Luke 10:30-37
I suspect most of us have heard Jesus’ response to the lawyer, once, who asked him, “Who is my neighbor?” Jesus told him a story:
“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 traveling 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 neighbor 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.”
Yesterday Pastor Cogan and I ran into one of our Partners in Mission, Maggie Higgins, having lunch with her grandmother-in-law, Alice Christle. Maggie and her husband, Derrick, live around the corner from me. It’s likely that I drive by their house several times a day; dozens of times a week; too many times a year to count. Yesterday, I complimented Maggie on the fact that they had painted their fence. It was cool, anyway – this new, horizontally-planked, wooden fence – when they installed it a few months ago. And it’s cool now, since they had painted, more recently. I was impressed that I noticed and remembered to tell her. And glad to pay her the compliment.
Maggie said thanks and asked if I’d noticed that they had also given their house a makeover. It had been yellow. Now it’s a dark gray. I hadn’t noticed. Then she asked if I’d noticed the house next door – which she and Derrick had helped makeover as well. It, too, had gone from an even brighter, bolder, brilliant yellow to a nautical kind of blue – almost exactly the color of my office here at church.
I hadn’t noticed … in spite of the fact that I drive by that house just as often … several times a day, easy; dozens of times a week, for sure; too many times a year to count. And, who knows how many times since this house, like the other, changed colors, right under my un-suspecting, under-appreciating nose. I was shocked.
Houses aren’t people, but David Brooks, in his book How to Know a Person: The Art of Seeing Others Deeply and Being Deeply Seen – it’s the book that is the inspiration for this Advent season at Cross of Grace, in case you haven’t heard –might say we make our way around in this world, interacting and sharing space with one another like I apparently drive to and from work a lot of the time: on auto-pilot.
(You’ve had that experience – right? – where you’ve gone somewhere, arrived safely at your destination, but can’t remember a thing that happened along the way. “Did I drive the speed limit?” “Use my turn signal?” “Stop at the stop sign?”)
Or, perhaps worse, even, than auto-pilot, Brooks might say that, in our interactions with one another we’re too often more worried about our own agenda, more focused on our own needs, more concerned with how we’re perceived or presenting ourselves, so that we aren’t as open to, concerned with, or focused on what’s going on in the hearts and minds and lives of the people around us.
While his book isn’t particularly, pointedly religious in nature, Brooks does reference the Bible a few times. And he mentions Jesus and the Good Samaritan to illustrate this point. That priest and that Levite, walking along, minding their own business – at best; or deliberately avoiding the business of their suffering neighbor – at worst; were like me, driving to and from, going about my business, paying no mind to the changing houses of my neighbors. (Again, houses aren’t people – but you get my point.)
So, Brooks proposes that we should set – as a goal in life – to learn to live as what he calls “illuminators.” An illuminator is someone like that Good Samaritan in Jesus’ parable, who keeps an eye out for, who pays attention to, who looks for ways to listen to, love, care about, and serve our neighbors – and the strangers in the world around us, too. Illuminators are those people who make the hearts and lives of those around them better, just by being with them – even if those around them aren’t outwardly struggling and suffering, lying by the side of the road.
You all know an illuminator or two, right? If you were with us at dinner, I hope you see now that that’s who we were trying to have you conjure in your mind’s eye and converse about with one another: Those people who have a knack for caring about … and seeing … and bringing out the best in who you are. Those people who have a knack for asking great questions; really listening to answers – and to what lies behind those answers; remembering names, maybe; anticipating needs, perhaps; responding in genuinely meaningful, caring, loving, insightful ways. Don’t we all want to be more like those people?
When (my wife) Christa was in the throes of her cancer treatments … back when the rest of the world was also in the throes of the COVID-19 pandemic … back when we were still worshiping remotely and doing worship by way of prayer vigils, opening the church for hours at a time so people could come and sit, socially-distanced, in the sanctuary to pray and meditate – “together but separately,” as we liked to say – without singing or shaking hands or speaking face-to-face … do you remember those days?
Well, one Sunday, during one of those prayer vigil/open house/socially-distanced worship services, I was sitting in the sound booth, messing with the music, wearing my mask and whatnot; kind of minding my own business. There were one or two other Cross of Gracers here, quietly doing their prayer and meditation thing, when someone I thought was Sara Ostermyer walked in and sat in the back … there … where Laurel is sitting now.
A second later, I got a text message from one of my very best friends, Amy, who lives in Orlando, Florida. Along with her text message was a picture of this sanctuary, our altar, and whatever was currently being projected on that wall, from the perspective of someone who was sitting in the back … there … where Laurel is sitting now.
I was Gob-smacked. (Amy hadn’t seen me over in the sound booth. She thought I was at home or elsewhere in the building. So I took a picture of her from over there and texted it back, just to mess with her.)
As we approached each other, we knew we were smiling beneath those damned masks, even though we couldn’t prove it. And we ignored every social-distancing protocol there ever was, hugged and cried, laughed and wept, and just sat together, crying some more, without saying much of anything.
We were too exhausted by our grief over COVID, our fear about Christa’s cancer, our gratitude for our friendship, our frustration and anger that we hadn’t been able to be together until that moment. All the things and all the feels were living and moving and breathing between us – because Amy knew it was time to show up.
Now, I have to say, in case she’s watching or hears this, that our friend Amy does like to talk about herself and she loves being the center of attention whenever possible. But she really can be a top-notch illuminator on her good days. She’s curious and compassionate about other people. She asks good, thoughtful questions. And, the day she showed up here, unannounced – in the middle of one of the most anxious, sad, scary times in our lives – was one of her very good days and I won’t forget it.
Because after about half an hour here, she spent about twenty minutes standing in our kitchen talking with Christa and the boys – masked and from a distance of course, because of Christa’s compromised immune system. Then she simply got back in her car to drive four hours back to her cabin in Ohio from whence she’d come; all because she knew we were feeling all of the things that had covered us in those days. It was beautiful and generous and kind and compassionate – and illuminating – as David Brooks might say.
But the good, beautiful thing about being an illuminator, is that it doesn’t require such grand gestures – and it shouldn’t be reserved just for close friends and family. David Brooks says it means nothing more and nothing less than working to see what another person sees in a way that leads to the greatness of small acts … “the greatness of small acts” … stuff anyone can learn and work to do:
…like genuinely welcoming a newcomer to your workplace, to your neighborhood, to your church; like noticing the anxiety or nerves in someone’s voice and asking what might be wrong; like knowing how to host a party where everyone feels welcome and included; like knowing how to give a good gift.
And Scripture is full of faithful illuminators – like the Good Samaritan –from whom we can learn these same lessons. I think Aaron was an illuminator for Moses – literally making his words his own and sharing them on his behalf. I think Ruth was an illuminator for Naomi – “wherever you go, I will go,” she promised her in her moment of great need, “wherever you stay, I will stay.” I think Jonathon was an illuminator for his friend David – loving him “like his own soul,” giving him gifts that affirmed his status and met his needs, even saving his life with some really timely advice.
And, since we’re headed to Christmas, I think Aunt Elizabeth was an illuminator for Mary, the mother of Jesus – welcoming her visit; calling her blessed in a world that would never; receiving her and her shocking news, unfazed and unafraid; affirming her faithful choice to carry that baby; loving her when others likely wouldn’t. I think Joseph was an illuminator for the Pharaoh, Eli was for Samuel, Paul was for Timothy. The list goes on if you look hard enough.
And Jesus, himself, was – and is – an illuminator for us all. And how God calls us to do and be the same for the sake of the world – which is why we’re talking about seeing deeply and being deeply seen these days.
David Brooks says that “seeing someone well is a powerfully creative act.” That “no one can fully appreciate their own beauty and strength unless those things are mirrored back to them in the mind of another. There is something in being seen that brings forth growth. If you beam the light of your attention on me – [if you serve as an illuminator in my life] – I blossom. If you see great potential in me, I will probably come to see great potential in myself. If you can understand my frailties and sympathize with me when life treats me harshly, then I am more likely to have the strength to weather the storms of life.”
And Brooks says, “In how you see me, I will learn to see myself.”
“In how you see me, I will learn to see myself.”
So God shows up in Jesus – perhaps the most powerfully creative act of all time – traveling a great distance, like a good friend would, you might say; to see us well, in all of our fullness; in all of our beauty and strength; in all of our folly and frailty; as utter sinners and as absolute saints; so we would know we are seen and loved and held in the heart of the very child of God, himself. This is the good news of the incarnation, the birth of Emmanuel – God with us; the Gospel blessing of Christmas.
And it happens so that, by his example, we will know that we can do the same – illuminate the world he came to see and to save – with the same grace he came to reveal and to share.
Amen. Come, Lord Jesus.
