Sermon for August 25, 2013: Just then, there appeared a woman...and Jesus saw her.

August 25, 2012

Luke 13:10-17

PREACHER: Pastor Carrie Smith

Grace and peace to you from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

Last month, when my family and I started our annual long, long drive to Texas to see my family, we first made our traditional stopover in St. Louis. This year, in a break with tradition, we stayed two nights—partly to better appreciate the city, and partly to break up that long, long drive. Did I mention it’s a long, long drive to Texas?

I was especially proud of our vacation plans this year because I planned to make liberal use of Groupons—web-based coupons—for everything from appetizers and drinks to a pedicure. On the first morning we were there, I was excited to use my St. Louis coffee Groupon, so I was up and out the door of the hotel before the men in my life had even rolled over and registered that we were no longer at home.

St. Louis is, shall we say, “balmy” even at 7 am in July, but I nevertheless walked briskly through downtown toward the coffee shop. There weren’t many folks on the street at that time of day, but as I turned the final corner, there she was. She sat nestled back in the doorway of a defunct business, in the shade, and I could see that she was in a wheelchair. Even out of the corner of my eyes, I could discern what she wanted. She was rattling a Styrofoam cup of coins, and quietly mumbling—like her own, personal, morning prayer liturgy—“Can you help me? Just a few coins, please. Anything will help. Can you help me?”

I didn’t want to see her, but I looked over anyway, and immediately saw that her face was completely normal on one side, but the other side seemed devoid of cheekbones and structure of any kind. It was as if Salvador Dali had been given the chance to design a human face, and she was the canvas. Her face was a face only on technicalities. I didn’t want to see her, but I looked over anyway.

And then I looked away.

I didn’t want to see her.  I was on a quest! I wanted my morning coffee! I wanted to use my Groupon! Above all else, I wanted to stay on schedule. This was a carefully planned vacation, with an itinerary and scenic overlooks and what my dad calls “hysterical markers” along the way. No time for detours or unplanned stops. Furthermore, what business did she have to interrupt my vacation in such a way? There are so many other days out of the year when I have no problem living into my Christian vocation, listening to people’s stories, and giving to the poor—but today was different. This was vacation. This was my Sabbath! And I didn’t want to see her.

If I were to place myself in today’s Gospel lesson, I think it’s pretty clear I would not be Jesus. In fact, I would say it’s a good practice for all of us to read the Gospels and realize that we are not Jesus. Amen? In fact, the truth is, I am probably the synagogue leader in this lesson today. At least on that day on vacation in St. Louis, I most closely resembled the synagogue leader, who watched Jesus call up a disabled woman and heal her on the spot and who then turned to the congregation and said: “There are six days on which work ought to be done; come on those days and be cured, and not on the sabbath day.” 

The message was: “I don’t want to see you all doing this next week. This guy is a guest preacher, a revival preacher, and I know he’s doing some cool stuff. But rules are rules, and I don’t want to see you all coming in here for healing on the Sabbath when he’s gone.”

To the bent-over woman and all who, like her, came to the synagogue in need of healing, the message was pretty clear: It’s not just that I don’t want to see you coming here on the Sabbath. I don’t want to see you.

I suspect you can see yourself in the role of the synagogue leader in this story, too. How often have you passed by the homeless person in the doorway without a glance? How often have you averted your eyes away from wheelchairs, feeding tubes, scars, or the faces of those in deep grief or pain? Our fear of the pain and suffering around us leads us to find safety and security behind rules and regulations: If I don’t look, I don’t have to respond. Everyone says, if you give them any money, they’ll just spend it on drugs. You should never open your wallet in the presence of a homeless person. I give to the needy through my church. I wouldn’t know what to say to someone who just lost a child, so it’s better if I don’t say anything. The truth is: I just really don’t want to see him.

Yes, more often than we like to admit, we are the synagogue leader, more concerned with broken rules than the broken people around us, and if you get nothing else from the Gospel lesson for today, I hope in the coming week you will take a moment to see—really see—the people around you. Awhile back there was a campaign called “Start Seeing Motorcycles”, encouraging motorists to pay attention to the 2-wheeled folks on the roads with them. Do you remember that? In this case, I think the Gospel convicts us and reminds us that we would all do well to start seeing each other. Start seeing what your neighbor is going through. Start seeing the brokenness in our own community. Start seeing those whom the world has called hopeless, insignificant, or not worth looking at.

This week, on the 50^th anniversary of the March on Washington, we remember how people of color stood up and said to their fellow Americans “Look at me! See me! I exist.” Some of the most powerful images of that time period for me are the photos of the Memphis Sanitation Workers’ Strike, when workers marched with signs that said simply “I AM a man.” I am a man! See me! We give thanks to God this week for all those who boldly made themselves known, as well as for the Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr. and the other prophetic voices who said to the rest of us “Start seeing your darker brothers and sisters” and helped us to have a vision of what it would mean to be the “beloved community.” Amen!

Are you still with me? Good, because I want to challenge you now, sisters and brothers, to place yourselves not in the role of Jesus or in the role of the synagogue leader, but rather in the role of the bent-over woman. You may not be afflicted as she is, but what I know is this: each and every one of you appears in this place today carrying some kind of burden. Each and every one of you comes weighed down by something—depression, grief, anger, cancer, divorce, unemployment, credit card debt, addiction, doubt, mistakes made, or opportunities missed. It’s so heavy it sometimes causes you to be bent over, and you can hardly stand up straight. You’re just barely getting by.

But I also know this: almost all of you have appeared here today wearing your Sunday best, putting on a smile, and pretending to have it all together. Nod if you know what I’m talking about! Why do we do this? Because you know very well that other people don’t want to see that stuff. You know very well that people (and, sadly, especially church people) would rather keep to the schedule, keep church under an hour (ha!), and keep all that difficult stuff under wraps, unspoken, and unseen.

And yet…here you are. The Gospel according to Luke says: “And just then there appeared a woman with a spirit that had crippled her for eighteen years. She was bent over and was quite unable to stand up straight. When Jesus saw her, he called her over and said, ‘Woman, you are set free from your ailment.’ When he laid his hands on her, immediately she stood up straight and began praising God.”

We only know a few things about the woman in the synagogue, but none of them are as important as these key points: Just then, there appeared a woman….and Jesus saw her.

A woman in need appeared, and Jesus saw her. She was bent over in the same way at the market, and on the street, and at the river washing her clothes, and no one paid any attention, but just then she appeared…and Jesus saw her.

She came to pray at the synagogue every week, bent over almost to the ground, quite unable to pray or praise freely, and no one gave her a second glance, but just then she appeared…and Jesus saw her.

For eighteen years she was bound by this spirit, while others told her to sit in the back of the bus or to come back another day. But on that day in the synagogue, Jesus saw her and proclaimed that it may be the Sabbath, but now is the time for restoration. Now is the time for wholeness. Now is the time for liberation! Amen!

My dear people, the Good News of the Gospel is that you are here, and Jesus sees you. Jesus sees you, bent over, weighed down, and just getting by. Jesus sees you, when no one else wants to stop and look.

On this day, this Sabbath day, burdened and heavy-laden though we are, we come, wanting to give our praise to God, wanting to stand up straight, wanting to get it right, and what we find is that God, in God’s goodness, gives us something even greater than we could hope for—healing, wholeness, and restoration, through Jesus Christ. Not when it’s convenient for other people. Not when it’s on the schedule. Not when we get around to asking for it. Right now. Today. Here—in, with and under the bread and the wine, through the water and the Word, and yes, sometimes through this beloved community. Come to the table, all of you, and know that you are set free. Thanks be to God.

Sermon for August 18, 2013: Sorry, wrong answer.

Sermon for August 18, 2013

Luke 12:49-56

PREACHER: Pr. Carrie Smith

Grace and peace to you from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

Every family has stories that are told over and over, at every gathering, until they gain the level of parable or even legend. In my family, most of these stories are about my Great-Grandma Helene and her cooking skills. One of my favorites has to do with her “famous” fruit cocktail cake. It was really just a recipe from the newspaper, nothing fancy, but what made it “famous” was the fact that every so often, my Grandma Helene would make her fruit cocktail cake with mixed vegetables instead, which sort of ruined the whole flavor profile. If you’re wondering how this could possibly happen, it might help to know that my grandma regularly removed the labels from her canned goods to give them to her church (you know, to raise pennies for schools or for children in far-away lands) and would then place the full, label-free cans back on her shelves for later use.

Sometimes, we just get it wrong.

Not long ago my in-laws were visiting from Oklahoma, and they happened to be here over a Thursday night, which is otherwise known in the Smith household as “Project Runway night”. I knew it was a long-shot, but figured there was nothing to lose, so when the time came around I invited my father-in-law to watch it with me. “Sure!” he said, and sat right down. Now, I was surprised by this, but also pleased not to be interrupted for my favorite reality television. It wasn’t until about 15 minutes into the program that I saw his face turn from expectant, to confused, to down-right distressed. Finally, during a commercial, my father-in-law (retired Air Force and long-time employee of the Federal Aviation Administration) grumbled loudly, “Well, I guess this show ISN’T about airplanes after all.” (Project Runway, of course, is actually about fashion design.)

Sometimes, we just get it wrong.

In today’s Gospel passage, it was Peter and the disciples and the crowd of thousands who just got it wrong about Jesus. Luke chapter 12 offers us an inside look into Jesus’ frustration with those who were closest to him and how they consistently—sometimes even comically—got it wrong about his mission and about their purpose as his followers.

Today’s reading picks up in the middle of a long sermon Jesus is preaching to a crowd which includes the disciples and thousands of others, all trampling each other to get a look at him. At the beginning of the sermon, Jesus first warns the hearers about the Pharisees and other false teachers; then he urges them not to fear those who kill the body but rather to fear the one with real authority; and then he assures them that each hair on their heads is counted, that they are of more value than many sparrows; and that everyone who acknowledges him will be acknowledged before the angels of God. It was a masterpiece of a sermon! A real crowd-pleaser, I’m sure he was thinking.

And then, one guy in the back raises his hand and says: “Jesus, tell my brother to give me some of our family’s money!”

And, to put icing on the cake (the mixed vegetable cake, perhaps), Peter jumps up to ask, “Um, Jesus, are you talking to us, or to everyone?”

Sometimes, we just get it wrong – especially when it comes to Jesus.

And that’s why, in today’s reading, we see Jesus speaking with frustration and even anger to those who are just missing the point. He tells them to trust God and be ready for when the master comes, and they want to talk about splitting earthly inheritances. He teaches them to consider the lilies, how they grow into a beauty better than all of Solomon’s finery—and they want to know if there’s going to be a quiz at the end. “Are we gonna be graded on this? Are you talking to us, Jesus?”

Jesus said to Peter and the others who were gathered:

(The Message Version)

"I've come to start a fire on this earth - how I wish it were blazing right now! 50 I've come to change everything, turn everything rightside up - how I long for it to be finished! 51 Do you think I came to smooth things over and make everything nice? Not so. I've come to disrupt and confront! 52 From now on, when you find five in a house, it will be - Three against two, and two against three”

And then, to wrap things up:

“Frauds! You know how to tell a change in the weather, so don't tell me you can't tell a change in the season, the God-season we're in right now.”

Well…this clearly isn’t what the disciples—or the crowds—were expecting. They got it wrong! They thought Jesus came to make their lives easier, to make their neighbors stop fighting with them, to fix all their problems and teach them how to live a happy life. They didn’t expect Jesus to talk about dividing families, leaving home, giving away treasures, challenging authorities and becoming friends with outcasts and sinners.

The disciples got it wrong. The crowds got it wrong. And we, too, often get it wrong.

Our denomination’s churchwide assembly convened this week in Pittsburgh. Several of our Bethany members were there, including Pastor Rafael Malpica-Padilla, Ron and Pat Henning, and Joel Thoreson.  The big, rather unexpected news of the week was the election of the first female presiding bishop of the ELCA, Bishop ElizabethEaton. This historic event has definitely been the most talked about outcome of the assembly—along with the history making use of social media like Twitter and LiveStream, which is how I was able to keep up with the proceedings. (If you don't know what those things are, then you might understand why this is a big deal!)

The election of Bishop Eaton got my attention, for sure, but my favorite moment of the week happened when the candidates for bishop were giving their speeches before one of the final ballots. Among other questions, the candidates were asked what they thought the biggest challenge facing the ELCA would be in the next six years.

Bishop Jessica Crist from Montana thought for a moment, and then she pointed to the huge assembly banner behind her proclaiming “Always Being Made New”—the theme for our 25^th anniversary.

“See this?” she said. “Our biggest challenge is remembering that it says Always Being Made New, not Always Being Made Big.”

And then she followed up with this comment: “Over the next six years, we need to remember that we’re called to faithfulness, not to success.”

What Bishop Crist named so boldly in that speech was the way we get it wrong today not only about Jesus, but about “the church.” Much of the pessimism about the state of the church and of Christianity today I believe comes from the fact that we still, after all these years, are getting it as wrong as the disciples did.

We expect Jesus to bring us prosperity, to give us the seven keys to a healthy marriage, and to offer us three easy steps to success in life and business.

And…we expect that success as a church means more members, bigger buildings, and packed pews. We expect the church to teach kids about Jesus so they will be “nice.” And we definitely expect the church to always be one big, happy, cozy, family. So we Lutherans pray, “Come, Lord Jesus, be our guest” at every meal—and then we’re surprised when it actually happens! Jesus shows up, and we’re surprised by what he says.  

Because the Jesus who shows up very often isn’t the baby Jesus, meek and mild, but the one we encountered in the Gospel lesson today: radical, mouthy, frustrated, out of bounds, out of order, politically incorrect, and determined to mess with our expectations.

Because the Jesus I have encountered, dear friends, is nothing like what I expected!

Jesus compels me talk to people I wish I could ignore. How frustrating!

Jesus leads us to forgive people when grudges feel better.

Jesus pulls us out of our comfort zones and shoves us into new opportunities.

Jesus shows up, time and again, at this table in the bread and the wine.

Jesus says “follow me” and then refuses to take us to the Dells or Disneyland or anywhere WE want to go, but instead leads us to the homeless shelter, and the prisons, and to seminary, to adventures unknown, and yes, to the cross to suffer alongside the oppressed and the voiceless and the forgotten.

And, quite unexpectedly, Jesus shows up outside the tomb on Easter morning!

Sometimes, we just get it wrong.

But, my sisters and brothers, no matter how wrong we get it in life or in our relationships, through Jesus Christ, we have been made right with God. Amen! No matter how wrong we are even about Jesus and the church, we are wholly and completely reconciled and made right with our Creator, through the cross and resurrection of Jesus Christ. Amen!

Sisters and brothers, the Good News is this: No matter how wrong we are about Jesus, no matter how bad our theology is, no matter how weak our denomination’s social statements are or how slowly the church moves towards justice and inclusion, Jesus takes our wrong-headed ideas, our broken hearts, our struggling churches, and our messy lives and makes them new. Nothing is so broken that God can’t fix it. Nothing is so hopeless that God can’t make it new. Through Jesus Christ and the cross, even the worst arguments and division become opportunities for growth and understanding.

Sometimes, we get it wrong. But Jesus got it right, once and for all, on the cross. Thanks be to God! And the let the people say Amen! 

Sunday, July 21, 2013

Sermon for Sunday, July 21, 2013

Luke 10:38-42 

PREACHER: Pastor Carrie Smith

 

Hanging on my refrigerator, next to the school phone numbers and my “Don’t Mess with Texas” magnet, is a photo of my grandfather. It’s black and white, from around 1953, and in it my grandpa is wearing a ruffled apron and holding a spatula. It must be a Sunday morning, because he’s wearing the apron over a shirt and a tie. He’s standing by the stove, apparently cooking breakfast, and grinning from ear to ear. 

Every time my mom comes to visit she comments on this photo, because, as she puts it, this was surely the one and only time my grandpa was ever in the kitchen, much less in an apron. You see, in spite of this photographic evidence, he was neither a chef nor even an amateur cook. My Grandpa Bill started his career pumping gas as a service station attendant, and then he moved up to car mechanic at Lindstrom Oil. The year I was born, he bought the town hardware store. For the next 15 years or so, my grandma ran the cash register up front while Grandpa remained quietly in the back, fixing chain saws and lawnmowers, and cutting glass for windows. 

There were no aprons involved in this kind of work. And no one would mistake my grandpa for a feminist or someone interested in challenging traditional gender roles! In fact, he is rumored to have once said that he didn’t need to buy one of those automatic dishwashers, because he already had three of them in the house: a wife, a mother-in-law, and a daughter. 

So why do I keep this photo of my grandpa in a ruffled apron on my fridge? Because that image is so out of character, so unexpected, and so far from the role my grandpa played in my family, that seeing it makes me stop and smile every time. It grabs my attention. 

In this way, seeing my grandpa in a ruffled apron is a lot like seeing Mary of Bethany--a woman—sitting at the feet of Jesus. It’s an image that is so out of place, so unexpected, and so far from the role that women played in Jesus’ time—it demands one’s attention.

Now, the story of Mary and Martha is one that, like the Parable of the Good Samaritan, is so familiar I’m afraid it may have lost some of its punch. This brief but powerful scene has become domesticated (pardon the pun) through a long line of women’s Bible studies which ask “Are you a Mary or a Martha?”, and by sermons which proclaim “Blessed are the balanced” and encourage us to be both Mary and Martha, in just the right amounts.

Don’t get me wrong: these are good and timely messages. Who doesn’t need more balance in her life? Who doesn’t need to be reminded at times to stop all the running around and just sit in the presence of Our Lord? But it is precisely because we’re so accustomed to interpreting this story as an epic struggle of Martha vs. Mary; of service vs. contemplation; or of doing vs. hearing the Word, that we may miss out on the absurdity of the whole scene. 

What’s so absurd about this story? Let’s take a look again: 

Jesus stops at a certain village, and lodges with two sisters. While he is at their home, perhaps after dinner, he begins to teach the folks that always seem to gather when Jesus is in town. Martha remains busy with the chores, while Mary sits at Jesus’ feet. Mary, a woman, sits at his feet. Mary, a woman, who should be busy caring for the household, sits at his feet. Mary, a woman, who should be busy caring for the household, sits at the feet of Jesus like a man. 

Are you with me? This wasn’t just absurd. It was downright shocking! Sitting at the feet of a teacher or a rabbi was a role reserved exclusively for men. Seeing a woman in that position was, well—a little like seeing my grandpa in a ruffled apron, standing over a stove. It demands our attention. 

Mary is clearly out of place, by the standards of her context. But even more shocking in this scene is the fact that Jesus doesn’t tell her to get up, to get busy, to get back to work, or to get in her place. Instead, he actually affirms her choice, telling Martha: “Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her.” 

And what a choice it was! Be assured: this was one heck of a bold and risky move. Martha was likely not the only one in the household that day who looked down her nose at Mary, seated like a man, on the floor at Jesus’ feet. Martha just happened to be her sister, and therefore felt free to say it!  

I’m not necessarily saying that Jesus was some kind of gender-bending trendsetter in 1^st Century Palestine. But what if, instead of being a lesson about balancing prayer and service, the story of Mary and Martha is about Jesus praising Mary for being completely unbalanced? What if Mary’s choice to sit at his feet, going against all norms of hospitality and breaking with the traditional gender roles of her day, is an example of the kind of all-in, shoot-the-moon, audacious devotion Jesus wants from his disciples? 

Remember, this entire chapter of the Gospel of Luke has been about how hearing the Word and then doing it is bound to tick some people off. At the beginning of chapter 10, Jesus sent out the seventy on a mission like “lambs in the midst of wolves”, asking them to take nothing with them—no purse, no bag, and no sandals. And if, on their journey, any town should turn them away? Jesus said, “Go out into the streets and say: ‘Even the dust of your town that clings to our feet, we wipe off in protest against you.” Go, says Jesus—and never mind what other people say. 

Then, in the Parable of the Good Samaritan, Jesus tells a very earnest lawyer the story of a priest and another holy man who, concerned about appearances and cultural expectations, refused to help a man in need. But a Samaritan—an outcast, who had no reputation to lose anyway—ends up helping the wounded man in the ditch. “Go, and do likewise!” says Jesus.

Both of these scenes, which immediately precede the story of Mary and Martha, make the point abundantly clear: if you want to follow Jesus, you will have to go...go out of your comfort zone. Go outside the box. At times, you may have to go beyond the boundaries of your family’s or your culture’s expectations of you.

And then, when Jesus gets to the sisters’ house, we see Martha ticked off because Mary did just that: she left. She left Martha to do the work. She probably even left the dishes in the sink! She left the traditional woman’s role in the household and took a new place. In her time and place, Mary risked much in order to boldly sit at the feet of Jesus and become his disciple. 

Some scholars believe that this scene, as absurd as it is, remained in the Gospels because early Christians were struggling with the role of women in the church. Were they to be helpful accessories, or vital parts of the mission? Hmmm….not much has changed in 2,000 years, eh? 

As a woman in ministry, the story of Mary and Martha demands my attention. It makes me consider all the faithful women who have served Jesus before me, who risked much to follow God’s call, redefining roles, defying expectations, and paving the way for me to be standing here today.

I give thanks for the many women who attended seminary, earning divinity degrees with no chance of actually being ordained. 

I give thanks for my home pastor, Emlyn Ott, who was called as an unmarried woman to be the first “lady pastor” in Stillwater, Oklahoma, and who I’m told for years endured parishioners parking at the end of her street at night to be sure she wasn’t having wild parties or dating any of the church members.

I give thanks for deaconesses and lay preachers, for pastor’s wives, altar guilds, WELCA circles, Sunday school teachers, Bible study leaders, and all the other women whose faithful service and bold witness slowly changed the church’s attitudes about women.

I give thanks for my Grandma Goldie, who worked in a hatchery by day and as a switchboard operator by night; who ran the cash register and the rest of the business at the family hardware store (and probably tied that ruffled apron around my grandpa’s waist to teach him a lesson!) Her tremendous devotion to Jesus planted the first seeds of faith in my heart, and I’m pretty sure she would be thrilled to see that her grand-daughter is now a “lady pastor.”

I give thanks for all of these women—and the many others—who challenged expectations, crossed boundaries and redefined roles, risking ridicule and persecution, all for the sake of serving Jesus Christ. But most of all, I give thanks for the privilege of serving Jesus Christ, crucified and risen, my comforter and my teacher, the prince of peace and true bread from heaven, the alpha and the omega. A place at his feet is the best seat in the house! Amen!

Sisters and brothers in Christ, fellow disciples: Jesus said there is need of only one thing: to hear the Word of God, and to do what the Lord requires. The call is not the same for everyone! But God is still speaking. And where the Lord calls, the Spirit equips—in spite of protests or the expectations of others, and in spite of the world’s worries and distractions, Jesus invites you to sit at his feet. This is truly the better part—and it will not be taken away from us. Amen.

Sunday, July 14, 2013

SERMON FOR SUNDAY, JULY 14, 2013

Luke 10:25-37 

PREACHER: Pastor Carrie Smith

Grace and peace to you from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ. Amen. 

Today’s Gospel lesson, commonly referred to as the Story of the Good Samaritan, is probably the most frequently used bible reference in our culture. While many may not remember the details (why did Jesus tell the story? where was the man going? how many passed by first?) the basics are well-known, and the phrase “Good Samaritan” itself is used liberally. News reporters especially love to throw the phrase around. A few days ago, a quick search of Google News produced these headlines: 

From Kentucky: “Video catches Good Samaritan coming to the rescue” (this about a man who chased down and tackled a purse-snatcher!)

In Texas: “Good Samaritan puts up 500K to free Texas teen facing prison time”

In New York: “Good Samaritan helps toddler who fell on Metro tracks”

In China: “Good Samaritans pay the price for rescue gone wrong” – this about two teenage boys who must pay a cash settlement after failing to rescue their friends. 

And then there was an article entitled “The Traffic Jam and the Good Samaritan”, which outlined the merits and drawbacks of letting other cars merge into your lane when you are in heavy traffic.

Judging from these few headlines, we can determine that in everyday usage, the term “Good Samaritan” means something like “anyone who does anything helpful for anyone else”, but may be especially appropriate if it’s something dramatic or life-threatening. Or, apparently, if you’re in Chicago traffic…

This simplistic interpretation of Jesus’ parable leaves a few things out, of course. In recent years, preachers have been anxious to emphasize how Christians today cannot truly understand what a joke it was to call someone a “Good Samaritan”. Pairing these words together was a bit like saying “The Honest Illinois Governor”. Samaritans were neither good nor ritually clean nor in any way a neighbor to Jews of good standing. In other words, when Jesus told this parable, he made sure the person who stopped to help was not only the last person you would expect to see doing such a thing—he was also the last person from whom you would want to receive such help. 

While I agree that the oddness of the “Good Samaritan” moniker should probably be more often emphasized (especially to those who write the news headlines), it seems to me we face a much greater challenge in understanding this parable today. To make my point, let’s try a little experiment.

Please take out the scrap paper that was handed to you with your bulletin this morning, and then find something to write with. First, I want you to draw a large tic tac toe board. In the middle square, write your name. And now, in the other squares, as quickly as you can, list the names of your neighbors—the people who live on all sides in your neighborhood. Go!

 OK…now raise your hand if you were able to fill in every square. Keep your hands up if you know all their last names, too! 

Now, a further challenge: Put your hands down and circle the neighbors you have actually talked to in the last week. 

Now, put a star by those neighbors you would feel comfortable asking for help—and by help, I mean more than a cup of sugar. Let’s say a ride to the airport, or watching your kids at the last minute, or helping out when you have a medical emergency.

…

So, how did you do? Are you surprised with the results? Is there room for improvement?

…

My hope is that you are seeing, as I do, that our challenge in understanding the Parable of the Good Samaritan today has less to do with who the Samaritan was, or even who our neighbor is, and more about what it means to be a neighbor.  

What does it mean to be a neighbor today? We may not pass by on the other side if we see our neighbor lying in the ditch—but how many neighbors do we actually talk to before we drive into the garage and close the door? You may know your neighbors’ names and even their kids’ names—but do you know their struggles? Their joys? Their dreams? Do they know yours?

In the last few years of our dismal economy, I’m sure some of you may have had the experience of a neighbor being suddenly gone, with only a “foreclosed” sign left in the yard. Did you know they were struggling? How long had they been carrying that burden alone, hiding it from the neighborhood?

When the lawyer in today’s Gospel lesson asked Jesus, “Who is my neighbor?” he expected a legal interpretation about who could be considered a neighbor—and, more importantly, who could be left out. But Jesus, in his usual way, turned the original question on its head and instead told a story about how to be a neighbor. Who was the neighbor to the man in the ditch? “The one who showed him mercy” answered the lawyer. And Jesus said, “Go, and do likewise.” 

Go, and do likewise. These were challenging and confusing words for the lawyer, and they are the same for us today. You see, I think we are so much more like the lawyer than we’d like to admit. We, like the lawyer, want Jesus’ lesson to be about how to identify our neighbors. And, because we’ve heard the story before, we think we already know the answer—Jesus says, “Everyone is your neighbor! Even the person in the ditch. And even the Samaritan.”

So we nod and say enthusiastically, “That’s right, Jesus—and that’s why we would never pass by someone lying in a ditch, no matter who they are. We will be Good Samaritans, if we ever have the opportunity!”

And then we drive home, and into the garage, and push the button for the garage door that separates us from the pain, and grief, and sorrow of our actual neighbors. Being a “Good Samaritan” is reserved for the dramatic or extraordinary moments; but being a “neighbor”—even to people we don’t like—is no more challenging than a quick wave and a card at Christmas. So, Jesus says everyone is a neighbor? No problem! We got this.

This morning, on a day when our country is reeling from a court verdict which makes us all question what it means to be a neighbor, it is right for us to ask: What does Jesus mean when he tells us to “Go and do likewise?” 

Remember, the lawyer’s original question was “What must I do to inherit eternal life?” Said in a different way, we might understand his question as “I know there’s something beyond this rat race. I know there’s a different way to be in the here and now, as well as in the hereafter. Tell me how to do it!”

When Jesus’ first answer—that the lawyer should do what he has already been taught (love God and love your neighbor)—wasn’t satisfying, he gets specific:

Let me tell you a story, says Jesus.

Let me tell you about what it can be like when people stop seeing each other as either Jew or Samaritan, insider or outsider, gay or straight, black or white; as either neighborhood watch or a threat to the neighborhood. You may find that love casts out your fear.

Let me tell you about what it can be like when you stop judging people from a far, and instead get close enough to hear their stories. You may find that they share your pain. 

Let me tell you what it can be like when you let others close enough to show you mercy and love. You may find out the neighborhood is bigger than you imagined.

Let me tell you what it can be like when you get in the ditch—or open the garage door, or better yet, the front door—and love your neighbor as you would love yourself. 

Sisters, brothers, neighbors in Christ: Jesus sends us outside of our tiny little boxes, all in a row, and into the messy ditch of life with others. Is this kind of Good Samaritan, “all-in” love a scary thing? Absolutely! But we know that “perfect love casts out fear”. And as followers of Jesus, we believe this is the kind of God we serve, after all—a God who did not keep us at arm’s length, and who did not pass us by, but who came near to us in Jesus Christ, our savior, our healer, our comforter, our brother, and our neighbor. 

So when we “go and do likewise”, we go boldly and with confidence, knowing that Jesus is already there. He’s already been down this road. He’s already been to the ditch, and to the courtroom, and to the hospital, and to the funeral home, and to the cross with us. Thanks be to God!

Now, to end this sermon today, I will leave you with one more challenge. Turn that scrap paper over, and make another tic tac toe board. Put yourself in the middle again. 

And now, this time, please fill in the squares with the names of the people sitting around you in the pews. To your left and right, but also in front and behind you! Don’t worry, I’ll give you a moment.

If there are any empty spaces, I would ask you to take a moment during the passing of the peace to fill them in. Talk to your neighbors. Find out their names. And if you already know their names—take it one step further. How are they doing? How can you pray for them? How can they pray for you? People of God—go, and do likewise. Amen.