The parable of the Good Samaritan is perhaps one of the most loved and most familiar of all Jesus' parables.  How many of you first learned this parable as children?

The story is a simple one.  A man – about whom we know nothing – is traveling from Jerusalem to Jericho.  The road was known to be a dangerous one; it was steep, with lots of rocks and crevices – lots of places for bandits to hide.  Taking this road alone was like sending invitations to anyone who might want to mug you... which is, as you know, exactly what happens.  He is robbed, beaten within an inch of his life, and deserted by the side of the road.

You know what happens next.  A priest comes along, and then a Levite.  Both are upstanding citizens, both are leaders in the religious community.  Both have busy schedules.  Both the priest and the Levite exercise caution, both recognize that there are limits to what we can do to help those we pass on the street.  (Sound familiar?)  I'm sure that, wherever they were going, they made it on time.

Enter the Samaritan.  For those of us who grew up listening to this parable, “Samaritan” is practically synonymous with sainthood.  This was not true for Jesus' audience in Luke, however.  Jews of that time hated Samaritans.  If you’re hearing a story and a Samaritan comes on the scene, you should know that you're dealing with the quintessential bad guy.  It's as if Jesus had said, in the midst of the Cold War, “Then, along came the Soviets.”  Just think of a group of people whom you don't like, whom you don't trust, and substitute them for the Samaritans.  You know that trouble is brewing.

Problem is, we all know how the story ends.  The Samaritan doesn't act the way we expect him to.  He's not the bad guy we wanted him to be.  The Samaritan goes above and beyond the call of duty in caring for the injured man.  He helps the stranger on the road to the best of his ability, without expecting a thing in return. 

What's always intrigued me about this parable is the sense that, when all is said and done, the lawyer is a bit disappointed.  Why should he be?  Sure, no one wants to have their prejudices challenged... we all know that because we all have prejudices of our own, and we don’t like to have them proved wrong.  But I think there's more than that going on here. 

When the lawyer first begins his discussion with Jesus, he starts with a question: “What must I do to inherit eternal life?”  That is a big question.  Jesus points out to the lawyer that he's read the law, he can answer the question for himself.  And so, the lawyer does.  Love the Lord, love your neighbor.

Loving God is all well and good, of course.  But the neighbor thing... now that's trickier.  The lawyer is like us: he wants something – eternal life – and he wants to know the absolute minimum that he can get away with, and still meet the necessary requirements.  And so he asks, “Well, who is my neighbor?”  The meaning is obvious: “I want to know who I need to love, and who I can forget about.”  Jesus then tells the parable of the Good Samaritan, and it isn't the answer that the lawyer had been expecting.  In fact, when Jesus asks him which of the three characters acted as a neighbor, the lawyer can’t even bring himself to say “the Samaritan.”  Instead, he replies, “the one who showed him mercy.”  You can almost hear him muttering.

You and I are left with the question:  what does this parable have to do with inheriting eternal life?  We're good Protestants, right?  We don't dare suggest that we can earn salvation with good works!  We don't get into Heaven because we're nice to other people, do we?  No.  We're saved by the grace that was poured out in Christ's death and resurrection... well, okay.  But perhaps we should tell Jesus that, because he seemed to think that a parable about how we treat one another was an appropriate answer to the question of how to inherit eternal life.

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In the fall of 1997, Alex and I were beginning our senior year at St. Olaf College.  During our fall break, we went with three of our good friends on a short road trip.  We didn't really have any particular destination in mind.  We looked at a map, and arbitrarily decided on a small town in eastern South Dakota, just over the Minnesota state line.  The five of us threw a tent and a Coleman stove in the car, and started driving west.

It was probably 9 p.m. when we rolled into Badger, South Dakota, population 125.  There were maybe eight buildings in town, if you count the grain elevators.  We drove the entire length of the town (about a block) and at the far end of town there was a small park.  We thought it looked like a nice place to stake a tent, but decided to get permission to stay there first.  So, we turned the car around and headed back to the only building with the light on, the one place where we knew we could find the town authorities, as well as a bite to eat. 

And so it was that the five us filed into the local bar.  We pretended not to notice when the conversations stalled.  The place looked like any mid-western, small-town establishment.  There was a long bar, a few tables, a juke box with nothing but country music, and a pool table.  The walls were covered with dark brown wood paneling.  The décor consisted mainly of large mirrors with beer logos painted on them, and all varieties of taxidermy – mainly stuffed deer and pheasants.  The clientele, mostly farmers, sat hunched over their drinks, wearing plaid shirts and hats from companies that sold seed, or farm implements. 

We approached the bar-tender, and asked if we could camp in the park.  He just looked at us over the wire rims of his glasses.  “That would be fine,” he said.  We promised we'd be back for a bite to eat, after we'd set up the tent.  He didn't say much, just that he'd have to card us if we were going to order beer, and then he watched us go.

We returned as promised.  The bartender looked surprised.  He admitted, “I thought you were just a bunch of underage kids from the next town, trying to fool me.  When you walked out that door, I didn't think you'd be back.”  Immediately, his demeanor changed.  He brought us our dinner, and joined us at our table.  We talked about where we were from, and he shared some of his own stories.  His name was Paul.  His wife Eileen joined us, and we had a delightful time.  It was not what we had expected.  When we got ready to leave, Eileen invited us over for breakfast the next morning.  We accepted. 

The next morning, we headed for Paul and Eileen's home, just above the bar.  We tromped up the stairs.  We were not prepared for what we found.  Eileen had clearly gotten out her best dishes (the china cabinet was empty), and the table looked lovely.  She was making crepes, from scratch.   She had opened several jars of homemade preserves, in a variety of flavors.  The coffee was ready, and we sat down to a feast.  We were welcomed like royalty.  We sat for a long time, eating and talking and enjoying one another's company.  When we got up to leave, it was with more than a little regret. 

As we drove away from Badger, we were a little more thoughtful, more contemplative, than usual.  My friend Jill, who wasn't one to waste words, said, “You know, there was something almost religious about that meal.”  Everyone agreed.  I remember thinking that our meal had felt more meaningful than any communion service I'd ever participated in.  We all left that town with the sense that we'd been privileged with a welcome and a generosity that we hadn't even thought to look for, and certainly didn’t deserve.  Back at school, I recounted the story with a professor, and told her that it was the closest thing to a religious experience that I'd had in a long time.

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When I read the parable of the Good Samaritan, I sometimes wonder if the injured man had such thoughts about the stranger who had helped him.  Did that experience help him to feel closer to God?  And what of the Samaritan?  Did he experience God's grace in a new way when he stopped to help a man whom he had never met, and who probably didn't like him very much?

Jesus' parable of the Good Samaritan and my story about Badger are not at all the same, and yet there is a common thread that runs through them.  Think for a moment about the times in your own life when you have been surprised by the grace that you someone else has shown you, or when you've been surprised by the grace that you were able to share.  Think back to a moment when your experience with another person gave you a concrete way to love and experience God.  We all have these stories, tucked away in the various corners of our lives.  In a smaller congregation, I'd ask you to come up and share some of those stories with all of us.  I hope that you’ll find ways to share them with each other.

Let’s return for a moment to the lawyer’s question: what must I do to inherit eternal life?  The lawyer just wanted to know what he had to do to “get” eternal life.  Jesus reminds us that the point isn't making sure that we've got our bases covered.  We’re so accustomed to looking out for ourselves that Jesus’ words aren’t easy to hear.  Rather, the point is to be good neighbors without restraint, without caution, without our fear and prejudice.  It is only then that we step into the grace that God has opened up before us.

Somehow, our salvation is tied up in our relationships with others.  Our capacity, our willingness to be generous, to share hospitality, to offer mercy without boundaries and to accept all of those gifts from others: none of this earns us salvation, but it is how we experience what it means to be saved.  Being saved isn’t just about having a place reserved in Heaven – that’s just the same old idea about making sure you take care of yourself.  Being saved is also about the transformation of our daily lives, here and now.  We love God by loving one another, and we experience God's grace as we offer and receive mercy in a way that models Christ's vulnerability and openness. 

It is in those moments of shared grace that we begin to experience eternity in our own lifetimes.  It is in those moments of generosity that we get a glimpse of Jesus' ministry, incarnate among us.  It is in those moments when we are surprised by the depth of human mercy that we are awakened to the wonder of God's work in our lives.  Jesus tells us: it is only when we are open those moments with all people – even the people that we dislike – that we begin to experience the inheritance of eternal life.