Reflections on Luke 10:34-35
…and came to him and bandaged up his wounds, pouring oil and wine on them; and he put him on his own beast, and brought him to an inn and took care of him. On the next day he took out two denarii and gave them to the innkeeper and said, 'Take care of him; and whatever more you spend, when I return I will repay you.'
For a moment in time, our Lord lifts mercy up on a high, exalted throne, puts heaven’s beams of glory on it -- and lets it shine!
He wants the lawyer to see it. He wants all of us to see it.
And so, the Samaritan stops his travels. He sees the man, feels compassion course through his veins, and does what mercy always does. He acts. He leaves his donkey, goes to the man, assesses his condition, and begins the work. He has everything he needs to treat him. He goes back to the donkey.
For oil and wine.
It’s the only medicine he’s got. Freely he pours – washing, cleansing, anointing – gently caring for each wound. One at a time. And then wraps it carefully in clean cloth before going to the next. It takes time. Mercy always takes time.
There are no words between them.
The man is still, no doubt, unconscious. The Samaritan knows he can’t leave him here. He needs a plan. He’s got to take him somewhere. But how does he do it? How does he get him – this dead weight -- up off the ground and onto his donkey with as little trauma as possible? Nobody else seems to be around to help.
He figures out a way – compassion and mercy are surprising that way.
He secures the man safely on his donkey and begins the journey. Slowly – step by step. He knows an Inn. He knows the Innkeeper. With each step, he re-orders his life. The plans he had, the places he needed to be, the people he needed to meet, the well-being of his business and family, all put on hold.
He gets to the Inn, books a room. He decides to spend the night.
He can’t leave him -- not now. He needs constant care.
In the morning, he meets with the Innkeeper. He books the room again, and again, for as long as it takes. He has no interest in asking the Innkeeper to share the expense for the care of this stranger. He wants to pay for it, all of it. Mercy -- real mercy -- always costs. Always gives. Always sacrifices.
There is trust between them.
Like old friends, they easily enter a business deal where money is transacted. The Samaritan advances him two day’s wage and says, “Care for him! Spend what you will, put it on my tab, and when I come back, I will pay it to the full!” The Innkeeper takes the money – assuring his promise to care for the man.
And as he does, our Lord ends the story.
A good story. The man lives! Mercy came. Mercy broke through the powers of evil that assaulted him and breathed life into his nearly dead body. Mercy, in meticulous detail, through this man from Samaria who gave his all – his time, his money, his heart – to love this stranger as his neighbor.
The poor, tormented lawyer.
Is there any chance this could be his story too?
* * *
The next few weeks, I did exactly what Leslie said.
“Love the thirty equally.”
The only way to do this with integrity, I decided, was to leave my “tool belt” home. I wasn’t there to fix anybody’s problems. Not anymore. I made sure, in the course of a week, I spent time with each person. If they didn’t want me around, I’d stay at a distance. I had no agenda but to simply be with them.
I must say – I missed my tool belt.
There is suffering on this ward. Every day – unchanging. With tools, I could focus on solutions. Without them, all that’s left is to be with them in the pain of their suffering today. And again, tomorrow. With no hope they’ll be better. No chance we can set goals, see improvement, and take steps forward.
Not here. Half way through the summer, I wrote this in my journal.
Each day, despair grows deeper. I don’t know how to love when I can’t help. Is that wrong? All my life I’ve lived in a world where love and hope are inseparably bound. Who cares if something’s broken? We fix it! We change the story. We believe with God, all things are possible. Faith, hope, and love – endure forever.
But here is different.
The longer I stay, the more afraid I get. This could be me. I could be suffering like any person here. This ward could be my home for the rest of my life. I want to run. I want to pretend it’s all a bad dream.
Instead, I force myself to stay. I ask what I’ve got to ask – if I were them today, how would I want to be treated? Honored? Loved?
Lord Jesus Christ, show me how to love each person equally.
That simple prayer was answered quickly.
He was not an aid. He’d been living at the hospital the past seventeen years. With his condition worsening, the medical staff decided to transfer him to us.
And he was simply amazing. He knew exactly how to love everybody on the floor. Fully. Whether he was loved back or not – he didn’t seem to care. There’s no question he favored the underdog. The moment somebody got hurt, or cried, or lost their temper – he ran to help them. But he cared for the bully as much as those being bullied. And rarely, did I see anyone care for him back.
One day, I wrote about the love gushing through him.
1- He’s the Kleenex guy – two criers this morning. He got there first
2- Watched a young man throw his juice cup against the wall. Sam cleaned it up and got him more juice
3- When I got in this morning, he was making beds with the aids
4- I love watching him care for the “loners” – he just knows what to do
5- Nurse slammed down the phone. Sam saw it and went to her. He grabbed her hand and told her she looked pretty today
6- Guy shoved him hard. Sam didn’t shove back – instead, he apologized
7- At the cafeteria. he bussed everybody’s dishes – with no thanks
And every day, sometimes twice a day, he’d check up on me. “You’re better now, aren’t you? I can tell, you know!” he’d say. Or, “You’re right where you’re supposed to be. Don’t forget that. It’s all part of the plan!” Or maybe he’d just buzz by, pat my shoulder, smile, and give me a thumbs-up sign.
“Sam, you’re the best!” I’d call out.
He’d shake his head and reply, “No, I’m not.”
The worst part about Sam was his cough. It was loud and guttural. Often, it came in spasms and when it started, he couldn’t stop it. Those around him, of course, reacted. They’d yell at him. Force him to leave the room. Call him names. I know it hurt him. But I also could tell the coughing scared him.
I asked his doctor about it. She told me it was one of the side effects of long term use of his medication. She added there was no treatment for it and, because of it, he’d been downgraded to our ward.
“He’ll most likely die from this,” she said. “It will continue to get worse and his heart can only take so much.”
“You mean there’s nothing you can do?”
She shook her head, “He probably has a few months. A year at most.”
And that, for me, broke my heart. Of all the people I’ve met down through my years, I’ve rarely seen someone like Sam. He knows how to love without being loved back. He has no need for a tool belt – he’s not out to fix anybody. He is, to me, the kingdom of God bursting onto the floor in acts of mercy and love – and I, for the summer, got to be his student.
“Guess who loves me?” he asked me one late afternoon.
“Well,” I said, “I do.”
“Guess again,” he said.
“Your brother,” I replied, since he’s the only one who ever visits him.
I shook my head and saw he was surprised I didn’t know.
He tapped the hospital ID around my neck that read, “Chaplain”, then smiled and said, “Jesus.”
“Do you know why?” he pressed.
Again, I shook my head.
“Because He loves me back.”