The Circles We Draw
There is a small phrase in the story of the Good Samaritan that is easy to pass over.
“But wanting to justify himself…”
I wonder if those words are the key to the whole story.
A lawyer comes to Jesus and asks, “What must I do to inherit eternal life?” Jesus turns the question back toward him. What does the law say?- The man knows the answer.
Love God.
Love your neighbor.
Jesus tells him, “Do this, and you will live.”
It could have ended there.
But the man wants to justify himself. So he asks one more question:
“And who is my neighbor?”
It sounds like a theological question. But perhaps it is really a question about boundaries.
Who counts?
How far does my responsibility extend?
How much love is enough?
And, perhaps most importantly, who can I leave outside the circle and still believe I am a good person?
We human beings are remarkably good at drawing circles. We draw political circles, religious circles, moral circles, racial circles, national circles, theological circles. Inside the circle are the people we understand, the people we agree with, the people whose lives make sense to us.
Outside are the others.
The stranger.
The immigrant.
The political opponent.
The difficult relative.
The person whose choices frustrate us.
The person who has wounded us.
The person we have decided does not deserve our compassion.
The lawyer wants Jesus to tell him where the circle should be drawn.
Jesus refuses.
Instead, he tells a story.
A man is traveling from Jerusalem to Jericho when he is attacked, robbed, beaten,
and left beside the road.
A priest sees him and passes by.
A Levite sees him and passes by.
And then comes the Samaritan.
That word would have landed differently on the ears of Jesus’ listeners than it does on ours. We have hospitals, charities, churches, and organizations named “Good Samaritan.” The word has become synonymous with kindness. For Jesus’ audience, however, the Samaritan was the outsider. Samaritans and Jews carried generations of religious and ethnic hostility toward one another.
And Jesus makes the outsider the one who stops.- The Samaritan sees the wounded man.
Has compassion.
Moves toward him.
Tends his wounds.
Carries him.
Pays for his care.
And promises to return.
Then Jesus asks the lawyer a question. Notice that it is not the question the lawyer originally asked.
The lawyer asked:
“Who is my neighbor?”
Jesus asks:
“Which of these three was a neighbor?”
The lawyer wants to identify the object of love. Jesus turns his attention toward the person who loves.
The lawyer asks, “Who qualifies?” Jesus asks, in effect, “What kind of person are you becoming?”
Perhaps this is where the story becomes uncomfortable for us.
Because we still want Jesus to tell us where the lines are.
We want to know whom we are required to love.
Which immigrant is my neighbor?
Which political opponent is my neighbor?
Which homeless person is my neighbor?
Which difficult family member is my neighbor?
Which person who has hurt me is my neighbor?
We want definitions because definitions allow us to establish limits. And limits make self-justification much easier. I can compare myself with someone else and decide I am compassionate enough.
Generous enough.
Open-minded enough.
Orthodox enough.
Progressive enough.
Conservative enough.
Religious enough.
I can arrange the world in such a way that I remain safely on the right side of the line.
That may be what self-justification always does:
it draws a circle and makes certain that we are standing inside it.
But Jesus will not help the lawyer draw his circle.
Instead, he tells a story in which compassion crosses it. And perhaps there is an even deeper invitation here.
We usually read this story imagining ourselves as the Samaritan. Go and do likewise. And certainly Jesus says exactly that. But perhaps before we imagine ourselves standing beside the wounded person, we might recognize ourselves lying in the ditch.
Broken.
Unable to save ourselves.
Desperate for mercy.
And Christ comes down the road.
Christ sees us.
Christ crosses over.
Christ kneels beside us.
Christ tends what is wounded.
Christ carries what we cannot carry ourselves.
Grace begins not with our heroic compassion toward somebody else, but with God's compassion toward us.
We are loved before we learn to love.
We are found before we go looking for the wounded.
We receive mercy before we learn how to offer it.
God becomes a neighbor to us. And once you have been found in the ditch, the circles become much harder to maintain.
Because suddenly the question is no longer:
“Does this person belong inside the circle of people I am required to love?”
The question becomes:
“Having received such mercy myself, how could I walk past someone else?”
That is the transformation Jesus seems to be inviting.
The lawyer wanted justification.
Jesus offered transformation.
The lawyer wanted a boundary.
Jesus offered a way of life.
The lawyer wanted to know whom he was required to love.
Jesus showed him what love does.
Maybe discipleship is not about making our circles slightly larger. Maybe Jesus is inviting us to stop drawing them altogether. Because the Christ who found us in the ditch is always crossing the road, always moving toward the wounded, always stepping across another boundary human beings thought God would surely respect.
And then he turns to us and says,
“Go and do likewise.”