In The Quiet

Back in January when I visited the Holy Land, the Dominican guiding us on our journey suddenly turned to me and said, “Do you think the pilgrims would like a surprise?”

“Sure,” I said, thinking maybe we were going for ice cream. Ice cream is always a good surprise.

About a half hour later, the bus took a turn down a dirt road, off the paved highways and away from the familiar. Father Pawel told us that we were on the road that went from Jerusalem to Jericho, and reminded us what had happened on this road two millennia before. As Jesus had told the story, this path was not one to be traveled alone, lest a band of thugs leave you lying on the road, dying in the sun.

The bus stopped and we were invited to take a walk. There were some Bedouins selling their wares on the side of the road and Fr. Pawel joked, “Special deal, just for you,” as we headed up the hill. After a few hundred feet, we crested the hill and gasped.

We were in the Judean Desert. Nothing for miles around us but hillsides of sand and rocks. But before us, as if in a movie, was a monastery cut into the vast ravine that lie just ahead. To fall into the space between where we stood and this magnificent edifice would kill you so we stood in silence on our side of the valley taking it all it.

There was no noise. No airplanes or passing cars. No clicks of the cameras or tweets being sent. Nothing.

Then Fr. Pawel pointed out an aqueduct, built by the Romans and still carrying water today. It was cut into the hillside and brings water from the springs to Jerusalem. Once he mentioned the water, you could not un-hear it. The silence was now broken by the deafening sound of running water as it poured down the path it had followed for centuries, past one loan tree, the only sign of life in this barren land.

We spent about thirty minutes in prayer just taking it all in.

I think it might be the last time I experienced such quiet.

As we boarded the bus and headed back to the main road, I kept thinking about wonder and awe. Nobody seems amazed by anything anymore. We seem to have lost our sense of astonishment. Perhaps that is why the experience of the eclipse last summer was so memorable for my children; it was awesome in the truest sense of the word.

This week, find something remarkable. Be awed by something, not because you cannot believe how idiotic or mundane it is, but because it reminds you of the presence of a God who never lets go.

Let the waters of wonder and awe wash over you this week and stand still.

Stand. Still.

(Then, you should have some ice cream. Being amazed can make you hungry.)

Just Arrogant Enough

Take a look at this morning’s Gospel reading and read between the lines.

To understand the metaphor, understand the Samaritans: bastard Jews – religiously and biologically. In 581, Babylonians moved into Samaria and intermarry with Jews there. You cannot do this if you want to keep the religion and the culture pure. By marrying their captors, the Samaritans “gentiled themselves,” at least in the eyes of a “good Jew.” In 535, at the end of the exilic period, the Jews come back to Judea and seek to build a Temple. The Samaritans offer to help. Jews say, “No thanks” (not after you married your captors)…so Samaritans build there own.

Now look at this morning’s reading: the Scribe who asks the question ‘who is my neighbor’ should know the answer but asks anyway (there’s one in every class). Jesus got the Scribe to put two things together that a good Jew cannot – Samaritan and neighbor. To the Scribe, the Samaritan is beyond the pale of God’s forgiveness. For Jesus, that just isn’t possible.

To the Jews listening to Jesus tell the story, the next expected category (after priest and deacon (Levite)), would be a Jewish layperson but Jesus gives this coveted spot to a Samaritan, who is moved with compassion.

The hearer of the story discovers that God’s love is limitless. To the Jew of Jesus’ time, love is limited – not everyone is my neighbor. If God’s love is limitless, so must yours be, Jesus tells the hearer. So must ours.

No one listening is surprised that the Priest and Levite do not touch the guy in the ditch. If either had stopped to help, they would become unclean and would need to go through all sorts of rituals for getting ‘unsuspended’ – they kept the law. For those listening, the point is not to help the one in the ditch, but in keeping the law.

But in keeping man’s law, they broke God’s law, which raises the question: is the law made for us, or are we made for the law?

A priest could not raise this question. Neither could a deacon. It was up to a previously rejected; ostracized, humiliated, last resort of a character to make this clear for those struggling to believe.

God takes the weak and makes them strong.

So where is the arrogance the title suggests? It’s mine. I am just arrogant enough, I said to a friend the other day, that I edit Luke’s Gospel when I read chapter ten. You see, I think the Samaritan said something to the man in the ditch. I think he bent down and whispered something that Luke forgot to write down.

It is the same whispering that compelled people into action last week when the shooting started. It was the same message that made strangers carry strangers, cover each other, and hold a lifeless body until help arrived.

“I do not wish to be saved without you.”

That is what the Samaritan says in my head as he bends down to care for the sick, dress the wounds, and lug him to safety.

“I do not wish to be saved without you.”

You matter to God, so you matter to me. No matter what you look like, what your DNA says about you, or how you identify yourself as a child of God. You matter. You are His and therefore you matter to me.

I do not wish to be saved without you.

That. Changes. Everything.

~pjd

The Ditch

I’ve been thinking all weekend about Sunday’s Gospel reading. It is one of my favorite parables and I used to love when it would come up in class when I was teaching. But as I reflect on the events of the last year or so, the parable has taken on new meaning for me as I wonder how that scenario would play out in today’s world.

Someone would probably have video taped the attack on the man as he traveled down the dangerous road and then they would have posted it online. Every talk show would be checking in with experts to discuss why the priest and the Levite did not stop to help the man in the ditch and how much culpability they shared in the man’s plight. The Samaritan would be hailed as a hero and his story would be made into a movie.

But others would ask: “Why couldn’t the man just get up on his own?” “Why do the priest and Levite get a pass?” “Why does the Samaritan get honored for doing what he ought to do?”

They would ask those question because they have never been in a ditch.

The reality is the man couldn’t get up. I imagine it might have been because of the beating he experienced at the hands of the robbers. But most people know it isn’t always a physical reason that lands you in a ditch. Once in a great while you experience something so powerful and painful that you simply cannot help yourself. Call it depression. Call it addiction. Call it a crisis. Call it whatever you want. It’s an abyss, a darkness, and it can envelop you.

How we respond to those in the ditch says an awful lot about where we are in our own journey. It says a lot about who we are as children of God.

The truth is we are always on a journey. We are, by our nature, unfinished. By the grace of God, we are always longing for more. We must be patient. With ourselves. With each other. We must, in the words of Teilhard de Chardin, “trust in the slow work of God.”

But being unfinished is not an excuse to ignore the need around us. Longing for more does not give us permission to pass by on the other side of the road.

Who around you sits in darkness this week? Who around needs a hand? Who among you lies helpless in a ditch?

And what do you plan to do about it?

 

 

Artwork: “The Good Samaritan” by Paula Modersohn-Becker, 1907.