NOTES for Luk 10:37

These two stories must again overturn our ideas of "what is good and what is bad." Both of these stories are about serving people. Jesus tells a parable, and then, in the house of His acquaintances, He Himself ends up at the heart of the parable. For the first listeners of the parable about the wounded man and the Samaritan, perhaps the most shocking point was the person of the Samaritan: in the view of observant Jews, Samaritans were heretics and half-pagans, yet he turned out to be the nearest and most important person for the unfortunate man whom the priest and the Levite did not pity. But if you are used to the thought that all people are equal before God, or at the very least before the law, does the thought not shock you that the person dearest to us turns out to be not the one who helped us, but the one whom we helped?

If you love helping people, then the story of Martha and Mary is for you. Jesus saw more love in listening to Him than in preparing dinner for Him. But do not many others, for whom personal attention is far more important than even the most self-sacrificing service performed somewhere off to the side, think the same way?

The parable of the Good Samaritan is perhaps one of the most widely quoted and often mentioned Gospel texts. This is not surprising: it is usually perceived as a call to mercy and good works, becoming the Gospel foundation for what in church practice has come to be called social ministry. Meanwhile, on closer reading everything turns out not to be so simple. Indeed, Jesus tells the parable of the Good Samaritan in answer to a question asked of Him: and who is my neighbor? If we follow the logic of the text of the parable, then the answer to the question asked of Jesus sounds quite specific: my neighbor is the one who helped me, who did good to me.

The demand "go and do likewise" sounds somewhat strange against this background: for in this case the issue is not how a person acts, but how others act toward him. The answer to the question asked is connected precisely with this. A transition from the text of the parable to a justification of works of mercy and, more broadly, social ministry is possible only through a semantic inversion: the reader must identify himself not with the traveler who suffered at the hands of robbers, but with the Samaritan who helped him.

Although the question itself was connected precisely with the suffering traveler: which of all of them turned out to be his neighbor? But then the Savior's answer is obviously connected not only with what the Samaritan did, but with the situation as a whole. And the parable becomes not simply a parable about kindness and helping one's neighbor; it turns out to be a parable about relationships between people. And about the primacy of these relationships. About a situation when help comes not from those who think alike or share the same faith, but from those from whom it would least be expected. From enemies, for Jews and Samaritans in those days were bitter enemies. And then it turns out that what in relationships had seemed decisive proves on examination to be meaningless tinsel.

That in a critical situation all social, national, and religious frameworks and ties suddenly prove to be conventions that oblige no one to anything. What becomes significant is something that lies deeper in the human person than all of this, at the depth where a person's true spiritual "I" is found. Only there, at this depth, are help, compassion, and mercy possible. On the surface there is nothing of the sort. There is only social ministry. It will, of course, keep a poor person from starving to death, but it will not give him love. Nor the life of the Kingdom.

The lawyer’s question is perfectly lawful (perhaps even too much so): if loving my neighbor is required of me in order to inherit eternal life, it would be good to define the terms of the contract and determine who exactly my neighbor is. Personally, I am not sure that he understood Jesus’ answer (v. 37): it turns out that the terms of the contract are entirely undefined, and your neighbor is the one to whom YOU yourself have become a neighbor. Such an approach, of course, requires of me not a legalistic stance at all, but genuine mercy—frightening as it is to say—toward everyone I encounter. Perhaps this is what it means to enter eternal life.

The parable of the Good Samaritan is usually read as a story about how we should treat those who need our help. It follows, then, that a neighbor is the one who has come into our field of vision with his problems. Yet Jesus puts the question somewhat differently, saying, "Who was a neighbor to the man who fell among robbers?" They answer Him, "The one who showed him mercy," that is, the one who was able to come to his aid at the needed moment, who shared his burdens and gave his time. It is interesting that the Savior sees this story not from the side of the good passerby, who actively shows himself when he encounters misfortune, but from the side of the victim, passively receiving care from the first person who happens along.

We rarely allow that we are weak and helpless; it is far more natural for us to see ourselves on horseback and fully armed. Against this background, how expressive is the example of our Lord's amazing humility.

The chief commandment is not far from us, says the book of Deuteronomy. And Jesus' conversation with the lawyer in the Gospel of Luke confirms this: the lawyer knows this commandment. But for it to stop being mere words, someone must come down from heaven and reveal it.

And so Jesus "brings this commandment to life" with the famous parable of the merciful Samaritan, in which all the familiar stereotypes are overturned: the priest and the Levite are wrong, the half-pagan Samaritan is righteous, and the neighbor becomes not the one who showed mercy to you, but the one to whom you showed mercy. That is how life changes when Christ enters it.

Today I want to draw attention not to the parable of the Good Samaritan itself, about which very much has already been said and written, but to how Jesus answers the question. In the text we read that the lawyer asked the first question in order to test Jesus, and the second in order to justify himself. When we are asked about something and we see that the question is dishonest, insincere, do we answer in this way? First, unlike the Lord, we do not always perceive things correctly (and the Lord certainly knew whether the lawyer was sincere). Second, even if we are right, if we are asked insincerely, we either answer in the same spirit, formally, or refuse to answer at all. We deny the person the possibility of changing while listening to the answer; we deny God the possibility of putting into our mouths the answer that will return sincerity and truth to the conversation.

In this conversation we can see, as it were, three steps. First: the lawyer asks a provocative question, most likely carrying out someone else's will rather than his own. He is not very interested in the answer. Jesus answers as if the question had been asked for real. Second: the lawyer is stirred by the answer, feels guilty, and asks a question in order to justify himself, since he knows there is something for which he needs justification. The question is sincere, but not very honest. Jesus answers in such a way that He brings the lawyer to the level of real dialogue, and He Himself asks a question. The lawyer answers sincerely, and after this Jesus gives him a commandment, that is, establishes a relationship with him. The lawyer is now ready not only to hear, but also to fulfill the commandment: "Go and do likewise."

God trusts us so much that even when we lie to those around us, to ourselves, and to Him, He gives us a chance to become sincere and follow Him.