We Are Not Good Samaritans.

Luke 10:29-37

But [the expert on the law] wanted to justify himself, so he asked Jesus, 

‘And who is my neighbor?’

In reply Jesus said: ‘A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, when he was attacked by robbers. They stripped him of his clothes, beat him and went away, leaving him half-dead.  A priest happened to be going down the same road, and when he saw the man, he passed by on the other side.  So too, a Levite, when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side.  But a Samaritan, as he travelled, came where the man was; and when he saw him, he took pity on him. He went to him and bandaged his wounds, pouring on oil and wine. Then he put the man on his own donkey, brought him to an inn and took care of him. The next day he took out two denarii and gave them to the innkeeper. “Look after him,” he said, “and when I return, I will reimburse you for any extra expense you may have.” 

‘Which of these three do you think was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of robbers?’

The expert in the law replied, ‘The one who had mercy on him.’

Jesus told him, ‘Go and do likewise.’

I was walking home from the hospital this afternoon after visiting a friend there.  This man has been part of our Catholic Worker community for many years. Over the years he had lived in the house when he was ready to give up some harder living, other times it was the greenhouse when we left it unlocked, on the porch when we didn’t have the heart to make him leave, and on the couch when it was cold. But a few years ago we saw that he was getting too old for all that, so he moved into room 1.  In his 80’s, he comes from a different era, a different language, a different culture. Add to that some memory loss and dementia.  We regularly find socks in the refrigerator and plates of food in the dresser.  In the last few years we have had to muddle through how we honor his independence and his choices, and also care for a person who is aging.  Earlier this week he had a small stroke. The hospital social worker was so appreciative; she emphasized how lucky he is that we are here. Walking home, I started to wonder why this kind of appreciation can feel nice, but always seems to miss the point somehow.  It got me thinking about the good samaritan. 

We all know this one, and Jesus’s direct question really sticks with us: Who is this man’s neighbor? Our eyes rest on the Samaritan whose name has become synonymous with compassion for people in need.  Some other important teachings can get a little lost in the shuffle, but we know they are there in the story—Like: remember that our concern for what is socially acceptable can blind us to what is God’s love is really about; and: Don’t be surprised when the person we assume is the enemy is also on the inside of God’s community. This is essential stuff.  But I am grateful that these stories continue to reveal a depth and richness as we carry them around, embody them, and hold them up in different kinds of light. None of these other layers of meaning are lost in asking a different question that occurred to me as I walked: What about this innkeeper?

Until today, this figure had totally escaped my notice, even though his role is much closer to home for me.  He is just there, before and after this parable unfolds. The innkeeper takes the injured man without knowing whether the Samaritan will fulfill his promise of continued support.  Two days wages, more or less, is a kindness and a help, but who knows whether it will be enough? Nothing in the text says how much of this innkeeper’s time might be needed now, away from what else he planned to do that day (or, in my experience, what often turns out to be that week or much more). Maybe he also wonders whether what he can offer is adequate for the task.  

This story holds up for us a Samaritan who has made a choice that defies cultural boundaries, who has shown unexpected compassion and generosity, and who brings the injured man to a place where he trusts that compassion can be lived out.  But the story’s unexpected second gift for me is this innkeeper: the person who will have a day-to-day relationship that will change how he spends his time—who probably has to figure out how to change the bandages without touching a tender place; how to help him change clothes with dignity intact; how to spend time in the same space, sometimes in some boredom or awkwardness, with a person he doesn’t really know—a messy, intimate, and perspective-altering experience. If his inn is anything like ours, he will discover his own impatience, his own failings, but maybe also friendship, and a deep mysterious joy.  

It can’t be accidental that our culture has looked away from the full power of Jesus’s inclusive teaching. This story undoes our assumptions about who is capable of goodness—something we need more than ever. It is place we have applied a less demanding, but roughly Samaritan-shaped template of how we relate to people in need. We’d like to be able to take them somewhere so we can go on our way. We ponder where and how to begin the picking up, and even this interruption of our day is daunting and uncomfortable. What would it mean to pour our own wine and oil on the outsider’s wounds? But this story also requires an inn and an innkeeper. All these people need a place where they can heal. 

I recognize parts of my own life in all the characters here. I know what the shoes of the priest and levite feel like on my feet as I walk through my neighborhood. The deep work of our ongoing conversion has always included learning to make different choices about who we sit with daily, who is at our table, who we invite into our homes. 

Whose wounds have we been present to bind? Not only in an emergency, but as they are healing, when there is time to hear where it hurts and to understand how they wish to be cared for.

In the process, aren’t we also needing to be changed? All of these are small daily choices to remain together and to listen well that we can best make as communities, allowing us all to be drawn, slowly and often unwittingly, into a much bigger story.  

Nora Staffan Leider - 2019

This reflection was first shared through Parish Collective.