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 Rejoicing and the Way |
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14 October 2007 Boundaries have their place. They help us define our world. Boundaries define the farthest limits of the sea. They allow cattle ranchers and wheat farmers to co-exist in a reasonable manner. They keep unwanted elements like summer heat out and wanted elements like air conditioning in. But precisely because boundaries separate us from one another, they make the business of creating community a challenge. It is no accident that many of the major developments we now see have policies against the six-foot fences that mar the urban landscape. As Robert Frost observed so poetically, fences do not make good neighbors. But even invisible fences can be breached. When I got off Amtrak to meet John in Newark yesterday noon, I didn’t realize my purse was missing till the train was already continuing toward the Big Apple. Lines for everything from the Amtrak counter to security were at least three people deep, and precious minutes slid by. Then John’s cell phone rang. It was the woman who had been across the aisle from me. She declined to give me her name, but said my purse would be waiting for me at the Crown Plaza Hotel in Times Square. One of the lasting gifts of the old TV series Star Trek and in many ways of Star Wars its far more violent spinoff, was its recognition that foreign simply means different from the host culture. That the foreigner often brings gifts and skills, needed by the dominant group. That the foreigner enhances the host’s perspective and understanding. Even though our son Jeffry speaks English as his native language, and at least in theory brings gifts of the biochemical marine sciences to their mutual study of the Great Barrier Reef, he is a foreigner in Australia. In another realm entirely, Captain Kirk would have been lost without Spock; Hans Solo would have been toast without – well, just about everybody – but I was thinking first of Wookie Chewbacca. Star Trek especially promoted affirmation of diversity with its crew on the bridge that included Sulu and Uhura. These cultural milestones are hard won. Historically, openness to the gifts of others is an uphill climb. Fear plays tag with compassion and generosity and wins major rounds. Just last week, Frederick commissioners defeated a proposal to deny public education to all children whose parents cannot prove that they are in the community legally. The interment of Japanese Americans during World War II or J. Edgar Hoover’s communist under every bed forever vie with FDR’s chicken in every pot and the inscription on the Statue of Liberty. Not that this is only a phenomenon of globalization. The biblical impulse to accept and affirm is equally checkered. Early Hebrews were enjoined to treat their neighbors fairly; but neighbors by definition were other Hebrews. They were enjoined to be just to foreigners, but initially foreigners were defined as converts to Jewish faith. In time, the vision expanded to include the stranger, the sojourner. It is to the everlasting credit of our Jewish and Christian forebears that our canon includes the books of Ruth and Jonah, which reflect that more inclusive theology. The early Christian church betrays the same struggles. Exclusive claims to a relationship with Jesus compete with more open perspectives. Any of the gospel stories which mention Samaritans are code for this struggle. And of all the gospel writers, Luke seems to be most tuned in to the tension and the gift we experience when we are faced with difference. In this morning’s story – unique to Luke – we have Jesus and his disciples geographically and therefore socially and theologically placed in the region between Samaria and Galilee. Ten men with “leprosy” – that catch-all diagnosis covering any skin condition that forces individuals to life outside the one in which they’d lived before. Outside the family and community that had birthed and nurtured them. Outside the ‘hood where they’d played and eaten and slept. And this same condition catalogued these men into a new kind of community – an association forced by need and the dictates of the prevailing culture. Necessity mandated that these men move from home and family; necessity mandated these men to keep their distance; they had no options but to beg the mercy of any passerby. Any immigrant—documented or not—has worn those shoes as they navigate that precarious boundary between outsider and supplicant. So there, outside the village gates, Jesus is confronted with these men, real people with real needs. He doesn’t complicate the issue by asking for citizenship papers or running a means test. He doesn’t even make them listen to his sermon on the plain. He simply is available to them, willing and open to their needs, and willing and able to share the gifts he has. The ten – the exact quorum of adult Jewish males needed for a minion, or official worship – are instructed to show themselves to the priests, the boundary-keepers of the village. The priests are the ones whose say-so allows the men back into the community, back to family, back to being productive members of society. As the men go on their way, they are cleansed. Everyone lives happily ever after. Only there’s a catch. Luke takes a cue from the Energizer Bunny, and keeps going. Because Jewish priests aren’t about to welcome a Samaritan into their village, no matter how clean he is, no matter how fluent his Hebrew, no matter how needed his skills in harvesting crops, flipping pancakes, programming computers, or teaching children. The other men who had common cause with the Samaritan in their shared status of outcast, no longer need him to complete the minion. They are about to be part of the in-crowd once again. Not so the Samaritan. The minion is no longer open to him. The Samaritan turns around. But he doesn’t just change direction and head for the other border. He turns back to thank Jesus and praise God. Not a Protestant’s quiet, “I don’t want anyone to know I’m religious” kind of prayer, but a full-voiced thanksgiving to God. Then Jesus has a momentary melt-down. “Where are the other nine? Where are those who have as much reason to be grateful to the God whose covenant we share? Where are those who share my background, my heritage, my culture, my faith tradition? Why is it only the foreigner who returns?” Then Jesus returns to his core values; he returns to himself: “Get up and go on your way; your faith has made you well.” Jesus doesn’t bring the Samaritan into his world; for a moment, the Samaritan brings Jesus into his. It is a world open to the gifts of the foreigner, and is capable of giving thanks. My sari-wearing seatmate on the train came from Bombay 20 years ago. We rode from BWI to Philadelphia in complete silence, invisible boundaries fully erected. But the exchange of a pleasantry breached the wall as we approached the City of Brotherly Love, and we talked the rest of the way to Newark. It is thanks to her that my purse was given to someone who could take it to a reasonably central, reasonably secure location, thanks to her that John received a phone call, thanks to her that my purse was returned. Gary Morsch says it well: “true service is about being available, willing, and open to those in need.”[1, 134] True service also opens the receiver to giving thanks; true service builds community, even for the briefest of moments. * * * [1]“What You Get from Giving,” Body + Soul, September 2007, Volume 24, Issue 6, pages 132-139. |