IN THE DITCH
Luke 10:25-37
by Rev. Rick Thompson

     Imagine yourself in an awful place—lying beside a road, in the ditch.   You are bleeding and cold.  You are in terrible pain.  And imagine this is in the day before cell phones, so calling for help will not be easy for you, or for any other driver who might dare stop to help.

     You are a victim of road rage.

     That other driver got even.  After you cut him off a few miles earlier, he caught up, pulled alongside you, and gave you a menacing look.  And, with an evil, hateful smile on his face, he ran you off the road.  You slammed on the brakes, but couldn’t control your car, skidded off the road, and rolled your car three times before being thrown from it.

     And here you lay.  You have so much agonizing pain in your back that you can’t move.  And, even if you could, your mangled legs wouldn’t carry you anywhere.  One arm feels broken, and you have a terrible pain in your head.  And, over there, a few feet away, some of your teeth are lying on the ground.  Your car—what’s left of it—is in a crumpled heap 20 yards away.  It’s late at night, and it’s a deserted road, and you have no hope that anyone will find you anytime soon.

     You drift in and out of consciousness.  In a somewhat lucid moment, you hear what may actually be a car.  The driver sees your mangled vehicle, and gets out of his car.  He’s well-dressed, looks like a professional.  Surely he will help!  He looks at your car, but he doesn’t see you.  Then he looks at his watch, back at your car, at his watch again—and speeds on his way!

     What seems like an eternity later, another vehicle slows.  You can feel yourself getting weaker.  Unable to cry out, you utter a silent prayer that this driver will stop and help. 

     A young-looking couple gets out.  She sees your crumpled car and notices your broken body.  “Oh, honey, isn’t it awful!” she cries.  “Look at that car!  Look at all that blood!  He’s got to be dead.  I can’t stand it!  Let’s get out of here!””

     And they speed on their way.

     You continue to hurt, continue to bleed, and feel the life leaving your body.  Then, after what seems like hours, you hear another car stop.  The driver gets out.  He’s headed your way.  You can’t see his face—because it’s the color of the night.  He’s a black man, and he’s got something in his hand.  You assume it’s a gun.  He’s probably going to rob you, and leave you to die.

     He extends his arm, pointing the object at you.  “Here, friend.  Take a drink of this water.”  It’s not a gun, as you had assumed; it’s a bottle of water!  He cradles your head in his arm, and gently touches the bottle to your lips.  You take a weak swallow.  Oh, that water tastes good!  You feel a little life coming back into your body.

     Your rescuer comforts you, and prays with you.  He wipes the blood away, covers you with his coat, and says, “Hang on, friend.  I’m going to get help.  There’s a public phone just a few miles down the road.  Hang on!”

    He speeds away, calls the police, and in 10 minutes the paramedics are at your side, tending to your wounds, filling you with life-giving oxygen.  Soon you’re loaded onto a helicopter and flown to a hospital, where a compassionate and competent medical team rushes to your aid.

     Centuries ago, Jesus told a similar story.  He had made it clear to his disciples, and to any in the crowd who would listen, that he was going to Jerusalem.  Nothing would stop him from getting there.  He knew he would suffer and die there, but he also knew it would be to fulfill his heavenly Father’s life-giving, saving purpose for creation.  And that’s exactly what he did!

     A lawyer, a Jewish biblical scholar in the crowd, stepped up to challenge Jesus—to “put him to the test”, Luke says.  It’s interesting that the word “test” here is used only one other time in Luke—when Jesus rebukes Satan in the wilderness: “You shall not put the Lord your God to the test!”  So, we are to understand, this scholar is misguided, and speaks the words of Satan.  “What must I do to inherit eternal life?” he asks Jesus.  Jesus quizzes him about the central teachings of their shared Jewish faith, and his opponent rightly answers that, at the center of God’s teaching, are the commandments to love God and neighbor.  After another exchange, the man asks Jesus, “And who is my neighbor?”

     Now, it becomes clear why this man is speaking for Satan.  He wants Jesus to draw a line, shut the door, excuse him from responsibility.  He wants Jesus to affirm the strict boundaries about who deserved kindness, and who did not.  But Jesus opens the door, and erases the lines, and tears down boundaries with his answer—his answer in the form of a story.

     It’s one of the most memorable stories in the Bible—the one we often call “The Good Samaritan”. 

     A man—a Jew, we are to understand—has been to Jerusalem, and is now going home to Jericho.  He has two choices—to take the long, winding, safer route, or to take the shorter but very treacherous direct route.  This route goes through territory known to be filled with bandits.  The traveler foolishly chooses the short route and, even more foolishly, chooses to travel alone.  So the fate he meets on the road is no surprise: he is ambushed, robbed, beaten, stripped of his clothing, and left to die in the ditch.

     Along comes a priest—one of the elite religious professionals.  He sees the victim, but doesn’t really see him—and passes by on the other side of the road.  Next, a Levite comes by—another religious professional.  He, too, takes a quick look, and keeps on going on the other side of the road.

     Now, in the world of that day, we would expect to hear that an ordinary Israelite is the next to come upon the man—a pious Jewish lay person.

     But, instead, the next traveler is a Samaritan.  And the ears of Jesus’ listeners perk up!  They know—and we know, from careful biblical study—that nothing worse could happen at that moment for that half-dead man than for a Samaritan to come by.  Jews and Samaritans were bitter enemies.  To the Jews of that day, there was no such thing as a good Samaritan.  Not much before this, Luke has reminded us of this reality.  It would be about as likely for a Samaritan to help that half-dead Jew as it would for a soldier to tend the wounds of the enemy who had, not many minutes before, shot and killed the soldier’s best buddy in battle.

     A good Samaritan?  Impossible!

     But not in the eyes of Jesus!

     In the story, the Samaritan comes to the rescue, tends to the wounded man, loads him onto his donkey and takes him to Jericho.  There, he pays for the man’s lodging and instructs an innkeeper to give him food and medical care until he’s well.  “If it costs any more than I’ve already given you, I’ll pay you when I come back to town,” the Samaritan promises the innkeeper.

     If a Samaritan can be compassionate to a Jew, what kind of world is this that Jesus is creating?  If a Samaritan can be more loving than the religious professionals, what kind of world is this?  What would a world be like with no boundaries, and with nobody ruled out as a neighbor?

     That’s the kind of world that Jesus is creating—in his stories, and with his life!

     And, to be a part of it, we have to take our place in the story—as the victim in the ditch.  One scholar argues, very persuasively, that we have two alternatives when we hear this jarring story: we can see ourselves as that victim, or we can dismiss the story, dismiss Jesus, and insist that no such world is possible!

     Can we imagine ourselves as the one in the ditch—a ditch of our own making?

     Can we imagine that, in our carelessness, with our foolish choices, in our sinfulness, we have gotten ourselves into a difficult place, where we are as good as dead?  Can we suppose that we have wandered far from God—perhaps by trying to tell God who is neighbor and who is not, perhaps by ignoring God in our desire to live life on our own terms?  Can we suppose that we have wandered far from God, and are in danger of losing our lives to the power of sin that has attacked us and left us, gasping for life, in the ditch?

     And then along comes—help?  No, along comes the One we have made an enemy!  Along comes the God whom we have ignored and offended.  Along comes the Lord of all, whom we can expect will finish the job and send us off to hell for all eternity!

     And what does God do?  What does the One we have made Enemy do?

     Well, this God does the unexpected.  Rather than killing us or leaving us to die, God tends to our wounds, and gives everything imaginable to bring us back to life.  In fact, this God, embodied in Jesus Christ, crawls right in the ditch with us, and will, indeed, be beaten and stripped and left fully dead.

     Does that sound farfetched?

     Not if the one who stops, and helps, and crawls in the ditch is Jesus.

     You see, Jesus has already made it clear what he’s all about.  He’s on his way to Jerusalem, where he will give his all—even his life—to forgive us and heal us and give us life!

     Now, we notice this is another of those stories of Jesus that doesn’t end.  We don’t know what becomes of the victim once he is left in the hands of the innkeeper in Jericho.

     Do you suppose that we are intended to finish the story with our own lives?

     When we receive life from Jesus, what will we do with it?  Will we keep it for ourselves and a few people who seem deserving?  Or will we, like Jesus, ignore the boundaries, see all as our neighbor, and reach out in mercy to the one who’s in the same ditch we’ve been in ourselves?

     The story teaches us this: that this is when we’ll know the loving, forgiving, compassionate Jesus.  For that’s how Jesus received his inheritance—eternal life: by giving all, even his life, for those of us in the ditch.

     And this is the one who says to us now: “Follow me.  And go, do likewise.”  AMEN.