The Loving Enemy
© by the Reverend Dr. Byron E. Shafer
(Rutgers, July 15, 2001; Fifteenth
Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year C;
Reception of New Members; the
Sacrament of Baptism)
Colossians 1:1–2a, 9b–10 (NT, p. 213);
Luke 10:25–37 (NT, p. 73)
Do
you relish oxymorons as much as I do? As
you probably know, an oxymoron is a two-word phrase in which there’s tension,
even contradiction, between what the two words mean.
The words of an oxymoron really don’t go well together, and they can be
yoked with each other only uneasily.
Have
you noticed? A lot of oxymorons are used in food advertisements: like
“kosher bacon,” and “no-fat ice cream.”
Oxymorons
also appear frequently in poetry, where the contradiction draws the reader to a
deeper level of meaning, as in the phrases: “living death,” “thunderous
silence,” and “sweet sorrow.”
When
oxymorons are used to describe a person, their effect derives from the
audience’s strongly held stereotypes about such persons.
Of a politician, an unspoken stereotype is “one who’s dishonest.”
So derived from that we have an oxymoron, “honest politician.”
Of a friend, an unspoken stereotype is “one who’s true.”
So derived from that we have the oxymoron “false friend.”
Of an enemy, an unspoken stereotype is “one who’s hateful.” So derived from that we have the oxymoron I’ve used for the
title of this morning’s sermon: “loving enemy.”
The more strongly we hold our unspoken stereotype of a person, the more
easily a related oxymoron comes into being.
Now
in ancient times, the peoples of the biblical world had many such stereotypes
and created many such oxymorons. And
one such stereotype, together with its related oxymoron, lies at the very heart
of this morning’s Second Lesson.
Since
we’re not ancient persons, it’s hard for us to detect and identify the
stereotypes of that time and the oxymorons that relate to them.
So
when we hear people call this morning’s Second Lesson “The Parable of the
Good Samaritan,” most of us will miss the point that for ancient Jews “good
Samaritan” was an oxymoron. To us
the phrase “Good Samaritan” seems warm and fuzzy.
It’s even a term that’s defined in our English dictionaries as “a
compassionate, friendly rescuer.”
But
in Jesus’s day and among Jesus’s own people, the Jews, a strongly held but
unspoken stereotype was that the only “good Samaritan” is a “dead
Samaritan.”
The
ancient hatred that gave rise to this stereotype came from
the long history of conflict between Jews and Samaritans, two peoples who were
really not that different from each other.
Ethnically they were related, and religiously they simply held two
differing interpretations of the same basic religion—much like Protestant
Christians and Catholic Christians.
Both
the Jewish and Samaritan religions were based on the same scriptural texts, but
the two religions had differing interpretations of the laws codified in those
books, and they had differing ways of observing the rituals, and they had
different temples to go to for worship. Over
time their rather minor religious differences had given rise to a sorry history
of inter-communal violence and bloodshed—much like today’s tragic situations
in Northern Ireland and Rwanda.
Now
in this morning’s parable, Jesus sets out to smash the stereotype “bad
Samaritan” and to change “good Samaritan” from an oxymoron into a phrase
that Jews could speak without gagging.
Let’s
listen again to Jesus’s story, but this time let’s try to imagine that you
and I are really ancient Jews listening to it through first-century ears.
The
road from Jerusalem to Jericho runs through Jewish territory, well south of
Samaria. On this route, almost all the travelers are, like me, Jews.
The road winds for eighteen tortuous miles through barren rock desert,
while plunging in altitude some 3300 feet.
Most of the year, the highway is brutally hot, with no shade or water,
and bandits can lurk behind almost any rock.
One
day, a Jewish traveler falls victim to these robbers.
They beat him and leave him for dead.
Along comes a priest, one of my religious leaders; then a Levite, an
assistant priest who helps prepare the temple’s sacrificial offerings.
He’s also a religious leader.
As
I hear Jesus introducing these figures, I’m thinking to myself: “Surely a
holy person like this priest, or the Levite, will fulfill that great commandment
in our scriptures, ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ (Leviticus
19:18) Surely
such a man as this will stop to aid the victim, who is, after all, a neighbor, a
fellow Jew.”
But,
as Jesus tells the story, neither of them stops.
Neither the priest nor the
Levite is going to be the hero of this story.
So that leaves me wondering who the next person down the road will be. Who’ll be the next candidate for hero?
Now,
I, as a Jew, traditionally think of my people as being composed of three
categories of person: first, there’re the priests; second, the Levites; third,
lay people like me. Priests,
Levites, lay people—together, the Jewish people.
Well,
a priest and a Levite have just come and gone down the road.
So maybe the next person to come along will be one like me, a layperson.
Yes, that must be it! Jesus
is about to make one like me the hero of his story.
But
Jesus promptly dashes my expectation, for the next person down the road is not
one like me. Indeed, he’s not even a Jew.
He’s a Samaritan, a foreigner, one of my hated enemies.
As
I’ve been listening to this parable, I’ve been searching for a character who
seems “like me,” one with whom I can identify, as I seek to find myself and
my own role in the story. Well, so
far, out of the four characters who've been introduced, there’s only one
who’s “like me,” only one
who’s a Jewish layperson. And
that’s the victim. None
of the passersby is a person I can identify with.
Do
you see what Jesus has done to me? He’s
offered me no way to identify with the hero, or even with any of the potential
heroes. He's forced me to identify with the victim, the one who’s
lying half-dead in the ditch.
So
here I am, imagining myself the victim clinging to life by a thread and
wondering, “Is anyone going to stop and save my life?”
Well, not my own religious leaders, the priest and the Levite.
They’ve gone by. And
surely not this next traveler either, for he’s dressed in the clothes worn by
my Samaritan enemies. If he stops,
it’ll be to kick me in the ribs or spit in my face.
Oh oh, he is stopping!
But wait! What’s this?
Now that he’s bent down, he’s touching me gently, and saying, “Hey! Don’t worry. I’m
here to help!”
Why
do I find it so easy to imagine my adversaries as hateful, unloving, inhumane,
less than human? Well, no matter,
for here Jesus is forcing me to acknowledge that one whom I’ve called “my
enemy” is, in fact, loving, is, in fact, both human and humane.
Indeed Jesus is even forcing me to acknowledge that one whom I’ve
called “my enemy” may be morally superior
to my own leaders and teachers, and, thus, to myself as well.
O
Jesus, what have you done? For once
you’ve forced me to acknowledge that my enemy is loving and humane, and
perhaps even morally superior, then you’ve shattered my stereotype of the
“hateful enemy” and transformed the phrase “loving enemy” from an
oxymoron into a reality.
But
wait, Jesus! Help me to understand! Why
is this Samaritan loving? Why is he
doing what he’s doing? Certainly
it's not because he has a better commandment than mine, for his scripture and
mine are the same: “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” So is he
doing what he’s doing, being loving toward me, because he’s got a better
interpretation than I of who’s included among the neighbors one’s supposed
to love, an interpretation that includes even me, a Jew, his enemy?
Ah,
now I remember the question that that lawyer asked Jesus, the question that
prompted his telling of this parable in the first place—the question, “Who is
my neighbor?” Perhaps what that
lawyer was really asking Jesus was this: “How
broadly am I to define that term ‘neighbor’?”
Am I to include in my love just those of my own race, my own religion, my
own ethnic group—or am I to include others as well?
Well,
through the actions of this “good” Samaritan, part of a people I’ve called
“enemy,” Jesus seems to be trying to teach me that loving my “neighbor”
includes loving even my “enemy.”
First
Jesus has forced me to identify with the half-dead victim and to experience how
it feels to be saved from death by an enemy, shattering my stereotype of that
enemy. Now Jesus is asking me to give this parable a second hearing,
and this time around he’s asking me to identify not with the person who’s
“like me,” the victim, but with the person who’s “not at all like me,”
my enemy, the Samaritan hero. Jesus
is saying, “That Samaritan may not be ‘like you,’ but you should be
‘like that Samaritan.’ You
should love those who call you ‘enemy’!”
We
all know that still today racial, ethnic, and religious tensions are running
high both here in New York City and throughout our nation.
And we all know that the atmosphere in our society is poisoned by
stereotypes and the oxymorons related to them.
So
I can imagine Jesus coming to us today to smash our stereotypes.
Yes, I can imagine Jesus striding anew into our city and telling this
parable of his over and over again, each time speaking it to a different segment
of the city’s diverse population, each time using a different cast of
characters—each cast calculated to destroy a particular audience’s
stereotype, first by placing that audience in the role of victim, and then by
challenging that audience to envision itself taking the role of the Samaritan,
of the “loving enemy.”
One
place Jesus might tell his story would be on the corner of Broadway and 73rd
Street, Manhattan, or maybe even right inside this church, from this very
pulpit.
And
it might go like this: A member of
Rutgers Church is mugged and left for dead on the sidewalk.
Along comes a minister; then, an elder; and finally, the third figure,
the figure of “the loving enemy”—
At
this point, I can imagine Jesus interrupting his story, turning to you and me,
and asking each of us, as the victim in the ditch, “OK, now you finish the
parable.” So I invite you to do
that. I invite you to close your
eyes and to finish Jesus’s story in your own imagination.
You’re in the ditch. Who’s
that third person down the road? Who’s
your last hope?
Now
when you respond to Jesus’s invitation to finish the narration, be sure to
imagine the third traveler, the hero, as one whom you’ve called “enemy.”
Imagine someone you dislike or fear.
Dare to make that image an image of strong dislike or fear, a REAL enemy.
Perhaps, a smelly derelict. Or
a loud and rowdy teenage gang, whose race different from your own.
Or
dare, perhaps, to bring your image of “enemy” much closer to home; let it be
someone you know and encounter in everyday life.
Dare to let it be a person at work, or in this congregation—someone you
intensely dislike, or distrust, or fear. Get
a strong image of that person, then
let that person be the one who, in
your imagination, stops to bandage your wounds.
Imagine that person as your “loving
‘enemy.’”
And
as you’re imagining all this, notice what it feels like to be saved by someone
you dislike or fear. Notice what it
feels like to discover that the person you’ve thought of as your enemy is
really loving, is really human, and humane, and perhaps even morally superior.
And
let that feeling forever smash your stereotype of “the enemy.”
And having let go of your stereotype of what an enemy is, be freed to
become a loving “enemy” yourself. Be
freed to express love toward those who fear you
or imagine you to be the “enemy.”
Yes,
go from this sanctuary today filled with the resolve to love those who dislike
you or fear you, filled with the resolve to have them experience you to be a “Loving
‘Enemy.’”
And
when you’ve done that, then your life, like that of the ancient Samaritan
himself, will have become a parable by Jesus.
Let
us pray:
O
God, how fearsome it is to be dependent for well-being on those we most dislike
or distrust. How fearsome it must be for those who dislike or
distrust us to be dependent on us. Help
us to extend the touch of healing love even to those who least expect it from
us. This we pray in the name of
Jesus, who taught us to love as neighbor even those who think of us as enemy.
Amen.
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