Do you know what it means to be weary?
You could look it up, and the dictionary would tell you that to be weary is to be physically or emotionally exhausted.
But even without the dictionary telling you what weary is, your neighbors will show you what it means to be weary.
Weary is feeling that your already torn apart heart is being pulled apart again.
Weary is a person of color being stopped by the police and realizing that any movement—no matter how innocent—could be their last.
Weary is a police officer walking from a patrol car to a stopped vehicle and feeling his heart beating wildly with fear, no matter how much training he has undergone.
Weary is a mother trying to make sure that her young children aren’t hearing or seeing the stories that she’s trying to keep up on the news.
Weary is an endless stream of appointments and adjustments to medications that bring no more hope than the visits before.
Weary is filling out applications and submitting resumes and getting nothing but silence in return.
Do you know what it means to be weary?
We are weary people. And we are living in a weary world.
And then this week happened.
And our collective eyes turned to the new places of the old story plaguing our nation: Baton Rouge. Saint Paul. Dallas.
And our hearts are breaking.
And we may struggle to sleep at night because we are so afraid of what will happen next.
Or so afraid of our neighbors who are not like us.
Or maybe you sit alone in your thoughts and find yourself just angry and confused—because what other people tell you they are experiencing is not what you are experiencing.
And maybe what you are hearing from all of the movements—black lives matter—blue lives matter—all lives matter—maybe the voices from those groups ring true for you. Or maybe they just make you angry in some way that you didn’t even realize you cared.
But mostly, we are just so tired.
Tired of the seemingly endless litany of violence and alienation that always ends up in physical or emotional exhaustion.
Weary.
At some point in the last two days, I remembered a scene from the movie Grand Canyon. Maybe some of you are old enough to remember that movie.
In the scene I am remembering, a rich attorney is driving in his expensive car to some important appointment, and he ends up hitting a traffic jam. He loses patience and decides that he will find a way around it.
So he exits the highway onto city streets, and as he drives, he notices that there are fewer and fewer people around. And the streets suddenly seem more dangerous.
And he’s not sure where he is.
And then his car breaks down.
He’s terrified.
He’s in a neighborhood where he doesn’t belong, and he’s as vulnerable a target as he could be.
He manages to call for a tow truck, and sits in his car to wait.
While he’s waiting, he is surrounded by a group of people who are about to rob him—or worse—and he is now beyond terrified.
And that’s when the tow truck driver—played by Danny Glover—drives up, gets out of his truck, and begins to hook the man’s car up to tow it away.
There’s some tense conversation, and then Glover’s character and the gang leader talk by themselves. And Glover says these words:
Man, the world ain’t supposed to work like this. I mean, maybe you don’t know that yet. I’m supposed to be able to do my job without having to ask you if I can. And that dude is supposed to be able to wait in his car without you ripping him off. (And he ends his statement like this:) Everything is supposed to be different than it is.
Everything is supposed to be different than it is.
That about sums up this past week in our country, doesn’t it?
So many things—and all of it should be different than it is.
People of color should know the same protection and freedoms that I do.
Police officers should be supported and thanked for the amazing job they do almost every minute, and shouldn’t be turned into targets.
People should be able to protest peacefully when needed.
We should commit to listening more to the voices of those not like us, rather than simply dismissing their stories as untrue, or exaggerated.
And the divide over so many things that appear more keenly now in our culture than at any point in most of our lifetimes—well, it just is not supposed to be like that.
The world ain’t supposed to work like this.
And that’s why we nod our heads when we hear Jesus tell this parable about a man simply walking down a road.
And he should be able to do that—to walk from Jerusalem to Jericho—without fear of falling into the hands of robbers.
That’s not how it’s supposed to be. But it was. And it is.
And so the man falls into the hands of robbers who end up leaving him for dead, in the ditch.
Now Jesus told this story because someone had asked him what he needed to do to inherit eternal life. And as he most often does, Jesus answered the man’s question with one of his own: “What is written in the law? What do you read there?”
And the man gets it right—”I’m to love God with all that I am. And to love my neighbor as myself.”
And Jesus says, “Well done! Just do those things, and you will live.”
But why is it that we always want to make things harder?
And we do we always seem to try to find loop holes? At least this man does, and I do…and so he asks, “Who is my neighbor?
And that’s what prompts this story Jesus tells, a story taking place in world like ours—where things happen that aren’t supposed to be—and he falls into the hands of robbers and ends up in ditch, as good as dead.
And, since this is often considered Jesus’ most familiar parable, you may already think you know what it means.
“Be nice like the Samaritan, not nasty like the clergy—the priest and the Levite.”
In these days when we are thinking more and more about the question—who is my neighbor—as the world gets smaller and we bump into neighbors who frighten us or anger us or who are anything but like us—the theological work required of us to show kindness is as required of us as it was for the Samaritan.
Because make no mistake.
The man lying in the ditch, bleeding, represented just as much of a nuisance to the Samaritan as it did for the two religious leaders.
So why did he stop to help?
I think it was because he had worked out the theological foundation of the question—who is my neighbor—by coming to believe the things we will say together in just a few moments.
He knew that any definition of neighbor had to be large enough to include even those he despised or wanted to exclude.
He knew that he was called to recognize that all people—in all cultures—are our neighbors on this planet.
So who are our neighbors?
In a week like this one in our country, some of us may feel the temptation to draw the circle more closely. My neighbor is the one who looks like me and thinks like me and believes like me and votes like me.
But the truth is, this is the time when the church is called to show that the word “neighbor” is far larger than we may imagine. Or than we may like.
Here’s how we’ll say it together:
We are obligated to speak the truth in love,
to listen with patience and openness,
to love our enemies,
to accept the risk and pain which love involves.
That’s the way the world is to be.
And we will see that clearly at this table, where life is for a single moment the way it should be in all of our moments.
In these troubling days, I simply want to suggest we be three thing for our neighbors:
Be brave.
Be generous.
Be kind.
And now, as those who have known the kindness of God, let us stand together to say what we believe:
*An Affirmation of Faith (unison)
Christ calls us to live for our neighbors.
Jesus broadened the definition of neighbor
to include those ordinarily despised and excluded.
His life in behalf of others
led to persecution and death.
He commanded his disciples to live the same way.
We believe Christ gives us, and demands of us,
lives that recognize all people in all cultures
as our neighbors on this planet.
Christ teaches us
to go beyond legal requirements
in serving and helping our neighbor,
to treat our neighbor’s needs as our own,
to care passionately for the other’s good,
to share what we have.
It is part of our discipline
to live in simplicity,
avoiding greed and luxury
that threaten our neighbor’s survival.
We are obligated to speak the truth in love,
to listen with patience and openness,
to love our enemies,
to accept the risk and pain
which love involves. (From A Declaration of Faith)
**A sermon preached July 10, 2016, with the people of Massanutten Presbyterian Church in Penn Laird, VA.
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