It wasn’t the first time someone had asked the question. It wouldn’t be the last. It may, however, be the final time someone had the nerve to lace the words with this specific undertone. False humility with a heavy side of superiority. “What do I need to do on earth to receive eternal life in death?” It was obviously a test. An attempt to measure Jesus’ knowledge and agreement with their law. A way to determine if His teaching matched their beliefs. The answer was critical. Steadily holding the man’s gaze above the heads of those seated between them, Jesus responded with a question of his own. One, the man should have no problem answering, given his educational status. What did the law say they should do? What was his personal interpretation? Without pause, the man offered up the answer every self-respecting religious person would, “Love God with every part of your being. Love your neighbor as you love yourself.”
As answers go, he couldn’t have been more accurate. According to the law and according to Jesus. But he had a follow-up question. One that wasn’t specifically covered in the law handed down through Moses. “Who, exactly, is my neighbor?” Who do I need to love well? Who must I care for? To whom am I obligated to offer compassion and understanding? The people next door? Everyone on my street? Those of the same lineage? The right heritage? The Jews? The Gentiles? Please, Jesus, don’t make it those other people whose name shall remain unspoken? Arrogance and superiority faded as the man stood, expectantly waiting for his answer. And Jesus, overlooking his impatience, launched into a story.
One day, a man was travelling from Jerusalem to Judea. He knew the route before he left. The path as well as the surrounding terrain. He knew the danger. Having weighed the options, he chose the path for its expediency, not its safety. He had taken every precaution. Carefully, he packed his things. Secreted his valuables in hidden pockets of his robe. Tied his money belt securely under his outer garment. From the outside, he looked like an ordinary man headed on an ordinary trip. Inside, he knew the possible dangers ahead. Blind curves hide bands of brutal robbers. Steep drops, thick brush, sharp rocks. All things that made hiding a body easy. If they even cared. The robbers lacked any form of moral fiber, stopping at nothing to steal from those making an honest living rather than work honestly themselves. They had no mercy. They would steal no matter the cost. One’s life was never more important than their potential loot. And there were few, if any, ramifications for their behavior. Still, knowing the road between the two cities was strictly traveled at one’s own risk, the man chose that treacherous path.
Not far into his journey, all the man’s fears were recognized. Rounding a particularly steep, hairpin curve, he was attacked by a band of thieves. The odds were against him. He didn’t stand a chance. Desperately searching for everything of value hidden on his person, the robbers yanked off his robe, jerked off his money belt, searched every possible fold of fabric for hidden treasure. Then, rather than just make off with the loot, they took the time to beat him. Severely. Grabbing his arms, one man held him powerless as the others landed blow after relentless blow. Pain ricocheted through him as his nose was broken. His lip split and swelled. Both eyes were blackened. Cuts and bruises covered his body. Blood ran down his face and chest. When finally he drifted from consciousness, the robbers tossed his limp body into a ditch by the side of the road and gleefully made off with their ill-gotten gains.
He would have died there, despite the procession of passersby. Although largely unconscious, his intense fear prohibited him from crying out even in his lucid moments. Not everyone noticed him there. Some were walking on the other side of the road and missed him. Some were deep in conversation with their traveling companions. Others were simply too grossed out to help. They came, looked at his broken self, and walked away. Like the priest. He was aghast at the sight. He could barely drag his eyes away. It was disgusting. Disturbing. Distracting. Not knowing if the man was dead or alive, he didn’t even stop to check. Didn’t speak to him. Didn’t touch him. Quickly, he decided it wasn’t his responsibility. He was a priest, after all. He couldn’t risk touching a dead body. Averting his eyes from the horrible sight, he scurried to the opposite side of the road and continued his journey. The Levite who came along after him did the same thing. Maybe for the same reasons. Maybe for different ones. Maybe he wasn’t sure if the man was a Jew or not. Maybe he wasn’t certain it wasn’t one of the robbers who had gotten his due after double-crossing his mates. Maybe, staring into the possibility of his fate being the same and overcome by the reality of his own mortality, the Levite’s fear overcame him and he, too, crossed the road and hurried on his way.
Time passed. Perhaps minutes. Maybe hours. Enough that the wounded man’s injuries severely impacted his chances of survival. His breathing had become erratic. The few waking seconds had revealed pain so intense that he welcomed the return of the enveloping darkness. Nearing the crossing between this life and the next, the dying man didn’t hear the clip-clop hooves of an approaching donkey. He didn’t see the man walking along the road. Didn’t notice his clothes, his wealth, his social status. He didn’t even try to open his eyes. Not as the man stopped to check on him. Not when he pulled out his first aid kit and began washing and dressing his wounds. Not as he was carefully lifted, wrapped in the man’s own cloak, loaded on his donkey, and hauled into town. Approaching the nearest inn, his savior booked a room and spent the night nursing him to stability. The physical wounds would take a few weeks to heal. The mental scars would take longer. That was okay. He didn’t need to go anywhere. The man who stopped to save his life had to leave, but he could stay. For as long as he needed. His bill was covered. By a Samaritan. (Luke 10:25-37)
It would have been quite a shock for a Jewish man to discover his savior was a Samaritan. No one was more repulsive. There was an unwritten no-contact order between them. If the tables were turned, it is unlikely the currently convalescing man would have stopped to help the other. But that was then. That was before. Before the man had experienced the love of a neighbor, the way it was meant to be. Love that treated him not only how the Samaritan would want to be treated, but how the Samaritan himself had experienced love.
For as long as I can remember, this parable has been used to encourage us to treat others the way we want to be treated. That may not be incorrect. But recently, I have begun to wonder if we have missed something. Lost something in translation. Have we focused so much on “loving your neighbor as you love yourself,” that we missed the real meaning of the words? Is it possible, probable even, that Jesus’ actual words meant, “Love others the way you have been loved?” By God. With exquisite tenderness, unending kindness, unfathomable grace. Look on one another with eyes of compassion. See yourself in the injured and infirm, those on the fringes of society, the lost souls, the least respected, the frequently rejected. Feel their pain and, rather than judge from a distance and excuse yourself from rendering aid, respond with the same love, compassion, and care you have received. From God. Because loving your neighbor isn’t about how much you love yourself. It’s about how much you have been loved. And that is abundant. Because you were once that half-dead traveler. (John 13:34)
At one point or another, you were cautiously picking your way through life, hoping to make the right decisions, seeking to further yourself, your ambitions, your hopes, your dreams. You were the one set upon by the thief who comes to steal and kill and destroy. Your hope. Your dreams. Your joy. You found yourself spiritually broken and left for dead by the side of life’s road. You were not pretty. There was nothing about you that would draw anyone to your side. In fact, plenty of people saw your fall from grace and chose to pass by, forming judgments, spouting opinions, doing more damage to your already bruised and battered heart. You didn’t believe help would come. Then Jesus showed up. Maybe you didn’t recognize Him at first. Didn’t hear the dulcet tone of His voice as He called you His beloved. Maybe you were afraid to trust His words because your love for yourself was non-existent. You hated what you had become. Maybe you were scared to put yourself in His care, worried that He would require more than you had to give. Which was nothing. You had nothing left. No strength. No courage. No faith. Yet, in the back of your mind, you knew there was no other way you were getting out of that ditch. So you made a choice. (John 10:10; Song of Solomon 6:3)
Looking into eyes brimming with compassion, you tentatively placed your hand in His outstretched one. As your fingers touched, you looked down and noticed something. His hand was scarred, too. In that moment, you knew. He had been where you were. Bruised and beaten, slaughtered by the best efforts of the devil to triumph over the souls of mankind, but He hadn’t let hell win. He’d triumphed. Overall of it. Death. Grave. Hell. The steadfast, unmovable, faithful love of the Father had carried Him. The same love now flows through Him and over you. Not because of who you were or what you had done, but because Jesus loved you with the same love He had known. The love of God that transcends our circumstances, our situations, our sins. Love that offers us life when the enemy thinks he has sealed our death. Love of God spread so heavily in our hearts that it flows out of us and onto the people we meet. Everyone. Everywhere. They are all our neighbors. Each one deserves to experience the love of God we ourselves have known. And it should come through us. (Romans 5:5; Psalm 103:1-22)
It hasn’t happened. Not everyone knows this love. That’s our fault. We haven’t loved others the way we have been loved. Not our friends. Not our enemies. Not our neighbors. We haven’t loved unconditionally. When people meet our standards and expectations. When they don’t. When we understand them. When we don’t. When they are struggling, striving, seeking, sobbing. When they are soaring. We haven’t silently sat in the suffering of others. We haven’t cared for their grief, wiped their tears, held their hand. We haven’t truly loved. Real, true, genuine love is gentle, tender, compassionate, kind. It holds our hearts in careful hands, offering courage and strength, help and hope. It is not judgmental. It is firm and honest, but never harsh. It is everything we read in I Corinthians 13, but fail to embody in everyday life. It is how we should treat every person we meet. With the same love God has loved us. (I Corinthians 13:4-8; Colossians 4:6; Ephesians 4:32; Romans 12:15; Luke 6:37)
In a world where we judge quickly and condemn harshly, we need to go back and sit in God’s love for us. Silently. Soak it in. Stare at our wretched attitudes, unworthy performances, and ridiculous arrogance and admit how unlovable we are, then revel in the exquisite tenderness with which God loves us still. We need to sit in that space for as long as it takes. Until we feel it in every part of our being. Then go share it. Actively look for opportunities to exhibit the love of God in human form, in ways that truly count. Be present. Sit in the space of mourning with them. Mourning sin. Mourning loss. Give comfort. Render aid. Speak words of compassion. Do acts of service. Help with housework, cooking, or childcare when unexpected illness strikes. Confidently pray God’s peace into the turmoil of their lives. Be available. No matter how far their fall from grace, how desperate their situation, how dark their circumstances. Sit in the ditch beside them. Gently clean their wounds. Kindly bandage the injuries inflicted on their hearts by the evil one. Constantly bathe their souls in the love of God with which you are so intimately acquainted. Be the love of God shining throughout the world. Indiscriminately. Continually. To everyone. Everywhere. No matter their age, race, religion, political affiliation, or sexual orientation. Allow the love of God that flows to every human being without discrimination, multiply and fill your heart so greatly that it overflows to every soul around you. Impact the world for Jesus by compassionately choosing to obediently love others, all others, as God has loved you. (Colossians 2:13; I Timothy 4:12; Romans 5:8; I John 4:7-8; John 4:19)
A BIG AMEN on that!!!!!