Luke 10:25-37 · The Parable of the Good Samaritan
Compassion
Luke 10:25-37
Sermon
by Harold Warlick
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One of the pivotal questions in life is this one: "What does it mean to grow up?" How do you know when someone is mature? When is someone real?

Most of the time it doesn't have anything to do with age. I've known some 20-year-old girls who live like they're 75-year-old old maids. And occasionally friends will even ask me what I'm going to do when I grow up.

What does it mean to grow old? When buying a ticket to a movie theatre, you're an adult when you reach 13 years of age. The state says you're old enough to drive when you are (depending on your state law) 15 or 16. They say you're old enough to drink alcoholic beverages when you're 21 and to vote when you're 18.

Margery Williams gave a classic answer in a book, The Velveteen Rabbit. It is the story of a little boy's nursery. The nursery was full of toy animals. One day a new toy rabbit came to live there. The rabbit wanted to know the secret of becoming real. He asked the skin horse, who was so old his brown coat was rubbing off, how to become real.

The old horse responded, "Real isn't how you're made, Rabbit. It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time ... then you become real." The rabbit then asked, "Does it hurt?"

"Sometimes," he answered. "Generally by the time you are real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and are very shabby. But these things don't matter at all because once you are real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."

Real isn't how you're made. Real isn't how old you are. It is a thing that happens to you. And the skin horse was right. It can be wearing to be loved by someone.

The most important thing in the world is to become "real." What matters is loving and being loved for a long, long time. Loving and being loved add wrinkles and white hairs to your head and can make joints grow loose.

I have always been fascinated by the attempts of various societies and cultures to conjecture what Jesus Christ must have looked like. If he was real, what did he look like? In the 1950s, most of the pictures of Christ available to us were somewhat effeminate. We've encountered scores of paintings depicting a Jesus with long brown hair, baby smooth skin and a glowing halo around his head. He looked like a very thin, pious 33-year-old wimpish Peewee Herman with manicured fingernails. Then, in the 1960s, largely due to preachers' attempts to break out of being perceived as a kind of third sex, we had an emphasis on Jesus as a real man's man. The rugged carpenter came into focus. The man who could do all that walking and speaking must have had real stamina. Consequently, we perceived Jesus as a tough Mel Gibson or Sylvester Stallone look-alike with muscles flexed and a jogger's pair of legs. Then, in the 1970s, we tried to reconcile Jesus' appearance with the fantastic sums of money pouring into the coffers of television evangelists. "Jesus only deserves the very best," became our watchword. As Pat Robertson explained to visitors to his 700 Club headquarters in Virginia Beach, when they asked about the expensive paneling flown in from England or the opulent antiques decorating even more opulent rooms, "We think Jesus, when he returns to earth, is going to return here first, and we want him to have the very best." So we encountered a Jesus who resembled Prince Charles or Donald Trump, a kingly, regal man with a white cloud for transportation.

Personally, if Jesus was as much human as divine, like the Bible says he was, I think none of those depictions are accurate. Jesus was not only a Messiah and a Risen Lord. Jesus was a wonderful, compassionate person. He was a real person. He loved and was loved for a long time, and showered his compassion on everyone he met. Perhaps the truest statement is that of Peter: "Jesus went about doing good (Acts 10:38)."

Jesus loved, and then when you do good you sometimes get hurt. Have you ever seen the hurt in a child when it trusts someone and that trust is betrayed? Have you ever seen a woman whose husband abuses her, abandons her, takes her money and leaves her for another person? It takes psychiatrists, friends and hospitals a few years to try to correct some of that damage and convince her that being a good person really isn't that bad a lifestyle. Have you ever seen what happens to a man whose best friends abandon him in an hour of need and then try to throw him to the wolves? Think about these things and read the life of Jesus between Christmas and Easter. Christianity must never leap from the songs and bells and candles and presents of Christmas to the flowers and Handel's Messiah of Easter without passing by the dusty roads of Galilee and Judea, places where Jesus was showing compassion. Think of it. He heals 10 lepers and one returns to thank him. If that were me, I'd make the other nine sick again. But he doesn't. He bears it. He asks his friends to stay up with him while he goes off to a garden and, in great anxiety and depression, sweats big drops of sweat so big, one writer says they flowed like blood. Then he comes out and witnesses those friends sound asleep. "Could you not stay awake one hour?" he asks. I know how it feels when a student sleeps 50 minutes. All of Jesus' students fell asleep. Finally, one of the 12 best friends he has on earth sells him out to his enemies for a little pouch of money.

My guess is that the man who walked to Calvary was prematurely gray. He must have seemed more like 63 than 33 years old in appearance. His face must have contained more wrinkles than mine and his joints must have been quite loose. He probably was dead broke and mentally worn by all the sacrifices he had made. But he was the most real person who ever lived. He had more compassion than all of us put together. He was the most beautiful person who ever lived. He was ugly only to those people who didn't understand.

For me, the time between Christmas and Easter symbolizes the most critical time in the life of the Christian. This is the time that affords us an opportunity to become real.

Real is not how we are made. It is a thing that happens to us. The gold, frankincense and myrrh have been put away in the storage rooms above the organ chambers. The Easter flowers have not yet been ordered. We are in the gaps between Christian festivals. But, my friends, it is in life's gaps that we become real. Jesus told us a parable about how people become real. Real is not how you are made. It is something that happens to you. Jesus said a man was beaten and left half-dead. He was unconscious and his clothes were torn off. He was simply "a certain man." There was no clue whatsoever as to his status or his accent. All we know is that he was in need. A priest came by and would not get near him. In those days one had to handle a dead body in a special way; otherwise you were defiled. A life was hanging in the balance, but the priest was worried about staying pure and not getting defiled by an improper involvement.

Then a Levite came by also. Ah, a Levite. Upper-middle class. The best education money can buy. It was not his stature to get involved with people beneath his status or proper family. Since the man had no clothes or speech, who could tell what rank he came from? He couldn't take a chance on being seen on the Jericho road associating with just anybody. The rumors would ruin him.

Then a Samaritan came by. Jesus said, "The Samaritan was filled with compassion." He was not concerned with the man's pedigree, his race, or the cause of his tragedy. He simply had compassion. Compassion. Jesus said, "You go and do the same." Have compassion. The person may never be capable of returning the favor, but you go and have compassion. The ten may not thank you; your friends may abandon you; your buddies may sell you out, but you go and have compassion.

It is a charge that causes us to shiver. Deep down, I think most of us know that in spite of our achievements in technology and medicine, our society is no better off morally and spiritually than those people who heard the original version of this story so long ago. We still haven't found a way to educate people in compassion. We grant more degrees than the world has ever seen before. We also have more casual but painful divorces, more child abuse, more wife and husband abuse, more suicides, more homeless people sleeping in garbage cans, more people destroying themselves through death-dealing drugs, more people treating children as if they asked to be born in poor neighborhoods, and more penalties for indigent adults who grow old and get sick. You and I need to recover a sense of human compassion if any society ever did. And "real" is not how you are made; it is something which happens to you. That is indeed the hope of the world - that enough people can become "real" to enable this earth to be a better place for those who come after them. You can become a good business person without becoming "real." You can become a good lawyer without becoming "real." You can have children and not be real. You can become a minister and not be real. Compassion cannot be bought. You can't purchase it.

The world relies on compassionate people to train us as to the values of life. Several months ago, I received a phone call from a friend of mine from a distant state. This lady and her husband were very well-off financially. In fact, their combined incomes exceed $10 million a year. They are worried about their 21-year-old son. His marriage only lasted six months. He has no job. He just lives in a condominium by himself. He is on drugs. He got in over his head and washed out of college. His parents never know where he is or who his friends are. So his mother had conjectured a possible scenario. "Hal," she said, "Do you think I could find a 'Mr. Perfect' somewhere and hire him to go live with my son, show him the ropes, let him go to college with him, and help him plan out some choices in life?" The thought shocked me. "Hal," she continued, "you've got your life together. Who was your mentor? Can't I hire someone to do for him what someone obviously did for you?"

I responded in rather direct fashion. "There are no perfect people, for starters. Secondly, my life is not all that together. Everyone has problems. But most important, you cannot go out and buy 40 years of compassion."

I thought of the aunt who took off from work in Charlotte to stay with me for a week while my sister was born; the high school principal who kept me in school and gave me a job when I was running around with the wrong crowd and deserved to flunk out; the college coach who made Furman admit me when I did not deserve to be admitted and had a projected GPA of 1.8; the minister who gave me a job when I had no experience; the college cheerleader who copied an extra set of notes from our English and history classes for three weeks while I was in Greenville General Hospital having knee surgery. I thought about the family in South Carolina, whose names I did not know and the university will never give me, who paid my entire tuition bills my last two years at Harvard; the doctors who hired my wife for a full-time job over the telephone 1,000 miles away even though they had never met her; she did not have one day's experience in the field, and she spoke Southern instead of Yankee; the 350 people in my first church who smiled, affirmed and loved me for two years even though I did not know how to preach; the 11 people from High Point who drove 500 miles roundtrip to attend a 20-minute funeral for my father.

Now, how and where would you tell someone they could hire that? Finally, I told my friend - "Actually, I have never had my life very much together. I've just been the recipient of more compassion than most people. There isn't enough money in the world to buy the compassion I have received. There is only one thing you can do. You can start showing your son and everyone around you some compassion, even though they may not seem to deserve it. Most likely they will not thank you. Read the parable of the Good Samaritan."

The world will still have its problems. You can't solve the problems of the world. You can't feed every hungry child in Africa. You can't solve the problems of drug abuse and divorce. You can't solve the civil rights problem or the problems of women's rights. But God can take you and focus you on something. You can at least become real.

Real isn't how you are made. It is something that happens to you. "A certain man fell into trouble and a certain Samaritan, when he saw the man, was filled with compassion. You go then, and do the same."

CSS Publishing Company, What to Do When Everyone's Doing It, by Harold Warlick