If you've been part of a church for more than a year, you've heard the story of the Good Samaritan.
It's a parable in response to a question. A story to explain a complicated response. A proclamation against religious appearances. A social reckoning. Insight into the despised sector of society.
Each night we pray as a family over dinner. First, we thank Jesus for providing His body in our place to pay for our sins. We take the command literally to remember Him every time we eat and drink, moving communion from a sacred Sunday ritual to an incarnational habit. Little Love squeezes his hands together and scrunches up his eyes to keep them closed, standing on his chair and leaning over the food.
Next, we pray that God would help us love. We ask for more grace to love God more. We ask for strength to love each other well. We ask for God's help to love our neighbors, the people we like and the people we don't like.
The parable of the Good Samaritan can be simplified to that last stanza:
We are to love the people we don't like.
The Samaritan wouldn't have liked the beaten up Jewish man in Jesus' hypothetical story. The priest should have. The Levite should have. But they didn't. The Samaritan is called Good for valuing the humanity (God's image) in the battered man on the road side.
I journalize and editorialize the adventures in our literal neighborhood regularly. I've written a lot recently about loving our neighbors. To that point, this story challenges my inclusive definition of neighbor.
You see, the month before a polarizing election and two months into the fiasco of remote learning...I have a few people that I don't like. I find myself interacting with more and more Samaritans. I find myself exhausted, running late, and much like the priest in Jesus' story. Or worse, many days it feels like I'm the Jewish sojourner, shoved off the donkey and left for dead.
And now, thousands of years removed from the first telling of this story, there is advice for my unfriendly encounters. Maybe the Samaritan tears off their face mask and tells me I'm a baby-killer if I won't vote for Trump and Culp. Maybe the Samaritan lights my car on fire for saying there are "good police". Maybe the Samaritan calls those same police because there's a gathering of more than 5 people in my garage. Maybe it doesn't matter why I don't like them. They're still my neighbor.
Jesus extends the teaching of the Torah that loving your neighbor is larger than your comfortable family-safe circle. Jesus invites us to love the "other". Jesus calls us out of our monoculture into human community. For Jesus came to unite all humanity to the Father. And for that, I am grateful.
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