Reflection #1

Reflections on: Deut. 30:9-14, Ps 25:1-10, Col 1:1-14, Luke 10:25-37  

By way of definition, I am a Canadian, a Christian, and an Anglican. I am a seminarian. I am female. I am a pilgrim in the Holy Land. I am a guest. I am a traveller on a journey.

I see in any one of these definitions, limits and boundaries. My reactions to scenarios are largely based on these identities. Of course, generally speaking I like rules. They provide me with structure and order in an otherwise chaotic world and help me know who I am in contrast to those around me. Sometimes I feel compelled to push these boundaries, refusing to be confined by them. Other times I accept them, almost blindly, as simply the understood rule or tradition given my role. Often I am wildly unaware of what I am following or why.

One of the most uncomfortable things for me as a pilgrim is not knowing what the rules are, or feeling obligated to adjust my etiquette to be appropriate to the time and space I’m in. For example, am I modestly-enough dressed? Is it improper to show my tattoos? How do my turns of phrases translate in Arabic or Hebrew? How does my role in the Church in Jerusalem change from that in Ottawa, Canada?

As I was reflecting on this week’s Gospel reading of the Good Samaritan, it was the simplicity of the message that struck me first: living compassionately rather than self centered; loving, rather than being hateful; being vulnerable rather than rigidly protectionist.

The lawyer who attempted to test Jesus about how to gain eternal life appears to know the answer to his challenge: “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 neighbour as yourself.” And his response is confirmed as right. But this message is not as clean-cut as we think at first glance.

Jesus uses the parable as an example of how the lawyer should radically reassessment his notion of neighbour. Neighbour is not restricted to those we like, those we feel safe with…those like us. Rather, it includes anyone you meet, regardless of their station in life, without distinction of race, nationality or religion. In today’s context, we could replace Samaritan with Jew, Christian or Muslim, Westerner, Arab, male or female…That which is opposite from one’s self. Our neighbour is any person in need, and compassion and mercy ought to be offered without their having to ask and without prejudice.

            The question is whether we ourselves are neighbourly? Whether we are friendly, kind, helpful, considerate, caring, cooperative, amicable, merciful, and compassionate? Do we love our fellow human beings as ourselves? Do we see each person we encounter as an equal?

            If Jesus’ neighbourliness is the one to imitate, what does that mean for us? Sure, we can hold a door open, give up our seat on the bus to a pregnant woman or help a child in the Old City lift his cart up over a curb. But Jesus ate with sinners and tax collectors, with unclean lepers and the undesirables of society. The equivalent for us could be drug dealers, leaders of crime rings, religious extremists or child abusers. He offered not just compassion that was expected, he took it to a level that would leave even the most liberal among us with a sour taste in our mouths.

            To do what Jesus demands by example of the parable, we must expose ourselves to the road that leads from Jerusalem to Jericho. As I learned for myself just this week, that road is steep, rocky, secluded and excessively hot. In Jesus’ time it was open game for thieves. While priests and Levites appeared to be safe from the threat, as suggested by their seemingly natural tendency to travel the road, others were defenceless prey.

            Through the Samaritan, Jesus calls us to be radical. To be openly vulnerable, not only to the natural elements of the road, but in the manner in which we offer hospitality and intimacy in each encounter we have on our journey. In fact, he calls us not to wait for the encounter to reach us, but to welcome it when it presents itself and even to seek it out. In contrast to the priest and the Levite who passed by the man who was beaten and left for dead, the Samaritan—who was despised on account of his own beliefs and practices—was moved by the other’s plight. He refused to be confined by those rules that would render him emotionless, but to respond to his feelings of compassion and mercy.

I realized we all have both a little of the lawyer and the Samaritan in us. We each have moments when we find ourselves challenging others in an attempt to justify ourselves—when we take refuge in the safety, comfort and limits of the rules. Likewise, we have moments when we find the rules too narrow in their definition and we break from tradition for the good of another.

In my own journey through the Holy Land, I have been forced to turn the finger I point outward inward toward myself. I quickly discovered where my sympathies lie in the political conflict of this region and while I have listened to activists on both sides of the debate, I bring my own fear and resentment to those conversations. I realize I must be more radical in my reassessment—to appreciate that those who suffer on one side of the debate are not alone in their suffering when you consider the other side. I am called to offer compassion and love to those whose views I strongly oppose and whose actions make every fibre in my body scream in protest.

This parable I originally set out describing as simple or obvious, is anything but when we realize it goes against our instincts. When we realize it demands we give up the rules that govern our identity as anything other than a beloved child of God. When we realize that in the great commandment, we cannot separate our love of God from love of ourselves and love of each other. When we realize that loving our neighbour includes those who despise or scare us. When we realize we cannot be passive in our love but are called to action. Because it is these big leaps which move us ever closer to God’s presence.

            So how do we get more comfortable with this commandment?

First, I was reminded how when I was in grade three, I struggled so much with my multiplication tables that I nearly failed the year. My parents made me recite my times tables every night until I could respond almost instinctively to a random question of what 8 X 8 equals. There is some logic to this method, I think.

Here at St. George’s we hear during each Eucharistic celebration the commandment to “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 neighbour as yourself.” As we read in Deuteronomy: “the word is very near to you; it is in your mouth and in your heart for you to observe.” In other words, much like my reciting math equations, the repetitive call to love reminds us of our obligation not only to receive God’s commandment, but to live it. After constant repetition we begin to internalize the commandment and our heart conforms to it. In theory, it becomes instinctual and second nature for us to love God, ourselves, and others.

Second, Paul’s letter to the Colossians reminds us that even when we struggle with loving each other, our fellow believers join us in prayer, asking on our behalf for a share in God’s gifts of wisdom, understanding and knowledge. Our joint prayers effectively work to change our hearts and minds, bringing us closer to Christ. Eventually, all that we do in our lives—our work, our relationships—emulate our unceasing prayers.

Canadian, Christian, Anglican, seminarian, female, pilgrim, guest, traveller. I remain all of these things. But regardless of the rules associated with any one of these identities and regardless of how I feel my identity challenged along my journey, I am always called to love with my entire person, un-reluctantly, even in the face of adversity. Only by doing this in all manner of my life do I live up to my potential as a child of God.