinking about all of that, I started to realize something. I realized something strange that had never occurred to me before; every time we hear this story, you know who we are called to be like: the Samaritan. Right? And yet who did Jesus become? He became the wounded man, naked and helpless and alone in the world. That’s how he came to us. He came to us as that little baby in the manger. He came to us helpless and naked and in need of someone to pick Him up, someone to give Him shelter and to give Him love. Do you see it? Think about that. What does that mean to you personally? What does this parable say to you now? For me, what I learned was that sometimes the gift we bring is our strength and sometimes our gift is our weakness. Sometimes the best gift we have to offer is our weakness, our vulnerability. Our need for help. Because your weakness is a chance for me to step away from my Shredded Wheat and coffee and help you. It’s a chance for me to become the saint God made me to be. So, don’t be afraid to be weak. Don’t be afraid to be vulnerable. Don’t be afraid to ask for help. Jesus was weak. Jesus was vulnerable. He even cried out from the cross. The next time you are feeling weak and vulnerable, remember: that may be how God is calling you to become more like Christ. And it could be that God is using your weakness to plant seeds and grow saints in the people around you.

See… that parable isn’t so simple after all, is it. The next time you hear one of these old familiar stories, don’t just nod your head and think: Oh, I know that one. I’ve already heard that one. No. No. No. Ask yourself: what is God trying to say to me, right here, right now? What is God speaking to me? Maybe He’s asking you to be the Samaritan and help someone who is wounded and hurt and needs your care. Or maybe God is asking you to be the vulnerable one who needs help. Maybe He’s asking you to be carry the cross, or maybe God is asking you to be an opportunity for someone else to carry His cross; And maybe God is telling you that to become like Christ, to become Christ for others… all that is being asked is that you become like that man on the road to Jerusalem or like that baby in that manger on that card: weak and vulnerable, in need of help –naked to the world. Reach out your hand in need and see what happens. You know. Even if no one helps you, you don’t know. You won’t know. You can’t know how much you may have helped them. Maybe even the memory of seeing you so vulnerable, so willing to ask for help… That simple memory may haunt them –in a good way. And maybe that’s how God planted His seed in their heart. Memories. Christmas cards. And weakness. I don’t know. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. I don’t know. That’s all."