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Die verhaal van die Goeie Samaritaan is so bekend dat dit in die volksmond ‘n segswyse geword het. Maar dis die moeite werd om weer daarna te kyk.
‘n Wetsgeleerde kom na Christus met ‘n vraag – seker die grootste vraag wat mens kan vra: “Wat moet ek doen om die ewige lewe te beërwe?”
Maar let op: dis nie ‘n opregte vraag, gebore uit ‘n ware soeke, soos dié van die ryk jong man, wat dieselfde vraag gevra het nie. Dis ‘n vraag wat ten doel het om Christus te toets, en Hom te versoek.
Christus antwoord met ‘n teenvraag: Wat is in die wet geskrywe? Wat lees jy? Dadelik demonstreer die wetsgeleerde dat hy self die antwoord op sy vraag weet: Jy moet die Here jou God liefhê uit jou hele hart en uit jou hele siel en uit jou hele verstand; en jou naaste soos jouself.
En kyk nou mooi hoe Christus hom antwoord: Jy het reg geantwoord; doen dit en jy sal lewe. Hiermee sê Christus vir die wetsgeleerde dat dit nie genoeg is om oor God te praat nie; dis nie genoeg om kennis van God te hê nie. Doen dit en jy sal lewe. Die geloof, die kennis van God, selfs die dieptekennis oor die teologie, wat nie tot aksie kom nie, beteken niks. Dis ‘n kritieke punt hierdie, so laat ek dit prontuit stel: die Ortodoksie is nie ‘n teologiese- of ‘n geloofsisteem nie.
Jy kan die trappe van die Leer van Goddelike Opgang uit jou kop ken, die geskrifte van die Slavofiele aanhaal en weet wat Lossky se sienings oor die Christologiese en pneumatologiese dimensies van die Kerk is. Maar as jou geloof nie tot dade oorgaan nie, beteken dit niks.
Ek beklemtoon dit omdat ek sien dat mense begin belangstel in die Ortodoksie en dan alles daaroor wil weet en met ‘n passie daaroor begin lees. Laat ek dadelik sê dat daar niks mee verkeerd is nie. Ek het so 17 jaar terug die eerste keer met die Ortodoksie te make gekry en ek lees nog een stryk deur, met ‘n passie wat algaande verdiep. Maar die gevaar bestaan dat ons sal dink dat ons toenemende kennis oor die Ortodoksie, die Ortodokse lewe self is.
Dis ‘n gevaar wat veral groot is in die hiperrasionele beskawing waarin ons ons bevind. Mense konstrueer vir hulleself geloofswerklikhede, insluitend Ortodokse geloofswerklikhede, wat net so werklikheidsvreemd is as dié van die wetsgeleerde – wêrelde waarin jy oukei is as jou siening perfek sin maak en rasioneel verdedigbaar is, ongeag of dit tot uiting kom in dade of nie.
Ek het al vantevore vertel van GK Chesterton se voorbeeld van die kranksinnige se perfekte sirkel, waaroor hy die volgende sê:
Perhaps the nearest we can get to expressing it is to say this: that the madman’s mind moves in a perfect but narrow circle. A small circle is quite as infinite as a large circle; but, though it is quite as infinite, it is not so large. In the same way the insane explanation is quite as complete as the sane one, but it is not so large. A bullet is quite as round as the world, but it is not the world. There is such a thing as a narrow universality; there is such a thing as a small and cramped eternity; you may see it in many modern religions. Now, speaking quite externally and empirically, we may say that the strongest and most unmistakable mark of madness is this combination between a logical completeness and a spiritual contraction.
Dit is wat Christus vir die wetsgeleerde sê, en vir ons sê: maak groter die sirkel van jou werklikheid deur jou dade, dan sal jy oombliklik sien hoe moeilik en morsig hierdie naasteliefde is waaroor jy so gladweg praat.
Die wetsgeleerde se opvolgvraag is nie “hoe sal ek dit doen nie,” maar “wie is my naaste”? Want die Jode was mense met sterk gevoelens oor nie-Jode. Onthou die Samaritaanse vrou en die Siro-fenisiese vrou. Die Jode was trots op wie hulle was – en wie hulle nié was nie. Soos ons ook. Ons is nie soos hierdie vertoingde man by die verkeerslig nie. Ons is nie soos die skellende straatvrou nie. Ons is nie soos hierdie patriargale, ANC-liefhebbende, vleisvretende, Trumpondersteunende, kapitalistiese, veganistiese, woke, verregse, noem-maar-op skepsel nie.
Die wetsgeleerde se idee was daarom om Christus uit te daag om te sê dat my naaste my huismense is, of my volksgenote, of my geliefdes.
Maar Christus is nie klaar met sy tema van dade nie. Daarom vertel hy die verhaal van die man wat onder die rowers verval het; wat hom beroof het, sy klere uitgetrek het en hom geslaan het tot hy half dood langs die pad lê. Die priester en die Leviet kom daar verby met die perfekte sirkel van hulle sienings, sien die naakte, gewonde man, maar gaan verby “aan die ander kant”, die kant wat nie betrokke raak nie, die kant wat die sirkel in sy kop heel hou.
Maar die Samaritaan, die uitgeworpene, die ketter, die heterodokse, kom op hom af. Hy voel innig jammer vir hom. Hy onderbreek sy reis, gaan na hom toe, verbind sy wonde, neem hom na ‘n herberg, versorg hom oornag en laat geld by die herbergier om hom verder te versorg, met die belofte om die herbergier se verdere onkoste ook te delg as hy terugkom.
En wanneer Christus hierdie verhaal klaar vertel het, keer Hy die hele “wie’s-my-naaste-vraag” op sy kop. Want Christus vra nie vir die wetsgeleerde of die man wat onder die rowers verval het sy naaste is nie. Nee, Hy vra vir hom wie die naaste was van die man wat onder die rowers verval het. Die logiese antwoord hierop is dat die man wat onder die rowers verval het, niemand liefgehad het soos hyself, soos wat die wetsgeleerde se opsomming gelui het nie. Nee, daar ís liefde aan slagoffer bewys; die Samaritaan het slagoffer liefgehad soos hyself.
Wat moet ons hiervan maak? Ek dink twee goed. Ek dink dat ons moet besef dat die mens wie se behoefte ons raaksien en wat ons in die stilte vra of ons sy naaste is en of ons, opgevang in ons sirkel, gaan verbyloop, daardie persoon is onsself. Naasteliefde is selfliefde. My broer is my lewe, soos die Heilige Silouan gesê het.
Dit is so omdat ons dieselfde asem deel, dieselfde lug en lewe deel, dieselfde Gees ontvang het. Die woord asem se Proto-Indo-Europese wortel beteken én asem én blaas én wind én gees, of lewenskrag. My naaste se lewe is my lewe.
En die tweede is dat ek myself nie in my kopsirkel kan liefhê nie. My lyf dring aan op eet, op drink, op slaap, op versorging en fisies bewese liefde. Net so my broer en my suster. God se liefde vir die mens het ‘n Inkarnasie geverg. God se redding van ons gebeur in ons lyf. As die modder van die mens die opdrag ontvang om god te word, soos wat die Heilige Gregorius van Nyssa gesê het, dan loop die uitvoering van daardie opdrag deur ‘n praktiese, beliggaamde liefde, wat wonde verbind en ontsmet, wat vra dat ons reis onderbreek word, wat geld vra en moeite en tyd en opoffering.
Wanneer ons weer bymekaar kom, het die Kersvas begin. Laat ons in dié tyd onthou dat dit nie net gaan om die beteueling van ons passies nie, maar om die beliggaamde liefde van ons naaste, wat onsself is. Want laat ons ook onthou hoe die ontmoeting met die wetsgeleerde eindig, met Christus se woorde: “Gaan en doen jy net so.”
Aan Hom wat ons kom red het toe ons naak en halfdood verwond langs die pad gelê het, kom toe die lof en die eer en die aanbidding, nou en altyd en tot in ewigheid. Amen.
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The story of the Good Samaritan is so familiar that it has become a byword in everyday speech. But it is worth looking at again.
A lawyer comes to Christ with a question—surely the greatest question a person can ask: “What must I do to inherit eternal life?”
But note this: it is not a sincere question, born of true seeking like that of the rich young man. It is a question meant to test, to tempt Christ.
Christ answers with a counter-question: “What is written in the Law? How do you read it?” Immediately the lawyer shows that he already knows the answer to his own question: “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind; and your neighbour as yourself.”
And look carefully at how Christ replies: “You have answered correctly; do this and you will live.”
By this Christ tells the lawyer that it is not enough to speak about God; it is not enough merely to have knowledge of God. Do this and you will live.
Faith, the knowledge of God, even deep theological knowledge, if it does not lead to action, means nothing.
This is a critical point, so let me state it plainly: Orthodoxy is not a theological or philosophical system.
You can know from memory the steps of the Ladder of Divine Ascent, quote the writings of the Slavophiles, and know Lossky’s views on the Christological and pneumatological dimensions of the Church. But if your faith does not lead to deeds, it means nothing.
I emphasise this because I see people becoming interested in Orthodoxy and then wanting to know everything about it and reading about it passionately. Let me immediately say there is nothing wrong with that. As a matter of fact, I first encountered Orthodoxy about 17 years ago, and I am still reading steadily, with a passion that deepens over time.
But the danger exists that we think our increasing knowledge about Orthodoxy is the Orthodox life itself.
It is a danger especially great in the hyper-rational civilisation in which we find ourselves. People construct religious realities for themselves — including Orthodox religious realities — that are just as detached from reality as that of the lawyer—worlds in which you are “okay” if your view makes perfect sense and is rationally defensible, irrespective of whether it expresses itself in deeds or not.
I have previously spoken of G.K. Chesterton’s example of the madman’s perfect circle, about which he says:
“Perhaps the nearest we can get to expressing it is to say this: that the madman’s mind moves in a perfect but narrow circle. A small circle is quite as infinite as a large circle; but, though it is quite as infinite, it is not so large. In the same way the insane explanation is quite as complete as the sane one, but it is not so large. A bullet is quite as round as the world, but it is not the world. There is such a thing as a narrow universality; there is such a thing as a small and cramped eternity; you may see it in many modern religions. Now, speaking quite externally and empirically, we may say that the strongest and most unmistakable mark of madness is this combination between a logical completeness and a spiritual contraction.”
This is what Christ is saying to the lawyer—and to us: enlarge the circle of your reality through your deeds, and you will at once see how difficult and messy this neighbour-love is that you talk about so glibly.
The lawyer’s follow-up question is not “How shall I do this?” but “Who is my neighbour?” For the Jews were people with strong feelings about non-Jews. Remember the Samaritan woman and the Syro-Phoenician woman.
The Jews were proud of who they were—and who they were not. Just like us.
We are not like that bedraggled man at the traffic light.
We are not like that shouting woman in the street.
We are not like this patriarchal, ANC-loving, meat-eating, Trump-supporting, capitalist, vegan, woke, far-right—name-what-you-will creature.
The lawyer’s idea, therefore, was to challenge Christ to say that my neighbour is my own people, or my fellow countrymen, or my loved ones.
But Christ is not finished with His theme of deeds.
He therefore tells the story of the man who fell among robbers; who stripped him, beat him, and left him half dead at the side of the road.
The priest and the Levite come by with the perfect circles inside their heads, see the naked, wounded man, but pass by “on the other side”—the side that does not get involved, the side that keeps the circle intact, and small.
But the Samaritan—the outcast, the heretic, the heterodox—comes upon him.
He feels deep compassion for him.
He interrupts his journey, goes to him, binds his wounds, takes him to an inn, cares for him overnight, and leaves money with the innkeeper to continue caring for him, with the promise to settle any additional costs upon his return.
And when Christ has finished telling this story, He turns the whole “who-is-my-neighbour” question on its head.
For Christ does not ask the lawyer whether the man who fell among the robbers was his neighbour.
No, He asks him who was the neighbour of the man who fell among the robbers.
The logical conclusion is that the man who fell among the robbers loved no one as himself, as the lawyer’s summary had stated.
No, love was shown to the victim; the Samaritan loved the victim as himself.
What must we make of this? I think two things.
First, I think we must realise that the person whose need we see—and who, in silence, asks us whether we are his neighbour, or whether we will pass by inside our perfect head-circle—that person is ourselves.
Neighbour-love is self-love. “My brother is my life,” as St Silouan said.
This is so because we share the same breath, share the same air and life, have received the same Spirit.
The Proto-Indo-European root of word “asem” in Afrikaans – breath in English – contains all the meanings of breath and blow and wind and spirit, or life-force.
My neighbour’s life is my life.
And second, I cannot love myself inside the circle in my head.
My body insists on eating, drinking, sleeping, care, and physically manifested love. So too with my brother and my sister.
God’s love for humanity required an Incarnation. And God’s salvation of us takes place in our body.
If the mud of man receives the command to become God, as St Gregory of Nyssa said, then the fulfilment of that command passes through a practical, embodied love—one that binds and washes wounds, that requires our journey to be interrupted, that costs money and effort and time and sacrifice.
When we gather again, the Nativity Fast will have begun.
Let us in this time remember that our fasting is not only about the restraining of our passions, but about the embodied love of our neighbour, who is ourselves. For let us remember that Christ ends the encounter with the laywer with these words: “You go and do likewise.”
To Him who came to save us when we lay naked and half-dead, wounded beside the road, be the glory and honour and worship, now and always and unto the ages of ages. Amen.