_THE GOOD SAMARITAN._
LUKE x. 25-37.
It would scarcely have accorded with the traditions of human nature had
the teachers of religion looked favourably upon Jesus. Stepping, as He
did, within their domain, without any human ordination or scholastic
authority, they naturally resented the intrusion, and when the teaching
of the new Rabbi so distinctly contravened their own interpretation of
the law their curiosity deepened into jealousy, and curdled at last into
a virulent hate. The ecclesiastical atmosphere was charged with
electricity, but it only manifested itself at first in the harmless play
of summer lightning, the cross-fire of half-earnest and half-captious
questions; later it was the forked lightning that struck Him down into a
grave.
We have no means of localizing, either in point of time or place, the
incident here recorded by our Evangelist, and which, by the way, only
St. Luke mentions. It stands by itself, bearing in its dependent parable
of the Good Samaritan an exquisite and perfect flower, from whose deep
cup has dropped the very nectar of the gods.
It was probably during one of His public discourses that a "certain
lawyer," or scribe--for the two titles are used interchangeably--"stood
up and tempted Him." He sought to prove Him by questions, as the word
means here, hoping to entrap Jesus amid the vagaries of Rabbinical
tradition. "Teacher," said he, hiding his sinister motive behind a veil
of courtesy and apparent candour, "what shall I do to inherit eternal
life?" Had the question been sincere, Jesus would probably have given a
direct answer; but reading the under-current of his thought, which moved
transversely to the surface-current of his speech, Jesus simply answered
his question by asking another: "What is written in the Law? How readest
thou?" With a readiness which implied a perfect familiarity with the
Law, he replied, "Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart,
and with all thy soul, and with all thy strength, and with all thy mind;
and thy neighbour as thyself." Some expositors have thought that the
Evangelist here gives the summary of what was a lengthened conversation,
and that Jesus Himself led the mind of the lawyer to join together these
detached portions of Scripture--one from Deuteronomy vi. 5, and the
other from Leviticus xix. 18. It is true there is a striking resemblance
between the answer of the lawyer and the answer Jesus Himself gave
subsequently to a similar question (Mark xii. 30, 31); but there is no
necessity for us to apologize for the resemblance, as if it were
improbable and unnatural. The fact is, as the narrative of Mark xii.
plainly indicates, that these two sentences were held in general consent
as the epitome of the Law, its first and its second commandment. Even
the scribe assents to this as an axiomatic truth he has no wish to
challenge. It will be observed that a fourth term is added to the three
of the original, possibly on account of the Septuagint rendering, which
translated the Hebrew "heart" by "mind." Godet suggests that since the
term "heart" is the most general term, denoting "in Scripture the
central focus from which all the rays of the moral life go forth," that
it stands in apposition to the other three, the one in its three
particulars. This, which is the most natural interpretation, would refer
the "mind" to the intellectual faculties, the "soul" to the emotional
faculties, the sensibilities, and the "might" to the will, which rules
all force; while by the "heart" is meant the unit, the "centred self,"
into which the others merge, and of which they form a part.
Jesus commended him for his answer: "Thou hast answered right: this do,
and thou shalt live"--words which brushed away completely the Hebraic
figment of inherited life. That life was not something that should be
reached by processes of loving. The life should precede the love, and
should give birth to it: the love should grow out of the life, its
blossoming flower.
Having the tables so turned upon himself, and wishing to "justify," or
to put himself right, the stranger asks still another question: "And who
is my neighbour?" doubtless hoping to cover his retreat in the smoke of
a burning question. To our minds, made familiar with the thought of
humanity, it seems as if a question so simple scarcely deserved such an
elaborate answer as Jesus gave to it. But the thought of humanity had
not yet possessed the world; indeed, it had only just come to earth, to
be spoken by, and incarnate in, Him who was the Son of man. To the Jew
the question of the lawyer was a most important one. The word
"neighbour" could be spoken in a breath; but unwind that word, and it
measures off the whole of our earthly life, it covers all our practical,
every-day duties. It ran through the pages of the Law, the ark in which
the Golden Rule was hidden; or like a silent angel, it flashed its sword
across life's forbidden paths. But if the Jew could not erase this broad
word from the pages of the Law, he could narrow and emasculate its
meaning by an interpretation of his own. And this they had done, making
this Divine word almost of none effect by their tradition. To the Jewish
mind "neighbour" was simply "Jew" spelt large. The only neighbourhood
they recognized was the narrow neighbourhood of Hebrew speech and Hebrew
sympathies. The Hebrew mind was isolated as their land, and all who
could not frame their shibboleths were barbarians, Gentiles, whom they
were at perfect liberty to spoil, as with anathemas and swords they
chased them over their Jordans. Jesus, however, is on the alert; and how
wisely He answers! He does not declaim against the narrowness of Hebrew
thought; He utters no denunciatory word against their proud and false
exclusiveness. He quietly unfolds the word, spreading it out into an
exquisite parable, that all coming times may see how beautiful, how
Divine the word "neighbour" is.
He said, "A certain man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho; and he
fell among robbers, which both stripped him, and beat him, and departed,
leaving him half dead." The parables of Jesus, though drawn from real
life, had no local colouring. They grouped themselves around some
well-known fact of nature, or some general custom of social life; and so
their spirit was national or cosmopolitan, rather than local. Here,
however, Jesus departs from His usual manner, giving to His parable a
local habitation. It is the road which led steeply down from Jerusalem
to Jericho, and which for centuries has been so infested with robbers or
bandits as to earn for itself the darkly ominous name of "the Bloody
Way." Possibly that name itself is an outgrowth from the parable; but
whether so or not, it is scarcely to be supposed that it had so evil a
character in the days of Christ. As Jericho then was a populous city,
and intimately connected with Jerusalem in its social and business life,
the road would be much frequented. Indeed, the parable indicates as
much; for Jesus, whose words were never untrue to nature or to history,
represents His three travellers as all journeying singly; while the khan
or "inn" shows, in its reflection, a constant stream of travel. Our
anonymous traveller, however, does not find it so safe as he had
anticipated. Attacked, in one of its dusky ravines, by a band of
brigands, they strip him of his clothing, with whatever the girdle-purse
might contain, and beating him out of sheer devilry, they leave him by
the road-side, unable to walk, unable even to rise, a living-dying man.
"And by chance, a certain priest was going down that way; and when he
saw him he passed by on the other side. And in like manner a Levite
also, when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other
side." As in a _tableaux vivants_, Jesus shows us the two ecclesiastics,
who come in sight in the happy, coincidental way that Romance so
delights in. They had probably just completed their "course" of Temple
service, and were now going down to Jericho, which was a favourite
residence of the priests, for the somewhat long interval their sacred
duties allowed them. They had, therefore, no pressure of business upon
them; indeed, the verb would almost imply that the priest was walking
leisurely along. But they bring no help to the wounded man. Directly
they see him, instead of being drawn to him by the attractions of
sympathy, something, either the shock or the fright, acts upon them as
a centrifugal force, and sends them describing an arc of a circle around
that centre of groans and blood. At any rate they "passed by on the
other side," leaving behind them neither deed nor word of mercy, but
leaving behind them a shadow of themselves which, while time itself
lasts, will be vivid, cold, and repelling. It is just possible, however,
that they do not deserve all the unmeasured censure which the critics
and the centuries have given, and are still likely to give. It is very
easy for us to condemn their action as selfish, heartless; but let us
put ourselves in their place, alone in the lonely pass, with this proof
of an imminent danger sprung suddenly upon us, and it is possible that
we ourselves should not have been quite so brave as by our safe
firesides we imagine ourselves to be. The fact is it needed something
more than sympathy to make them turn aside and befriend the wounded man;
it needed physical courage, and that of the highest kind, and this
wanting, sympathy itself would not be sufficient. The heart might long
to help, even when the feet were hastening away. A sudden inrush of
fear, even of vague alarm, will sometimes drive us contrary to the drift
of our sympathies, just as our feet are lifted and we ourselves carried
onwards by a surging crowd.
Whether this be a correct interpretation of their conduct or not, it
certainly harmonizes with the general attitude of Jesus towards the
priesthood. The chief priests were always and bitterly hostile, but we
have reasonable ground for supposing that the priests, as a body, looked
favouringly upon Jesus. The bolts of terrible "woes" are hurled against
Pharisees and scribes, yet Jesus does not condemn the priests in a
single word; while in that aftermath of the Pentecost the Temple courts
yielded the richest harvests, as "a great company of the priests were
obedient to the faith." If, then, Jesus now holds up the priesthood to
execration, setting these ecclesiastics in the pillory of His parable,
that the coming centuries may throw sharp words at them, it is certainly
an exceptional mood. The sweet silence has curdled into acrid speech.
But even here Jesus does not condemn, except, as it would seem, by
implication, the conduct of the priest and Levite. They come into the
parable rather as accessories, and Jesus makes use of them as a foil, to
throw out into bolder relief the central figure, which is the Samaritan,
and so to emphasize His central truth, which is the real answer to the
lawyer's question, that "neighbour" is too broad, and too human, a word
to be cut off and eliminated by any boundaries of race.
But in thus casting a mantle of charity around our priest and Levite, we
must admit that the character is sometimes true even down to recent
days. Ecclesiasticism and religion, alas! are not always synonyms.
Revolted Israel sins and sacrifices by turns, and seeking to keep the
balance in equal poise, she puts over against her multitude of sins her
multitude of sacrifices. Religiousness may be at times but a cloak for
moral laxity, and to some rite is more than right. There are those,
alas! to-day, who wear the livery of the Temple, to whom religion is a
routine mechanism of dead things, rather than the commerce of living
hearts, who open with hireling hand the Temple gates, who chant with
hireling lips how "His mercy endureth for ever," and then step down from
their sacred Jerusalem, to toss justice and mercy to the winds, as they
defraud the widow and oppress the poor.
"But a certain Samaritan, as he journeyed, came where he was: and when
he saw him, he was moved with compassion, and came to him, and bound up
his wounds, pouring on them oil and wine; and he set him on his own
beast, and brought him to an inn, and took care of him." At first sight
it would appear as if Jesus had weakened the narrative by a
topographical inaccuracy, as if He had gone out of His way to place a
Samaritan on the road to Jericho, which was altogether out of the line
of Samaritan travel. But it is a deliberate purpose on the part of
Jesus, and not a _lapsus linguæ_, that introduces this Samaritan; for
this is the gist of the whole parable. The man who had fallen among the
robbers was doubtless a Jew; for had it been otherwise, the fact would
have been stated. Now there was no question as to whether the word
"neighbour" embraced their fellow-countrymen; the question was whether
it passed beyond their national bounds, opening up lines of duty across
the outlying world. It is therefore almost a necessity that the one who
teaches this lesson should be himself an alien, a foreigner, and Jesus
chooses the Samaritan as being of a race against which Jewish
antipathies were especially strong, but for which He Himself had a
special regard and warmest sympathy. Though occupying adjacent
territory, the Jews and the Samaritans practically were far apart,
antipodal races we might almost call them. Between them lay a wide and
deep chasm that trade even could not bridge, and across which the
courtesies and sympathies of life never passed. "The Jews have no
dealings with the Samaritans," said the flippant woman of Samaria, as
she voiced a jealousy and hatred which were as mutual as they were deep.
But here, in this ideal Samaritan, is a noble exception. Though
belonging to a lowly and obscure race, his thoughts are high. The ear of
his soul has so caught the rhythm of Divine harmonies that it does not
hear longer the little lisping shibboleths of earthly speech; and while
the sympathies of smaller hearts flow like a stream down in their
well-defined and accustomed channel, seldom knowing any overflow, save
in some rare freshet of impulse and of feeling, the sympathies of the
Samaritan moved outward like the currents of the wind, sweeping across
all chasms and over all mountain heights of division, bearing their
clouds of blessing anywhither as the need required. It makes no
difference to him that the fallen man is of an alien race. He is a
_man_, and that is enough; and he is down, and must be raised; he is in
need, and must be helped. The priest and Levite thought first and most
of themselves, and giving to the man but a brief and scared look, they
passed on with a quickened pace. Not so with the Samaritan; he loses all
thought of himself, and is perfectly oblivious to the danger he himself
may be running. Upon his great soul he feels the pressure of this
"must;" it runs along the tightened muscles of his arm, as he checks his
steed. He himself comes down, dismounting, that he may help the man to
rise. He opens his flask and puts his wine to the lips, that their
groans may cease, or that they may be soothed down into inarticulate
speech. The oil he has brought for his own food he pours upon the
wounds, and when the man has sufficiently recovered he lifts him upon
his own beast and takes him to the inn. Nor is this enough for his great
heart, but continuing his journey on the morrow, he first arranges with
his host that the man shall be well cared for, giving him two pence,
which was the two days' wages of a labouring man, at the same time
telling him that he must not limit his attentions to the sum he pays in
advance, but that if anything more should be needed he would pay the
balance on his return. We do not read whether it was needed or not, for
the Samaritan, mounting his steed, passes out of our hearing and out of
our sight. Not quite out of our hearing, however, for Heaven has caught
his gentle, loving words, and hidden them within this parable, that all
coming times may listen to their music; nor out of our sight either, for
his photograph was caught in the sunlight of the Master's speech; and as
we turn over the pages of Inspiration there is no picture more beautiful
than that of the nameless Samaritan, whom all the world calls "the
Good," the man who knew so much better than his age what humanity and
mercy meant.
In the new light the lawyer can answer his own question now, and he
does; for when Jesus asks, "Which of these three, thinkest thou, proved
neighbour unto him that fell among the robbers?" he replies, with no
hesitation, but with a lingering prejudice that does not care to
pronounce the, to him, outlandish name, "He that showed mercy on him."
The lesson is learned, the lesson of humanity, for the whole parable is
but an amplification of the Golden Rule, and Jesus dismisses the subject
and the scholar with the personal application, which is but a corollary
of the proposition He has demonstrated, "Go thou and do likewise." Go
and do to others as you would have them do to you, were the
circumstances reversed and your places changed. Read off your duty, not
from your own low standpoint merely, but in a binocular vision, as you
put yourself in his place; so will you find that the line of duty and
the line of beauty are one.
The practical lessons of the parable are easy to trace, as they are of
universal application. The first, lesson it teaches is the lesson of
humanity, the neighbourhood and brotherhood of man. It is a convenience,
and perhaps a necessity, of human life, that the great mass of humanity
should be broken up into fragments, sections, with differing customs,
languages, and names. It gives to the world the stimulus of competition
and helpful rivalries. But these distinctions are superficial,
temporary, and beneath this diversity of speech and thought there is the
deeper unity of soul. We emphasize our differences; we pride ourselves
upon them; but how little does Heaven make of them! Heaven does not even
see them. Our national boundaries may climb up over the Alps, but they
cannot touch the sky. Those skies look down and smile on all alike,
divinely impartial in their gifts of beauty and of light. And how little
of the provincial, or even national, there was about Jesus! Though He
kept Himself almost entirely within the borders of the Holy Land, never
going far from His central pivot, which was Jerusalem, and its cross,
yet He belonged to the world, as the world belonged to Him. He called
Himself the Son of man, at once humanity's flower, and humanity's Son
and Saviour. And as over the cradle of the Son of man the far east and
the far west together leaned, so around His cross was the meeting-place
of the races. The three chief languages inscribed upon it proclaimed His
royalty, while the cross itself, on which the Sacrifice for humanity was
to be offered, was itself the gift of humanity at large, as Asia
provided it, and Europe prepared it, and Africa, in the person of the
Cyrenean, bore it. In the mind of Jesus, as in the purpose of God,
humanity was not a group of fractions, but a unit one and indivisible,
made of one blood, and by one Blood redeemed. In the heart of Jesus
there was the "enthusiasm of humanity," all-absorbing and complete, and
that enthusiasm takes possession of us, a new force generated in our
lives, as we approach in spirit the great Ideal Man.
The second lesson of the parable is the lesson of mercy, the beauty of
self-sacrifice. It was because the Samaritan forgot himself that all the
world has remembered and applauded him. It is because of his stoop of
self-renouncing love that his character is so exalted, his memory so
dear, and that his very name, which is a title without a name, floats
down the ages like a sweet song. "Go and do thou likewise" is the
Master's word to us. Discipline your heart that you may see in man
everywhere a brother, whose keeper you are. Let fraternity be, not a
theory only, but a realized fact, and then a factor of your life. Train
your eye to watch for others' needs, to read another's woe. Train your
soul to sympathy, and your hand to helpfulness; for in our world there
is room enough for both. Bethesda's porches stretch far as our eye can
reach, all crowded, too, with the sorrowing, the sick, and the sad,
thick enough indeed, but not so close as that an angel's foot may not
step between them, and not so sad but an angel's voice may soothe and
cheer. He who lifts another's load, who soothes another's smart, who
brightens a life that else would be dark, who puts a music within a
brother's soul, though it be only for a passing moment, wakes even a
sweeter music within his own, for he enters on earth into his Master's
joy, the joy of a redeeming, self-sacrificing love.