We are (always) the one in the ditch
Clare L. Hickman
St. Luke’s Episcopal Church
July 10, 2022—Proper 10C
Luke 10:25-37
Last week I went to three ordinations in three days. Which was, I must admit, a lot. But it was also very joyful, containing enough variety between the three services to keep it interesting. I’m grateful to our bishop, who encourages the ordinands to choose whatever readings they feel would be appropriate for such a service.
My immediate suggestion for a fitting passage was one from Luke 20: “Beware of the teachers of the law. They like to walk around in flowing robes and love to be greeted with respect in the marketplaces and have … the places of honor at banquets” (Lk 20:46). Which was a little bit of a joke, but also seems like not a bad idea. The Bible, after all, contains repeated warnings against those who want to rest back on their religious status (priests, scholars, good pious church-goers) while ignoring the radical ethic of care and concern that lies at the heart of God’s kingdom.
So I think it would be a good reminder for all those being ordained: not to get seduced by the myth of your own holiness.
Which is also one of the messages of this parable we’ve just heard. The priest and the Levite who pass on by are there to remind us that anyone who takes on the trappings of righteousness can fall into the trap of believing their own press. Of wanting to maintain an attachment to what LOOKS like holiness and purity (that perfect family lined up in the pew every Sunday), while actually doing violence to an ethic of love.
They pass by. Perhaps it is the fear of ritual contamination, in case he is actually a corpse. Perhaps, as Martin Luther King Jr suggests in his mountaintop speech, it’s because this is a dangerous road: and they asked themselves, “if I stop to assist this person, what might happen to me?” King suggests that the Samaritan asked himself a different question, “If I don’t stop to assist this person, what might happen to him?” Matt Skinner of Working Preacher extends that a step further, encouraging us to also ask: “If I don’t stop to assist this person, what will happen to me?”[i]
What happens to us, when we are more concerned about our own well-being than that of others? What kind of damage is done to us—to our hearts, our souls, our communities—when we won’t risk ourselves to help someone who is in danger, who is hurting, who needs us?
Turns out, as we move through this story, we are actually being invited to understand that we are always the ones in need of saving. That’s what we learn, when we recognize ourselves in the ones who pass by. We see how limited and broken we are, how shallow our view of righteousness has been, and realize that we are actually the ones in the ditch, the ones in need of help.
We’re not supposed to identify with the Samaritan. We’re the ones in the ditch. After all, the story isn’t told to answer the question, “What must I do to inherit eternal life?” with “you must be more like the Samaritan” as the response. Instead, what we have is a righteous man, who feels like he’s been doing all the things the law commands, And he asks Jesus “why do I still feel like something is missing?” Jesus summarizes the Law (love God and love neighbor), and clearly the man fears his problem is with that second part. “Who is my neighbor?” he asks. And Jesus tells this story.
In which a traveler is set upon by robbers, who strip him, beat him, and leave him for dead. Those he might have expected to help him, those who claim to be righteous followers of God, do nothing. But the one he would never have expected, the despised foreigner, the one he believes to be unrighteous, immoral, and heretical, that person saves his life.
And there’s a good chance that the lawyer hates this story. Hates it as much as many of you would hate it if Mitch McConnell was the hero … or Nancy Pelosi, if that’s what tweaks you. Hates that Jesus looks at all of the ways in which he follows God’s laws and does all kinds of good things, and rather than congratulate him, Jesus finds a way to ask, “Okay … but, how are you doing on the whole ‘love your enemy’ front?” Are there still people you consider to be outsiders? To be less than? To be, at best, objects of pity?
Once again, the road in this story leads to Jericho, but all our paths into the story wind up with us in the ditch. If we see ourselves in the pious religious folks, not wanting to put ourselves at risk, we know ourselves to be the ones in need of saving. If we cannot possibly imagine ourselves in the place of the Samaritan who takes time and energy to save a person’s life, we know ourselves to be the ones in need of saving. And if we recoil from the thought of our enemy, the person we are utterly convinced is the bad guy in the world, suddenly appearing as the hero of the piece, we know that we really truly are in that ditch.
That’s the uncomfortable truth in this parable. No matter what, you are not the hero. But the good news is, you don’t need to be.
Because this story is for those times and those ways in which you are in the ditch. Aware of your brokenness. Like the lawyer, knowing how much you still struggle to love with the open heart that God invites you to.
But then someone stops. You look up, and you see the compassion in his eyes. He binds your wounds and he heals you. He brings you into a community, where other people will take care of you. And he promises that he will return.
Does any of that sound like someone we know?[ii]
Jesus comes to us, in the ditches of our lives. In the ways in which we fail to love, refuse to see, insist on hoarding goodness and rightness to ourselves and to our clan. He comes to us, and reaches out a hand. He cleans our wounds, and he binds us up, and he brings us into a place like this one, where others will surround us and help us to be healthier, more bravely loving people in this world. And someday, he will return.
Until then, he will continue to live in you and allow you to see and be better than you ever could all by yourself. Until then, he will come to you again and again, in all those you see as your enemies but are actually your neighbors (and you know, deep in your heart, who they are, those individuals or groups of people who you’re sure are everything that’s wrong with the world … the ones you despise … the ones you fear … the ones you blame). Jesus comes to you in them, and that can heal you (can save you!) if you see him there. When you can sense his presence between you. And then, just maybe, you allow them to be better than you expected them to be.
"A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and he fell into the hands of robbers.” But don’t worry too much. Because Jesus came along and saved him. May we recognize him when he comes to us as well, whenever we find ourselves in that same ditch. May it be so. Amen.
[i] Sermon Brainwave podcast 852: Fifth Sunday after Pentecost Ordinary 15 (C) – July 10, 2022
[ii] HeartEdge Sermon Preparation Workshop on Facebook, July 5 2022