Rule of Three [Proper 10C - Luke 10:25-37]
The Rev. Jeremiah Williamson
Luke 10:25-37
Rule of Three
I suspect you have heard of the old “rule of three.” In storytelling, for example, it is often
suggested that a listener finds triads more effective, more humorous, more satisfying. And so there is a plethora, a profusion, an
abundance, if you will, of stories in which we find three characters or three
events or three items featured prominently.
Not only do listeners find the threes more satisfying, this
predictable structure also makes it easier to remember the details of the
story. In the story of the Three Little
Pigs, there are three little houses: one of straw, one of sticks, and one of
bricks. In the story of Goldilocks and
the Three Bears, the porridge is too hot, too cold, and just right; the beds
too hard, too soft, and, of course, just right.
Going back much further, in the Bible, in the book of Daniel, Shadrach,
Meshach, and Abednego end up in the fiery furnace together. Even the cereal
aisle cannot escape the lure of the “rule of three.” The trio of Snap, Crackle, and Pop would love
to fill your bowl full of Rice Krispies.
Jesus, in today’s Gospel, crafts his own story around the
“rule of three.” This should not
surprise us; he is, after all, the second person of the Trinity. You likely know this story well. It is one of, if not, the best known of
Jesus’ parables. We know that in Jesus’
story there are three characters who encounter the man lying on the road. First the priest; then the Levite; and then,
of course, the Samaritan. The story, as
we know, always ends with the Samaritan – this story that we typically call “The
Good Samaritan.”
For us, familiar as we are with the story, the priest, the
Levite, and the Samaritan, is trio we expect.
You knew the Samaritan was coming down the road well before Deacon Kris
ever mentioned him. Jesus’ first
audience did not know; they did not expect a Samaritan to stop at the wounded
man. In fact, the ending that Jesus
chose would have made no sense to those within earshot of his telling. His audience knew who came after the priest
and Levite in the story. It was not a
Samaritan; it was supposed to be an Israelite.
That was the third person in that particular progression. Just how “just right” always follows “too hot”
and “too cold.” Just how the Holy Ghost
also comes after the Father and the Son.
These are things we take for granted.
If I started this sermon by saying, “In the name of the Father, and the
Son, and the Martha Washington” I would get back some strange looks…and
deservedly so.
You see, Jesus told the story wrong. In that Jewish community people fit into one
of three groups: priests, Levites, or Israelites. That is the proper trio. The story should have ended with a good
Israelite doing the good things. And
that, I’m sure, is not only what the crowd and the lawyer expected, that is the
ending they wanted. They were
Israelites.
Now, personally, I’m fine with the Samaritan. I’ve never once, that I am aware of, had a
negative interaction with a Samaritan. Since
there are only about 800 Samaritans left on the planet, down from about 1
million in Jesus’ time, that is probably true of you too. And so it does not bother me that this
Samaritan is the star of the show. You
probably don’t mind either. We like this
guy so much that we have a painting of this particular Samaritan outside the
vesting room door right here in the church.
But for the Jews in Jesus’ audience, the trajectory of this story
would have been, not only surprising, but quite troubling. In the first
century, Jews and Samaritans were bitter enemies. The animosity was deep-seeded. Descendants of
the ten lost tribes of Israel, the Samaritans were considered by ancient Jews,
not siblings, but a distortion – their blood and their religious practices
polluted by heathens, an unwelcome abomination. The hostility even, at times,
became violent. In about 300 BCE, the Samaritans built a shrine on their holy
mountain, Mount Gerizim, to compete with the Jewish Temple. Less than 200 years
later Jewish troops tore the Samaritan shrine to the ground. And then, not long
after Jesus' time, some Jewish pilgrims making the journey from the Dead Sea to
Galilee, through Samaria, were the victims of a violent riot.[1] Despite
their common roots, Jews and Samaritans were enemies; they disagreed on
religious practice and theology; they had a violent history; and they did not
mix. The suspicion and hostility simmered, ready to boil over at any time.
And Jesus makes a Samaritan the hero of this
story. He told the story wrong; he told
the story wrong on purpose.
The star of the parable, while a surprise, is not
the only surprise in this Gospel passage.
It is also surprising that Jesus ever tells this little story. As you know, this is the parable that Jesus
tells to the lawyer who stood up to test him.
If the lawyer just quit while he was ahead, Jesus never tells this
story. And it does seem like the lawyer
gets what he wants before Jesus ever starts down the road to Jericho. Jesus affirmed the lawyer’s response: “You
have given the right answer; do this, and you will live.”
But the lawyer isn’t satisfied. And so pushes it: “And who is my
neighbor?” Make no mistake: that is a
question in search of exceptions. And it
is a question Jesus never really answers.
He could have; he could have made a list; he could have made a nuanced
argument based on socio-historical factors; he could have cited Bible verses –
either to justify a limited neighborhood or an expansive one; instead he told a
story.
He told this story: a story in which a battered
man finds salvation in the arms of his enemy.
He told this story: a story in which an Israelite is the victim and a
Samaritan is the hero. By any
traditional definition these two, the man left half dead and Samaritan who was
moved with pity, were not considered neighbors.
In fact, it very likely that this Samaritan was a good example of the
kind of people the lawyer wanted permission to hate.
But, in response to this lawyer, Jesus tells a
story: a story in which a completely vulnerable person, broke, naked, and left
for dead, is saved through the vulnerability of another, is saved by a love
that refuses to count the cost or weigh the risks. Bible scholar Joel Green writes, “The care
the Samaritan offers is not a model of moral obligation but an exaggerated
action grounded in compassion that risks much more than could ever be required
or expected. He stops on the Jericho
road to assist someone he does not know in spite of the self-evident peril of
doing so; he gives of his own goods and money, freely, making no arrangements
for reciprocation; in order to obtain care for this stranger, he enters an inn,
itself a place of potential danger; and he even enters into an open-ended
monetary relationship with the innkeeper, a relationship in which the chance of
extortion is high.”[2]
The Samaritan in Jesus’ story risks everything to
save a stranger, an enemy. He risks his
life and gives his all for someone who, if the circumstances were reversed,
might have followed in the footsteps of the priest and Levite, who might have passed
by on the other side of the road. The
Samaritan could have easily kept walking, and given the history and
circumstances, no one would have blamed him.
But instead he opens his heart and his life and becomes an example of
what it means to truly be a neighbor.
Jesus, after telling the story, looks at the
lawyer, and asks a question of his own: “Which of these three, do you think,
was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of the robbers?” After hearing the parable, it probably seems
that the answer is easy and obvious, but remember the first two characters are
members of the lawyer’s tribe; the third, though merciful, is still an
enemy. But the lawyer answers
correctly. The lawyer, though perhaps
unable still to even say the word “Samaritan,” responds, “The one who showed him
mercy.” And Jesus tells him to “Go and
do likewise.”
But he never exactly answers the lawyer’s
question: who is my neighbor? Because,
in a world in which there are people who are broken, naked, and lying half-dead
in the gutter, the answer is obvious.
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