2nd Wednesday in Lent 2014
Luke 10:25-37
Friends in Christ, grace to you and peace, from God our Father, and our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.
Amen.
“And who is my neighbor.”
A certain man was traveling from Jerusalem to Jericho. We don’t know his name. We don’t know the
purpose of his trip. We don’t know if he lived in one or the other of those cities. We don’t know
anything about him, except that he was traveling from Jerusalem down to Jericho. And the trip did not
go at all as planned.
The road from Jerusalem to Jericho was known as a dangerous road. The man was taking a risk in
traveling that road alone. He was playing with the odds. I wonder if he gave a second thought to his
decision, if he worried about the trip. Or if, more likely, he, like all of us, assumed that bad things
happen to other people. Perhaps he had heard reports of people being attacked along the road. Maybe
he had even told others to be careful when traveling that route. But, still, he traveled the road, ignoring
the danger.
It’s not difficult to imagine that decision. We engage in risky behavior all the time, while warning
others not to. Talking on cell phones while driving. Smoking. Eating too much. Not getting enough
exercise. Climbing into grain bins. Speeding. Every single day we engage in at least one behavior that
we know, for a fact, without a doubt, is harmful to us. Consciously or unconsciously we weigh out the
odds and decide it’s worth it.
Like our unnamed man we say, “I know there are risks, but I really need to get to Jericho today.” We
conclude that the goal we have in mind takes priority over any concerns we might have. Maybe it’s
because the benefit really does outweigh the potential cost. Maybe it’s because the odds actually are in
our favor. Maybe it’s because our goal is so important to us that we don’t care about the risks. Or
maybe, it’s because we think we’re untouchable. We think that the things that happen to other people
every single day will never happen to us.
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And then one day it does. One day we become another crime statistic on the Jericho road. We discover
that we are not untouchable, as we become another person touched by sorrow, tragedy, darkness. We
fall among robbers. Life beats us up. Something comes along and derails everything. All of our plans,
all of our expectations, all of our assumptions lay in a crumpled mess by the side of the road.
And then what? Our man from the parable doesn’t say a word in this entire story. Everything just
happens to him. He is always on the receiving end – of violence, of exclusion, and, finally, of mercy.
He just lays there. We don’t know if he defended himself. We don’t know if he tried to reason or
bargain with the robbers. We don’t know if he cried out for help from the priest, the Levite, or the
Samaritan. He was just there, crushed by the violence that had come down upon him.
That, too, mirrors our experience. When darkness does come to us, does touch us, how often does it
completely paralyze us? How often do we find ourselves at a loss for words? How often are we too
crushed down to even ask for help? This is the second assault. The one that says, “I shouldn’t have
gone out on this road.” “I knew I should have quit smoking.” “I didn’t need to send that text.” This is
the voice that says, “Maybe what I was wearing gave my attacker the wrong idea.” “I brought this all
on myself.” It’s the relentless, accusing voice that says, “Other people have experienced worse and
they’re doing fine.” “Maybe if I just stay very still for a while these wounds will heal themselves and I
won’t ned to ask anyone for help.” Or, the more dangerous and seductive voice that says, “Just give up.
Just let go of this life that is so filled with darkness. It will feel better to just give up.”
These voices scream in our heads, taking from us the voice to seek the help we most desperately need.
They keep us lying in the ditch, stuck in the darkest of valleys. We have no words to cry out to those
who pass by. We have no will to beg for the help we desperately need.
It’s in this midst of this experience of darkness that we come to know what it means to rely entirely on
another. Not only do we need help. We need someone who will help us without our asking for it. We
need someone who can see the depth of our need and change our circumstances.
When that pit we are in is actual death, there is only one who can rescue us. There is only one who can
bring us out. Christ Jesus himself. When we lose ourselves in that darkness he will come to us directly,
with his unfailing light.
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But the many small pits we fall into before that, the many thieves and robbers we encounter in life
before the great thief that is death, for these other pits Jesus sends his people. He sends his church, his
chosen ones, his beloved and redeemed people, to bear his light into the dark corners of this world.
“And who is my neighbor?”
Who has been beaten down by life? Who is lying in the ditch, unable to call for help? Who needs the
gifts you can bring? There is no shortage of candidates. The landscape is pocked with the pits that have
swallowed up God’s people. But if we don’t happen to be in a pit, it is quite easy to overlook them. It
is quite easy to look out across the landscape and see only wide open spaces, to see only what we want
to see.
But when we’re in the pit, when we are shrouded in darkness, when we are on the brink of despair,
then we know the great power and light, the great comfort from God himself, that comes in the form of
a kind word, a thoughtful gesture, a timely phone call, a dinner invitation, a ride to the hospital, a tank
of gas, a hot meal. When we’ve been beaten down by life, we know what a gift it is when someone
offers a hand in a way we couldn’t even think to ask for. And, perhaps, we have some inkling of what
it feels like when no help comes, or when it seems unnecessarily delayed.
Who is down there in the ditch, desperate for your help, but unable to ask? What do you have to offer
them? What gifts have you been given that might be put to use on their behalf? And who has been
there for you when you’ve been in that ditch? Do they have any idea what they’ve meant to you? If
they don’t, why not?
May the peace of God, which passes all understanding, keep your hearts and your minds in Christ
Jesus, our Lord. Amen.
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