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10

THE GOOD SAMARITAN

'Let us set ourselves to know Yahweh;
that he will come is as certain as the dawn,
he will come to us as showers come,
like spring rains watering the earth'.
Hosea 6:3

   The prophet Hosea here affirms what we have been saying. Our God is one who comes to us. He comes to us just as we are, because we belong to him and he knows we need him. His coming is always very gentle because he knows we are fragile. He comes like spring rain to make us fruitful. He comes to help us discover our own true selves. It is this very precious self that he visits.

  I do not have to change and become someone else to receive him and experience his nourishing love. Isaiah reflects on this when he says:

'Let the wilderness and the dry lands exult,
let the wasteland rejoice and bloom,
let it bring forth flowers like the jonquil,
let it rejoice and sing for joy.'
Isaiah 35:1-2

  Notice that it is the very wasteland, the very desert that will bloom: The Lord does not say: ‘You must move house, you must move elsewhere so that we can make a beautiful garden.’ No! He says: ‘Let us work on this apparent wasteland, the desert of your poor dry heart.’ To this dry heart he sends the refreshing spring rain of his love. There he sees the seeds, waiting for his gentle touch. This desert place will be covered with waving, golden daffodils.

  It does not mean that God ignores the sin and evil in me, but that he can reveal himself to me without making me feel crushed with shame and guilt. Again the touch is gentle. He sees these sins as wounds needing healing. Hosea says: 'He will heal us; he will bandage our wounds’ (Hosea 6:2). Our sin and failure lose their sting and poison as he bends over us to pour in oil and balm and bandage the wounds. When he was accused by self-righteous men of taking sin too lightly, Jesus defended himself by saying: ‘It is not those who are well who need the doctor, but the sick’ (Luke 5:32). He has come to bandage our wounds. This coming is always gentle, always healing. Its fruit is peace. A lovely verse from an anonymous fifteenth-century poet tells us how we will recognise the presence of the Lord:

'Thou shalt know him when he comes
Not by any din of drums
Nor by the vantage of his airs
Nor by anything he wears
Neither by his crown
Nor his gown.
For his presence known shall be
By the holy harmony
That his coming makes in thee.'

  It is the sick who need the doctor. it is the hurt and wounded traveller by the roadside who needs a good Samaritan. Jesus himself is the first Good Samaritan. The point about the story of the Good Samaritan is that it does not follow reason or logic. In the story the unfortunate victim who had been mugged and robbed was a Jew. As he lay there helpless, he could reasonably have hoped for help from the first two people to come along. They were fellow Jews and professional religious, people who had reason to help. But they passed by. Then came a Samaritan, the one who had best reason for passing by. The fierce enmity between Jew and Samaritan was known to all. At the end of the story, when Jesus asks his questioner, a Jewish lawyer, which of the three was the neighbour, the lawyer will not even say the word ‘Samaritan’. He answers, ‘The one who took pity on him’ (Luke 10:37). In the story then, contrary to all reason, it is the Samaritan who helps. The truth is that we are talking here about something more elevated than reason. The Samaritan helps the wounded Jew not because it is the reasonable thing to do, but because it is the loving thing to do. He is moved not by reason, but by pity. ‘But a Samaritan traveller who came upon him was moved with compassion when he saw him. He went up and bandaged his wounds, pouring oil and wine on them’ (Luke 10:33-34).

  On one occasion, the enemies of Jesus, wishing to insult him, called him a madman, a Samaritan (John 8:48). Little did they know how close they were to the truth. For Jesus is the original Good Samaritan. he saw us lying by the wayside of life, attacked and wounded by fear, guilt, sin, doubt and self-hatred. We lay bleeding, powerless, with no one to help us. He saw self-righteous people hurry by, busy about so-called religious duties. And he was moved to pity and came and knelt right down there on the road beside us. He poured the soothing balm of love over our wound, bandaged us, lifted us up and carried us to a safe place and paid for our upkeep and further healing. He paid not a few coins but his own precious blood. You see, our sufferings have the power to move our God to compassion, as the suffering of the prodigal son moved first the father’s heart and then the whole person. And remember that the young lad brought his sufferings on himself. The Good Samaritan reminds us of the Good Shepherd. He goes out into dangerous wild places after a silly stray sheep. When he finds it, there is no scolding, kicking or beating. He takes it joyfully on his shoulders and carries it to safety. Our ‘reasonable’ charity does not cover this kind of behaviour. God acts out of love and love has no limits, no rules.

  We find the very same gentleness and healing love in Jesus after the Resurrection. See him again, the Good Samaritan on the road to Emmaus, as he joins two very hurt disciples. These two men are wounded by disappointment, by shame, by fear. Jesus joins them on the way. He need not have done so. He walks at their pace. He asks why they are so sad. Gently he opens their eyes to the wonder of all that had happened. How did these two men describe their experience? They said, ‘Did not our hearts burn within us as he talked to us on the road?’ (Luke 24:32). God is so extravagant we are almost shocked! Indeed we have always had religious people who seem to feel it is their duty to keep God’s generosity within reasonable bounds! Karl Rahner has an apt comment on this. He writes, ‘Some theologians seem to think that grace would not be grace if God was too liberal with it.’

  Maybe one subtle reason why we are almost shocked by the extravagance of God’s love is that deep within us we know we are called to be like him in whose image and likeness we are created. The prophet says, ‘Be holy, for I, Yahweh, your God, am holy’ (Leviticus 19:2). And Jesus tells us to be like out heavenly Father. These words seem to propose an impossible ideal. Yet, if we explore them, we will find in these very words a gleam of hope that what we are called to is not impossible but is our very deepest fulfilment. Notice that God does not put his invitation to holiness in the context of reward and punishment. He does not say, ‘Be holy, be like your father and, if you are, I will reward you, but if you are not, I will punish you.’ He says something quite different. He says, ‘Be holy, for I, your God, am holy.’ ‘Be like your Father.’ The primary communication here is ‘Remember who you are, you belong to me. I am your God. I am your Father. You are part of the family. You have received the Holy Spirit of our family. You can be holy.’

  And the first-born in our family, Jesus Christ, shows us that it is possible. Often not easy, but possible. And, even more, as we have said, he offers us power to live and love like him. It is possible if we live and abide in the love of that Saviour.

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