When we come to this parable of the good Samaritan, we often focus on just the people in the story. We also could look at the location this occurred. Jesus says the man was going on the road from Jerusalem to Jericho. During the life of Christ, this road was one of the most dangerous roads in the known world. It was a winding path, with many hills and places where bandits could and did hide. Jesus tells us this man was in the most dangerous part of town. The place is known as the “bloody pass.”
Then we are moved to see that everyone who comes by should be the person to help him in our minds. Yet, they all have excuses for not doing so. The priest and the Levite know that bandits could still be in waiting. They also believe that touching blood makes them unclean, so they couldn’t touch him without making them impure and unable to do their jobs. Plus, couldn’t the man be faking? In our modern era, we see people waving down cars pretending to be in distress, only to steal the vehicle and the person’s money, sometimes their life.
The shocking part of the story was the Samaritan was the last person that those listening to Jesus speak would have thought to have been the one to offer help. Israelites, for the most part, despised the Samaritans. They talked about them as if they were the enemy, the other, “those people.” In most stories, the man would have been mugged by the Samaritans, or the Samaritans would be the bandits waiting to attack you if you tried to help.
What I want to focus on today, though, is the question being asked here. We often ask questions to set boundaries, to find the limits of something. The lawyer, in this case, asks: “Who is my neighbor?” He’s looking for the limit; how far do I have to go, how far do I have to stretch before its out of my reach? How far do my mercy and God’s love have to extend around me before it’s out of bounds? I’ve been seeing videos of people making crazy statements when it comes to their boundaries with work and family lately. An employee asked in an interview, “do I really have to be here at 10 am every day”? Or a farm hand asking, “What is the least I can do and keep this job?” A babysitter put on her resume that she would only change three diapers a day, even if more changes were needed. Maybe the most outrageous was a grandmother asking a judge in a courtroom, “how many hours do I have to spend with my grandkids”? We have a heart problem in the world today. That’s what is behind those questions being asked. The heart. The motivation.
Because we know a correct answer is never a number. Just planting the right number of plants isn’t enough; you have to work the soil and fix anything that breaks at night. Changing three diapers a shift isn’t going to cut it. If the baby has a bad day, it might be seven. And when it comes to our children and grandkids? Who can set a limit on the right number of minutes a day or hours a week when the honest answer is to be present and let them know you are there when they need you.
The story of the Samaritan could be put into two opposition questions too. The Levite and the priest who passed by seemed to be asking their own question about the victim: “If I help this man, what will happen to me?” They looked at the danger of the situation and the laws of their faith and avoided it out of fear for their safety. But the Samaritan’s response offers a better question, “If I don’t help this man, what will happen to him?” That answered the lawyer’s question: “Who is my neighbor?” Everyone. Everyone in need is our neighbor. The questions we ask aren’t to be as much about ourselves but others. Love God and love your neighbor as yourself.
So we must ask ourselves, what is our motivation? The Church tells us the bare minimums we must do to be Catholic. Again, we like to set boundaries to have clear answers. What do I have to do to be Catholic?
1) to attend Mass on Sundays and other holy days of obligation and to refrain from work and activities which could impede the sanctification of those days;
2) to confess one’s sins, receiving the sacrament of Reconciliation at least once each year;
3) to receive the sacrament of the Eucharist at least during the Easter Season;
4) to abstain from eating meat and to observe the days of fasting established by the Church; and
5) to help to provide for the material needs of the Church, each according to his own ability.”
These are the bare minimums. It’s like those questions before “what is the least I can do and keep this job.” “How much time do I have to spend with Jesus to be in a relationship?” and so forth. Jesus reminds us today that the minimum is never the bar set for ourselves. The answer to the question is not just these five things, but to be the kind of person who shows mercy to others. Yes, these five are essential. They are things we should be doing. But Jesus looks at us intently through the lens of the Gospel today and tells us the story of a man who thought not of himself but the other person. A man who asked not what would happen to him if he helped but what would happen to his neighbor if he didn’t. Then he says to our hearts today, “Go and do likewise.”
Don’t aim for the minimum. Don’t try to squeak by just barely over the bar. Desire for love, strive for mercy, aim for Heaven.
A homily for the 15th Sunday in Ordinary Time. Year C: July 10th, 2022