Sermon: Parable of the Good Samaritan

Luke 10:25-37 – Flipping the Script

You know the script, don’t you? Shouldn’t we all be “Good Samaritans”? If we see a person in need, no matter who they are, whether they’re dirty, whether they smell bad, no matter if they act a little strange, a Good Samaritan will extend help to that person. We know what a Good Samaritan is.

Did you find out about Good Samaritan laws the same way I did? Princess Diana dies in a high-speed car crash in Paris. Now, look: don’t jump to conclusions. I am not a celebrity follower. I am not into the Royal Family. It’s just, you couldn’t avoid the story. She, her boyfriend, and her driver were apparently trying to escape the paparazzi, the car went out of control, and well….

That’s when we heard about the Good Samaritan laws. In France and in some other countries, they have Good Samaritan laws. If someone is in need, like Princess Di was in need, you’re legally obliged to help them. Like, you can go to jail if you pass by and don’t help. So there was some discussion about the paparazzi: should they go to jail if they saw the accident and did nothing to help?

To be sure, we should be glad there’s the Good Samaritan script. I mean, human nature ain’t all that great. Every time the psychologists test whether we’ll go to much trouble to help someone we don’t know, especially if we’re in a group, we don’t test out all that well. We can be kind of selfish, we humans.

We need reminders to be kind to people, kind to one another. We need somebody watching. If we didn’t have social rules, if we didn’t have expectations, maybe we wouldn’t look out for other people. So maybe the Good Samaritan script, overall, is a good thing.

So that’s the script. Lovers of Jesus are supposed to be Good Samaritans, offering help to people in need, even when it’s costly – even when it’s risky – to ourselves. You know the script, don’t you?

This morning, I’m here to flip the script.

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Jesus flipped the script. He flipped the lawyer’s script, and he’s flipping our script today. Jesus didn’t tell the story of the Good Samaritan to get us to be good people. He didn’t tell it to get us to be generous. He told the story because he wanted to flip the script.

We often forget that the parable of the Good Samaritan doesn’t stand alone. Jesus tells the parable in the middle of a conversation. And that conversation is everything.

This conversation Jesus has is not friendly. First off, it’s with a lawyer. Hey, now. I did not tell a lawyer joke. You laughed on your own. I’m married to a lawyer, and I have to go home.

But seriously, the lawyer is an expert in the teachings of Israel. He’s learned. He could engage Jesus in a serious, constructive theological conversation – wouldn’t that be nice? But instead, Luke tells us, the lawyer just wants to test Jesus. He wants to judge whether Jesus knows his stuff. Maybe, probably, he wants to show Jesus up. His question, “Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?”, isn’t a real question. It’s fake. Just a test.

And guess what? Jesus flips the script. Jesus turns the question on the lawyer: “How does it look to you, Lawyer Buddy? You know the law? What do you think?”

Because, you see, whenever someone asks you a question, and they think they already know the answer, whenever that happens, you’re probably looking at a hostile question. The lawyer already knows the answer. Lots of people knew the answer: You want eternal life? Love God, and love your neighbor.

Fine, Jesus says. Maybe this conversation is over. We can move on now….

But it’s not over. The lawyer is humiliated. He asked a question, thinking he was going to judge Jesus, but Jesus wound up judging him. It’s obvious to everybody what happened. Jesus flipped his script.

Look at Luke’s language. “Seeking to justify himself….” This is what we do when we embarrass ourselves. When we’ve dug ourselves a little hole, we just pick up the shovel again and try to dig our way out. “Seeking to justify himself,” he asks, “Who is my neighbor?” Jesus has flipped the script, so now we have another question.

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And look at that question: “Who is my neighbor?” Think about this question. Let it sink in. Let it sink in deep. It is a dangerous question. “Who is my neighbor?” is a dangerous question to ask.

Because who asks that question? Who asks, “Who is my neighbor?”

The lawyer stands in the place of privilege. He assumes he will always be the one others need help from. You only ask, “Who is my neighbor?” from that place of privilege. From a place of presumed security. That place where you think you don’t need anybody’s help, but they might need yours.

So the lawyer wants to know how far his love should go. How wide the circle of obligation extends. Who deserves his help.

Look at that question: “Who is my neighbor?” It’s a dangerous question because it puts us in the seat of privilege.  

And think. Is there a bigger question in our society? Who is my neighbor? I’m white. Are those kids, those Honduran and Salvadoran and Nicaraguan kids at the border, are they my neighbors? I make a professional salary, and my kids are out of the house. Are those kids in the poorer school districts, are they my neighbors? I’m straight. When the government starts taking health care from gay partners, from trans people, from folks whose gender doesn’t conform, is it worth my time to get up and do something about it – because are they my neighbors?

Are we tired of all the potential neighbors? The children’s detention centers, the ICE raids, the forcing federal employees to move on short notice, the lack of relief to Puerto Rico, the assaults on queer folk, the assaults on schools. Are we tired? Because most of the time, for most of us, we can check in and out.

That question, “Who is my neighbor?”, it’s a deadly question because it sets us above everyone else. If I don’t need more neighbors, only if I don’t need more neighbors, will I ask, “Who is my neighbor?”

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So Jesus flips the script one more time. He won’t answer the question. Totally stonewalls the question. Instead of answering that question – that dangerous, privileged, snotty question – Jesus tells a story.

Some guy – that’s the way the parable begins in Greek – “a certain man” is on the road, headed down from Jerusalem to Jericho. Some guy like you.

Ever been afraid you might get jumped? Might get mugged? I’m sure it’s happened to some of you. Ever been afraid, walking down the street? Maybe the lights are low? Maybe nobody will see it? Ever been afraid?

Jesus flips the script. Ever imagined yourself jumped, robbed, beaten, left for dead? Ever had that cold, hollow feeling in your gut that it could be you?

Flips the script. “Hey, buddy, if you were that guy, wouldn’t you just hope you had a neighbor? Wouldn’t you take help from anyone who might pass by? Supposing you were the one beaten up, can’t help yourself, hey, if it were you, would you be asking that question, ‘Who is my neighbor?’”

The hell you would. The hell I would. I’d be needing a neighbor right then, wouldn’t you?

If it’s a priest, that’s great. Thank you.

But if the priest passes by and it’s a Levite, still good. Thank you.

And if it’s a Samaritan, or a crazy fundamentalist, or a Muslim, or a Honduran refugee, or a supporter of that politician – ordinarily I make not like that person. Ordinarily, I would avoid that person. Ordinarily, I might pass by that person.

But if it’s me, or if it’s you, in a world of hurt… you and I will take any neighbor we can get.

That’s flipping the script. What if you, what if I, are the helpless one needing a neighbor? What does, “Who is my neighbor mean then?”

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This is where grace happens. Grace flips the script.

Grace shows us that we may think we’re tough; we may judge others because we have survived, or thrived, or overcome. We may think we are secure. Grace flips that script and shows us our need for our neighbors.

Grace is where we meet Jesus.

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I suppose Mister Rogers had it right. We get to choose our question. Will we ask, “Who is my neighbor?” Or will we look at the world and sing, “Won’t you be my neighbor?”

Because the distance between those two questions is miles and miles and miles.

One man never asked the question. Didn’t get the chance.

Two men passed him by – they weren’t looking for a neighbor that day.

And one man, a Samaritan of all things, saw a neighbor – and he proved himself a neighbor.

Now go and do likewise.