1.
How the priest shuffles by and leaves the man there in the street. And how the scholar shuffles by and leaves him there. And how a Samaritan notices the poor, beaten guy, how he sees him and how he’s moved by compassion to help him.
Now I imagine Jesus tells this tale many times, over months and years: under a tree on some hill in the Galilee, on a scary street corner in Jerusalem. I imagine Jesus tells it again and again, embellishing here and there, building some drama, but always arriving at the same moment of discovery. How the Samaritan sees this guy, lying in the street, and how he’s moved by compassion to help him.
Maybe you’ve seen the big movie this spring – “Avatar” – and maybe you know that, on the mythical planet Pandora, the natives greet one another not with “Hello” but with “I see you.” “I see you.” That’s what happens in Jesus’ tale; that’s the whole point. The priest is distracted, and he doesn’t notice. The scholar’s too busy, and he doesn’t care. But the Samaritan, whose beliefs no one understands, whose habits seem strange and unsophisticated, the Samaritan is the one who sees the poor, beaten guy, left for dead in the street. “I see you,” he says. “I see you.” And it makes him stop; it makes him kneel in the dust; it makes him human.
So that’s the tale Jesus has been telling all those disciples as they come near Bethphage and Bethany, at the place called the Mount of Olives. That’s the tale he’s been teaching off. East of Jerusalem. How the Samaritan sees the guy bloodied and beaten, the guy ambushed and left for dead, the guy without friends or family or health insurance or hope. How the Samaritan sees him and stops for him and bandages his wounds. How he lifts the poor guy onto his own colt and leads him to an inn, to a place of comfort and respite and healing. And every time Jesus finishes with same little line, with the same simple instruction. “Go,” he says, “go and do likewise.”
It’s not as easy as it sounds, of course. Go and do likewise. The road from Jerusalem to Jericho is not the road we want to be on. And every time we get one guy settled in the inn, it seems there are four more out there, battered and aching for help. Maybe that’s why Thomas Merton said once to a young activist: “Concentrate not on the results, but on the value, the truth of the work itself…” The value, the truth of the work itself. Compassion breaks your heart. That road is a disheartening road.
So Jesus tells this tale again and again, and again, as they come near Bethphage and Bethany, at the place called the Mount of Olives. Go and do likewise. He knows it’s not as easy as it sounds. And he knows compassion breaks the human heart. But he also knows, I guess it’s more like he believes, that compassion is the only way. “Struggle less and less for ideas,” said Thomas Merton, “and more and more for specific people.” Compassion is the only way.
2.
So now it’s springtime in those Judean hills, a crisp spring morning in East Jerusalem, and Jesus pulls two of his disciples aside. And he says, “Go, go into the village up ahead, and you’ll find there a colt. A colt. Untie it and bring it here to me.” And when they look at him a little funny – maybe they’re a little squeamish about stealing an animal in broad daylight – Jesus says, “If anyone’s wondering, if anyone’s asking why you’re untying somebody else’s colt in broad daylight, just say this: ‘The Lord needs it.’”
Now maybe those disciples make the connection right then. The connection between the colt in Jesus’ tale and the colt he’ll ride now into Jerusalem. Or maybe it happens later, the connection, when they lift Jesus, lift him, onto the colt. Maybe it happens when all their cloaks are thrown upon the animal and Jesus is sitting there, quietly, safely, knowingly. But there comes a time, there comes a time when the disciples see what Jesus is doing there, on that colt, on that Mount of Olives, on that way into Jerusalem. It’s a strange bit of street theatre. Do you see it? Do you see what Jesus is doing there, on the colt?
Like all effective street theatre, this one’s intended not so much for those watching on the sidelines, not so much for the bewildered folks in the streets that day; but it’s supposed to work on the disciples, it’s supposed to work on us. Jesus wants to radicalize us. With an unlikely procession surrounding an unlikely king announcing a most unlikely kingdom. Here comes the poor, beaten, vulnerable savior: riding on a colt, surrounded by Samaritans, enlisting every one of us in the compassion revolution. This procession isn’t simply for show; it’s not just a fun way to kick off Holy Week. This procession is an invitation. We’re all on the road now; we’re all on the road from Jerusalem to Jericho. And Jesus is enlisting every one of us in his compassion revolution. Only mercy, only mercy can save the world.
3.
And here’s the thing. Just as Jesus directs those two disciples to go into the village and untie the colt. Just as Jesus encourages them and insists that they tell those villagers that “the Lord needs it,” Jesus needs that colt. Just as the revolution begins in their faith – so it begins in ours. Is the parable of the Good Samaritan just another story? Or is it God’s way of healing the planet, God’s way of reconciling enemies and overcoming hatred and showing us who we really are? All kinds of messiahs will try to save the world with angry rhetoric and hyped-up sloganeering. All kinds of messiahs will try to save the world with bombs and drones and electric chairs. Jesus says, “Get me a colt.” Jesus says, “Look the stranger in the eye.” Jesus says, “See that stranger as your own kin, as sister, as brother, as neighbor, as friend.” Jesus says, “Bandage his wounds and take good care of him.” The revolution begins with love.
I told this story once before, but it strikes me so powerfully today. A couple of years ago, walking through the occupied city of Hebron on the West Bank, I watched a young Palestinian, an engineering student, as he was confronted by an armed Israeli soldier at a checkpoint. The young soldier fingered an assault rifle and barked off a few questions. And that young Palestinian might have been angry, angry enough to rage at the occupation and every soldier in town. It might have been a bad scene.
But he searched instead, my friend, for some way of identifying with his young counterpart. They talked about college and being 20. They talked about careers and hopes for peace and the ugly role of religion in the region. It took some time, but tension dissolved. Something better took its place. And just before we left, the young Palestinian suggested the Israeli soldier might want to lay his weapons down, as an act of conscience and faith. I’ll never forget that afternoon. As long as I live, I’ll never forget it. How a 20-year-old Palestinian acted on faith, trusted in human decency, and transformed an occupied street corner into some piece of the kingdom of God. The revolution begins with love.
Now you and I walk the streets in other lands. But I have to believe Jesus needs us, God needs us in exactly the same way. The revolution begins with love. Yes, it means walking the city streets with eyes open. It means seeing the guy with the cardboard sign and tin cup as a brother, as a neighbor. And yes, it means paying attention to the stories we hear – stories of schools without books in Watsonville, stories of friends without doctors in Salinas, stories of neighbors without work right here in Santa Cruz. The revolution begins with love. And love begins with paying attention.
But it also means believing in mercy in the intimate spaces of our own hearts and homes. When there’s a fight, a battle in your marriage, and resentment would be easier. When there’s grudge at work, or, who knows, maybe here at church, and bitterness and blame make plenty of sense. Jesus needs you and me to go off into the village, to find that colt tied up and waiting, and to join the procession. To risk forgiveness. To risk humility. To risk mercy.
We’re tempted – I know I’m tempted – to think of revolution in terms of grand gestures and political movements. And there’s no doubt that these are necessary, an important part of progressive politics and faith. But Jesus is just as interested in the daily, hourly practice of faith and hope. Am I willing to recognize the little ways I ignore the people closest to me? And am I willing to ask for forgiveness and receive forgiveness and love even more deeply? And what about the insecurities that gnaw like a hundred rats at my soul? If only I were just a little more successful in my career. If only I made just a little more money for my family. If only I looked like one of those folks in the movies. If only my kids were happy. Am I able to name these anxieties, look them over, and let them go? Am I able to let all that baggage go – so I can walk the road from Jerusalem to Jericho, free and wise and generous, eyes wide open to the godly sisters and brothers who need me?
The grand gestures are important. The political movements are crucial. But Jesus insists that faith is like a tiny seed, a barely recognizable mustard seed. It seems so small, so insignificant, he says. But nothing is. Nothing’s so small, so insignificant. Faith is like a tiny seed. The kingdom is like a tiny seed. You receive it like a breath in the morning air. You cultivate it as you let grievances go, as you release resentment, as you accept forgiveness and grace over and over again. That tiny seed is the kingdom of God. And don’t bet against it. It takes root in good soil. It grows and grows, and the world is transformed around it.
4.
So here’s my hope, maybe some pastoral advice this Palm Sunday. Let’s join the procession on the Mount of Olives, the gathering of Jesus and his friends around a colt that seems familiar. Not because we’ve done it dozens of times before. Not because waving palms is kind of sweet and reminds us of days gone by. Let’s join the procession on the Mount of Olives because we choose the compassion revolution. Because we want to believe that mercy can change the world. Because we’ve seen it. Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord! Let’s go where he goes.
That wonderful Hafiz poem captures something of what happens, something of what happens when we untie the colt and bring it to the Lord of love. Praise! Delight! Hope! Listen…
“I hear the voiceSisters, brothers, friends of Jesus: we are born for this, created for this, set upon this planet to love and forgive and sing the Beloved’s name! This is not just a test. This is the real thing. We are a wild, holy band. Jerusalem lies before us. The world is waiting. And the revolution begins now.
of every creature and plant,
every world and sun and galaxy –
singing the Beloved’s name!
I have awakened to find violin and cello,
flute, harp and trumpet,
cymbal, bell and drum –
all within me!
From head to toe, every part of my body
is chanting and clapping!
Believer,
the Beloved has made you
such a luminous child!
For with the constant remembrance of God,
one’s whole body will become
a wonderful and wild,
holy band!”
