The Souls of Worms
The Rev. Amy Morgan
September 11, 2011
The Souls of Worms
Luke 10:25-37
Just then a lawyer stood up to test Jesus. ‘Teacher,’ he said, ‘what must I do to inherit eternal life?’ He said to him, ‘What is written in the law? What do you read there?’ He answered, ‘You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength, and with all your mind; and your neighbour as yourself.’ And he said to him, ‘You have given the right answer; do this, and you will live.’
But wanting to justify himself, he asked Jesus, ‘And who is my neighbour?’ Jesus replied, ‘A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and fell into the hands of robbers, who stripped him, beat him, and went away, leaving him half dead. Now by chance a priest was going down that road; and when he saw him, he passed by on the other side.So likewise a Levite, when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side. But a Samaritan while travelling came near him; and when he saw him, he was moved with pity. He went to him and bandaged his wounds, having poured oil and wine on them. Then he put him on his own animal, brought him to an inn, and took care of him. The next day he took out two denarii, gave them to the innkeeper, and said, “Take care of him; and when I come back, I will repay you whatever more you spend.” Which of these three, do you think, was a neighbour to the man who fell into the hands of the robbers?’ He said, ‘The one who showed him mercy.’ Jesus said to him, ‘Go and do likewise.’
There was a priest, walking the dusty and dangerous road down from Jerusalem to Jericho. He had completed his temple duties and set out early that morning for the day-long trek over 15 miles of steeply declining terrain. As he rounded an outcropping of stone, he reeled at the sudden sight of a body, stripped naked, beaten and bleeding. Terrified, he crossed quickly to the other side of the road, his senses sharpened and adrenaline racing through his body. He feared the perpetrators of this crime might strike again. He might be the next victim. He placed as much distance between himself and the gruesome scene as possible. He spent the remainder of his journey on the look-out for robbers and bandits. The story he told to others he met on the road, others he felt looked safe enough to risk speaking to, was a story of fear. He spoke of the terrible sight he had seen. He warned them to turn back from their travels, to arm themselves, to take any extra precautions they could afford. This story of fear accompanied him all the way home, and for many years after.
There was a Levite, walking the dusty and dangerous road down from Jerusalem to Jericho. He, too, had completed his temple duties and was returning home. When he came upon the body on the side of the road, his blood boiled hotter than the sun beating down on the deserted pathway. How could anyone do such a thing? After weeks of service to God almighty, what was the meaning of this senseless and terrible crime? His anger drove him away from the scene, in search of the criminals. Justice must be served. The crime must be avenged. The story he told to others he met on the road, after he questioned them thoroughly about their knowledge of this crime, was a story of anger and suspicion. So many divisions existed in the Levite’s world – between Jews and Greeks, Jews and Samaritans, Zealots, Pharisees, Sadducees, – his world was overcome with enemies from within his culture and from all sides around him. Who was to blame? From whom should he seek revenge? This story of anger accompanied him all the way home, and for many years after.
There was a Samaritan walking the dusty and dangerous road down from Jerusalem to Jericho. Having concluded his business transactions in Jerusalem, he was returning home, laden with precious goods and a fair amount of money. On this dangerous road, he had much to fear. As an enemy to just about everyone else on this road, he had much to be angry about. As he rounded an outcropping of stone, he saw a man, stripped naked, beaten and bleeding. He saw a human being, with nothing to identify himself as Jew or Greek, rich or poor, friend or foe. The Samaritan came near this human, had pity on him, treated his wounds, put him on his own animal, and brought him to a place of safety. The story he told the innkeeper was one of love and compassion. “I have seen this man’s need, I have seen his humanity. This man is my neighbor. And I will care for his well-being with all that I have.” This story of love and compassion accompanied him all the way home, and for many years after.
There was a 22-year-old girl, beginning her second day of work at the Rogers and Hammerstein Music Library in Manhattan. As the blinds were raised on the windows framing the World Trade Center, she saw the smoke pouring out of the first tower. Seconds later, a second plane crashed into the adjacent tower. As she saw the towers crumble, heard the sirens, smelled the smoke for weeks, saw the subway stations become wallpapered with photos of the missing – the dead – she felt fearful, she felt angry, and she felt compassion.
I have been on this road now for a decade, and I have not told my story. I have struggled with what story to tell.
I could tell the story of my fear. How I searched the skies for more planes and bombs. How when a plane crashed near La Guardia Airport on my birthday I was at least somewhat certain it was a cloaked nuclear bomb. How I’ve waited for the coming disaster every day for ten years. I have a story of fear I have walk with for this decade.
I could also tell the story of my anger. How I wanted to join the FBI and learn Arabic. I’m good at languages. I could help our country seek revenge on those who perpetrated this unthinkable crime. I was angry that God allowed such evil in this world, such meaningless suffering. I have a story of anger I have walked with for this decade.
Or I could tell the story of my compassion. How I tried to give blood, but all the donation centers were full of people trying to do the same thing. How, in a moment, a city that regularly steps over the homeless and hungry, that was desensitized to pain and anger, transformed into a city that reached out and touched the blood and the rubble, that gave of itself to heal others. How, in this city of anonymity, we all saw each other’s humanity, if only for a moment.
In Jesus’ parable, a man is set upon by thieves, robbed, and left for dead. There is no explanation for what happened. There is no focus on the criminals who committed this heinous act. These things happen in this fallen world. All we can learn from focusing on the crime and the criminals is the depths of human depravity, the human capacity for evil, for sin, for hatred and injustice. But that is not the lesson Jesus wished to teach. The parable Jesus tells is not about a crime. It is not about a victim. It is not about a hero. The story is an answer to a question. “Who is my neighbor?” The parable is clear that our neighbor includes every person in the human race.
All of those who died ten years ago today – Wall Street executives and janitors, secretaries and restaurant workers, firefighters and bankers, military personnel and business travellers, and yes, even terrorists – were nothing more and nothing less than human. That is how I tell my story of compassion. The man in Jesus’ parable was naked and beaten – unrecognizable. After 9/11, despite the efforts of forensic experts, most of the bodies could not be identified. They were humans. Humans who perished suddenly, tragically, senselessly.
In the face of such horror, fear and anger are natural. The 22nd and 23rd Psalms contrast our responses to human tragedy, to attack from an enemy and overwhelming suffering. The writer of the 22nd Psalm feels forsaken, inhuman, oppressed. Even though he can acknowledge God’s past faithfulness, he cannot hope, he cannot experience God’s compassionate presence in his sufferings. By contrast, the writer of the 23rd Psalm experiences God’s presence even “in the valley of the shadow of death.” Instead of looking with fear or anger on those who despise him, the Psalmist trusts God to “prepare a table for him in the presence of his enemies,” a place where the intimate act of table fellowship is possible even with those who wish him harm. The most remarkable thing about these two Psalms is that they were quite possibly written by the same person. They tell two very different stories in the face of suffering.
Over the last decade, I have heard many stories about September 11. For months afterward, every conversation it seemed found its way around to where we were, how we experienced the event, what we thought should be done now. I heard stories of fear, stories of anger, and stories of compassion.
Even our national story of this event interweaves these three responses. We embarked on a war against fear itself, a “War on Terror,” that continues ten years later. Many of our children, including my own, have never known a time when we have not been at war with our fear. Our story of fear is being passed down to the next generation and will be with us for a long, long time.
Anger has fueled ethnic profiling and stereotyping and violence against our enemies – real or perceived. Like the Levite, it is difficult to discern even which enemy we are fighting. Islamic extremists? Organized terrorism? Nations who harbor terrorists? Anti-American or oppressive regimes in the Middle East? Homegrown terrorism? So much fighting, so much war, so much fear and anger has clouded our vision, and caused us to tell a story of anger that has grown into an unintelligible rant.
But compassion has also been at the heart of our story. People have given of themselves in generous, self-sacrificial, beautiful ways to care for one another. Interfaith movements, including those we are involved
with, have promoted mutual understanding and respect. Stories about the innocents who suffer the effects of our war on terror have generated compassionate responses and rebuilding efforts.
There is no explicit judgment of the priest or the Levite in Jesus’ parable. Their responses are not unreasonable. However, fear and anger have made us feel, as the writer of Psalm 22 puts it, like worms, not humans.
After ten years, we want our humanity back.
To do that, I think we can look to the beginning of our gospel lesson. A lawyer wants to test Jesus, and asks what he must do to inherit eternal life. Jesus turns the question back on him, asking what he reads in the law, in the scriptures. The answer the lawyer gives is, I think, God’s design and definition for what it means to be human: love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, mind, and strength; and love your neighbor as yourself.
But the lawyer wants to justify the world he lives in, or perhaps the life he’s living. He wants to set up fences around his neighborhood, maybe kick some people out. But Jesus says, “you can’t do that.”
In fact, Jesus takes the lawyers question and turns it on its head. The lawyer wanted to know who his neighbor his, who does he have to recognize as his neighbor. And Jesus ends his story by asking, “who was a neighbor to the man who was robbed?” Who acted like a neighbor. Being a neighbor is an active thing.
But being a neighbor is not an easy thing. The road we are on, the lives we live, are dangerous. We have wealth to protect, and our nation and our world are deeply divided. That is why being a neighbor, showing compassion, is not an easy choice. That is why it is easier to walk past our neighbor and sacrifice our humanity than it is to potentially sacrifice our bodies and possessions and all we hold dear and be a neighbor.
But in the end, fear, anger, compassion – they’re all emotions, feelings we can’t necessarily control. Sometimes we’re going to feel like the writer of the 22nd Psalm, and sometimes we’re going to feel like the writer of the 23rd Psalm. But the good news is, no matter how we feel, not matter what story we tell, God does not change. We are not worms, we are human, for God restores our souls. We are not forsaken, for God is with us, comforting us in even our darkest moments. Even in those moments when we feel that we are “poured out like water,” when our hearts are like wax, melted within us, God anoints our head with oil, and our cup overflows.
The stories that have been told over the last ten years are part of history. If, like me, you want the next chapter of this story to be a story of compassion, if you want your humanity back, if you want to acknowledge the goodness and mercy of God that is with us our whole lives through, then let’s be neighbors. Let’s serve alongside our neighbors of different faiths, let’s engage in dialogue and conversations of mutual respect, let’s unite against inhumanity in all its many forms. Let’s put our stories of fear and anger aside, and care for the naked humanity suffering all around us. And let us be guided by the God who does not change – the God of justice and mercy, the God of love and reconciliation, the God comfort and peace, whom we all worship and serve.
Amen.
