Sermon: The Man Going Down to Jericho

Preached at the National Church Leadership Institute in August 2016

Scripture: "The Good Samaritan" (Luke 10:25-37)

This Sermon is not about the good Samaritan. This sermon is about the man going down to Jericho.

He's been stripped and beaten. He's lying on the side of the road, naked and bleeding. And that is all we know, all we are told, and from there all I have are questions. Is he conscious? Let's say he is. What does he feel, as he lies there by the side of the road? Does he feel the gravity and danger of his situation? Or is he drifting, aware of what has happened, but unable to care?

Why was he going down to Jericho anyway? Was he visiting family or friends? Was he on a business or a religious trip? Or was he just going home? Does he wonder what they will think, the people he was going to stay with, when he doesn't show up? Does he think of his family, whoever they are and wherever they are, and what they will do if he doesn't come home?

And when the priest passes by, and the Levite, what does he do, this man going down to Jericho? Does he call out to them? Does he try to move his unresponsive body toward them? And those men, those respected, religious men, what do they do? Do they pretend not to see him? Do they hurry on as fast as they can? Do they make some sort of assumption, some sort of excuse for themselves? "Well that's what you get for being drunk." "He was probably traveling at night, the fool." "I wonder if he knew the guys that robbed him ..." And one after the other, they are gone.

And when they are gone, what does he do then, our friend by the side of the road? Does he weep? Does he try to stand, to help himself? Does he rage, against the bandits, or the priest and the Levite, or perhaps even the God they serve? Or does he lie quietly, too tired to go on?

And then the Samaritan comes. Oh, the Samaritan .... What, do you think, does the man going down to Jericho think of that? A Samaritan! They're the heretics. The bad guys in all the old stories, the people who are almost Jews but not quite. And who do we hate and distrust more than the people who are almost like us, but just a little too ... well, you know.

So what on Earth can the man going down to Jericho think when the Samaritan stops? Is he so grateful that he doesn't care? Is he so out of it that he doesn't realize? Or does he say, "You know I'm a Jew, right?" Or maybe even, "Get your hands off me!"

Imagine that conversation, my friends. Imagine the sacred space that's formed when the man going down to Jericho realizes that the only person who has shown him kindness today is someone he might hate.

But let's think about the Samaritan for a moment now. And let's ask how does he go about doing what we know he does? He pours whine and oil on our friend's wounds, and binds them—but does he ask first? Ask, before handling this vulnerable, naked body? Does he explain what he's doing, so as not to further traumatize one who has experienced enough trauma for one day? Does he offer a covering of some kind to this man who has been stripped naked? And when he puts him on his donkey, does he ask if there's anywhere he can take him, or at least tell him where they're going, or does he just go? In short, friends, how much of a neighbor is he being?

If you haven't figured out yet where I'm going with this, I'll tell you. I am the man going down to Jericho. I did not choose to be. I have always tried to be the good Samaritan, as I think all Christians do. But society looks at me, holding the arm of someone guiding me, or squinting at too-small type, and society says, "This woman is blind, we must help her." And the Christian church looks at that label and echoes back, "This woman is blind, we must help her. We must be a neighbor to her in her need."

And this is not in itself a bad thing. I do need help. Without the help of my elementary school Braille transcriptionist, I would not have made it to high school. Without the help of my college's IT department, I would not be attending college. And without the help of sighted guides in the airport, I would be stranded in Connecticut right now, lost in the Hartford airport, which isn't even that big.

So yes, I need help. I need people to be a neighbor and offer me a hand, or, as the case may be, an arm. But that is far from all I need. I need to be seen as a full human being, a beloved child of God. I need my gifts to be recognized and validated. I need to share my joys and my sorrows with people who can rejoice with me, and weep with me. I do not need to be pitied. I do not need to be defined by my disability. I do not need to be told that I am perfect except for my disability. And I am happy to say that I have found many communities, including communities of faith, that fulfill my needs and reject the things I don't need, as I do.

But too often, I am keenly aware that I am not being seen as a whole human being. It happens when a stranger looks at me, then looks at the person next to me and says, "Can she see okay?" It happens when all someone can find to talk to me about is my vision. It happens when ministers I know and love write and preach about people with disabilities in ways that objectify us and turn our lives into metaphors for the non-disabled. In these moments, I realize that these people are not seeing me; they are seeing the man going down to Jericho. And I mean the man going down to Jericho as he is in the text: silent, unmoving, a passenger along for the ride in his own story.

So I am here today to reclaim this man. If I am him, then he will be me, and he will get his needs met and keep his dignity by any means possible, including kicking and screaming. He will argue with the Samaritan about paying for his room in the inn. "I have money at home. Just send to my family. I want to get word to my family." He will have opinions about his care. "More of the wine, less of the oil, thank you very much." And yes, he will have prejudices. "A Samaritan? Really?" Because let's face it, we all have those. I hope that he works on them. I hope that he learns that Samaritans can be as kind and kinder than his own people. I hope he tells this story to his friends and family, and that they learn from it. And I hope that whatever lasting injuries he may or may not sustain after this experience, he goes on to do something awesome. Maybe he starts a Samaria-Jerusalem Interfaith Discussion group. Maybe he starts a campaign to deal with the crime on the Jerusalem-Jericho road. Maybe he does something completely unrelated to this incident, but one way or another, he goes on with his life, because that's what people do.

That's what I do. That's what people with disabilities everywhere do. We live in that vulnerable moment by the side of the road, and we find that we, too, are beloved children of God, with agency and vocation and the perfect imperfection of humanity.

Friends, it's not enough to be a neighbor. Neighbors grab my arm in completely improper sighted guide etiquette, and tow me off somewhere without telling me where we're going. Even if they're trying to welcome me into their home, it doesn't matter. They still went about it wrong. And if all they want me to do once I'm in their home is sit quietly by the window—well, I could be doing much more interesting things in my own home.

If we want to truly welcome people with disabilities into our spiritual homes, we need not just to be neighbors, but to be friends. My friends do more than help me. They ask things of me. Sometimes, they demand things of me. I want the church to demand more of me. I want the church to say, "You have work to do here and we will help you do it." I want the church to say, "You are a beloved child of God in the image of God and we will advocate for your rights as a full human being." I want the church to say, "You are the man going down to Jericho, and the good Samaritan." I want to tell the church, "I am here and I am complex and I am in need and I am able to serve," and I want the church to say, "Amen, amen, and amen."