"Changing the Conversation"

Dr. George Sinclair, Pastor

Amos 7:7-17; Ps. 82; Col. 1:1-14; Luke 10:25-37

July 11, 2010
 

“A lawyer stood up to test Jesus. ‘Teacher,’ he said, ‘what must I do to inherit eternal life?’”

             It’s a simple enough question. You know, like buying tickets to the Jimmy Buffet Concert tonight or applying for a new credit card, joining the Marines: “Where do I sign up? How do I get in? What must I do?”

Ordinarily we don’t do anything to receive an inheritance.  Inheritance is given. Inheritance is not about doing anything. It is about being someone—a son, a daughter, a nephew—we all could use a “rich uncle.” Inheritance is not about doing, but being.  I suppose some wills contain stipulations, terms, conditions that must be met before distributions are made—you know, “I hereby bequeath to my beloved son, the sum of one million dollars provided he . . .” and you fill in the blank. What would you require? Are there terms in your will, conditions that must be met before your children inherit their inheritance?

I was lucky; my mother and father divided their estate equally among four children—no questions asked, no stipulations. We inherited because we were children of Annette and Pete. Our inheritance required one thing—that we were our parents’ children.  I didn’t have to do anything.  My parents did all of the doing. They made me their son. I was their son by virtue of them.

It’s a bit of an oxymoron to ask, “What must I do to inherit eternal life?” But that was the lawyer’s question. Lawyers are careful with words. Lawyers pay attention to words. They are paid for attending to words. I expect the lawyer who stood up to test Jesus was being careful: “What must I do?”

Presbyterians love the lawyer’s question.  We see the set up a million miles away. Any Presbyterian who’s finished, oh, I don’t know, say the 10^th grade, knows there’s nothing you can do to inherit eternal life. Eternal life is God’s gift. Now I know some Protestants require believers to do certain things to inherit eternal life:  Believe in Jesus. Be born again. Follow the Golden Rule.  So yes, there are Protestants who insist that things must be “done” in order to qualify for eternal life. There is no Free Lunch. You must do something to get grace even if that something is receiving grace, which some Protestants compare to opening a gift, maybe one you didn’t even ask for. It’s not a gift until received. A gift is only an offer and not a gift until and unless received. Or so the argument goes.

“Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?”

Maybe it was a trick question.  Luke calls it a test. He says the lawyer “stood up to test Jesus.”  Testing is what teachers do. They question. They inquire.  The lawyer was doing his job.

Matthew and Mark have Jesus answer the question himself. You remember, in their gospels, a lawyer asks Jesus, “Teacher, what is the greatest commandment?”  And Jesus answers, “Love God and love your neighbor.” 

I suspect Jesus was asked that question on more than one occasion. “What’s essential, Jesus? What do you believe?” To think Jesus was asked this question only once and that he gave only one answer stretches credibility.  More likely he was questioned on numerous occasions. So, I’m not surprised Matthew and Mark have a different version. Perhaps Luke’s version is not a different version at all, but a different lawyer on a different day.  And on this day, Jesus doesn’t answer the question. He makes the lawyer answer the question: “What’s written in the law? What do you read?”  We might say, “What does the Bible say? What’s your interpretation?”

  The lawyer answered, “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength, and with all your mind; and your neighbor as yourself.”

If you read the Old Testament carefully, you will not find these two commandments joined together as they are here.  The first half of the lawyer’s answer comes from Deuteronomy, the second from Leviticus.  The lawyer’s combination was not novel. It was common enough among first century Jews.  It’s a bit like meeting a stranger on an airplane.  You exchange pleasantries and pretty soon you get around to “Oh, you’re a Presbyterian. I’ve always wondered what you folks believe.”  At a time like that, you’re not going to recite Calvin’s Institutes or the Westminster Confession.  We don’t do nuance with seatmates. We cut to the chase: “Love God with all you’ve got. Love your neighbor as you love yourself.”   That’s what the lawyer did. He gave Jesus the Reader’s Digest condensed version of first century Jewish belief: “Love God. Love your neighbor.”

“You have given the right answer;” Jesus said, “do this and you will live.”

I wonder why Jesus didn’t worry about “works righteousness?”  Shouldn’t Jesus have been worried about “works righteousness?” His answer lends itself to misunderstanding.  Why didn’t he correct the lawyer? “Oh, no, you’re quite mistaken. You can’t do anything to inherit eternal life. You must believe in me, be born again, become a little child, confess your sin; pray the sinner’s prayer.”  Jesus doesn’t do that at all: “You have answered rightly: love God, love your neighbor. Do this and you will live.”

That should have been the end of the story: “Here’s the answer to the forty million dollar question. Next question please.” Actually there was a next question, “Who is my neighbor?” That’s what the lawyer wanted to know, “Who is my neighbor?” And, as if we didn’t already know, Luke tells us the lawyer asked that question because he want[ed] to justify himself.”  The lawyer was looking for a loophole. Okay, so maybe he simply wanted clarity. Maybe he wanted to make sure he was getting the answer right.  “Who is my neighbor?”  Any way you cut it, Luke says he wanted to “justify himself.”

Why do we try to justify ourselves?  “Officer, I was in the left lane and clearly had the right of way when this guy shot across the intersection and turned in front of me.  Honey, I really meant to be home for supper, but I got this call right when I was leaving the office and I had to take it. I’m sorry your lovely supper is cold.”

Justification is a large Bible word. Paul made it famous: “We have come to believe in Christ Jesus, so that we might be justified by faith in Christ, and not by doing the works of the law.”  To make something just is to make it right.  Paul concluded there are things you and I cannot make right. No amount of good will, effort, reform, repenting, sincerity, austerity, pleading, begging, or praying will make some things right. Some things get so un-right that they can’t be fixed, they can’t be repaired. They must be taken up into God’s mercy. They must be forgiven. There are some things that only God can make right.

“Wanting to justify himself, the lawyer asked, “Who is my neighbor?”

I can identify with the lawyer, can’t you?  I don’t think his question is out of bounds, especially given the stakes.  I mean, we’re talking life and death here.  This is one question you want to get right:  “Who is my neighbor?”  But I wonder why the lawyer didn’t first, or also, ask about God, “What does it mean to love God? How am I supposed to love God?”  Did the lawyer already know that? Did he have that one down? Was that one he didn’t need any justification for? Or, and I think this more likely the case, did the lawyer realize that love for God is nearly indistinguishable from neighbor love?  Or, as John eloquently put it, “How can we love God whom we haven’t seen if we don’t love brothers we do see?” 

I suppose the lawyer could have asked about loving God. And indeed Luke will take up this question in the story of Mary and Martha when Mary is applauded for having chosen the better part by sitting at Jesus’ feet.  The gospel is not one or the other: we go and do and we sit and listen. We love God and we love neighbors. The two are inseparable. The lawyer knows this which is why he coupled the commandments, still he is troubled by the latter, “Who is my neighbor?” 

Notice what Jesus does or what he doesn’t do. He doesn’t give the lawyer a pat answer. Jesus tells a story—“A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho…”  

There was no other way from Jerusalem to Jericho except “down,” 3,300 feet to be precise. Going down to Jericho was like descending into hell, 18 miles of twisting, treacherous mountainous road.  Listeners were not surprised that a certain man fell among robbers on that road. Nor that by chance a priest came down the road and passed by the victim or that a Levite also “passed by.”  Hypocrisy among clerics is ancient. Jesus’ listeners weren’t surprised by these details, but their socks were blown off by what the Samaritan did. The Samaritan was not supposed to stop—Samaritans and Jews had no dealings with each other—think enemies, but when the Samaritan saw the injured man he “was moved with pity.” 

Count the verbs: the Samaritan went to him, bandaged him, poured oil and wine on his wounds, put him on his animal, brought him to the inn, took care of him, and the next day took two denarii and gave them to the innkeeper promising to repay whatever more was needed.

The Samaritan was a doer.  We don’t know anything about his religious sentiments or his creed or maybe we do. Maybe we know everything or at least the one thing we need to know—“he was moved with pity.” 

The parable doesn’t tell us why the Samaritan acts with compassion.  Jesus leaves motive out. Likewise, Jesus never applies the label “good” to the Samaritan. For as long as anyone can remember, the Samaritan has been known as the Good Samaritan, but Jesus never calls him that. Maybe the tag was applied because the traveler was a good Samaritan as opposed to bad Samaritans, which from a Jewish perspective would make sense. Or maybe he was good because he did something good.

For my own two cents, the label detracts from the story. The Samaritan acted as any decent human being should act but, then again, as the priest and Levite demonstrate, decency is not always our default mode, a fact reinforced by Jesus’ question, “Which of the three was a neighbor?”  Not all three showed mercy, only one. Pity, at least from the parable’s telling, is not a given. It is a choice.  And from Jesus’ perspective, showing mercy is the primary way we become neighbors and the primary way we get out of the business of justifying ourselves.

Notice Jesus changes the conversation.  The lawyer began the conversation by asking, “Who is my neighbor?”  Having heard the parable, we expect Jesus to answer: “Well, a neighbor is anyone in need. Neighbors are people mugged by life, those whom God puts in our path.”  But Jesus doesn’t say that. His sleight of hand is critically important. He doesn’t say the guy in the ditch is the neighbor. Instead he asks, “Which of these three was a neighbor”—meaning the Samaritan, the priest or the Levite?  And the lawyer, even if he refuses to name the Samaritan, gets the answer right: “The one who showed mercy.”  The neighbor is not the one in need but the one who shows mercy.

“Who is my neighbor?”

 We know the lawyer is looking for a loophole which is where we look when we want to justify ourselves.  “I’ve got to find some way out of this, some way to keep my righteousness.  I can’t be wrong. I must be right.”  Jesus changes the conversation with an invitation, actually a confrontation: “Get over yourself.  Stop worrying about being right and be a neighbor. Be a neighbor and you will live. Be a neighbor and show mercy. You can continue to justify yourself and you’ll have your own reward, but it will be small and puny compared to the abundant life you’ll find in me.  So stop worrying about being right and start being a neighbor.  Show mercy and you will live.  Show mercy and you will have eternal life.”  Amen.