Per Caritatem

In the Gospel of St. Luke 17.11-19, we read of Jesus’ healing of ten lepers.  Of the ten lepers, only one took the time to thank Jesus for his healing.  In fact, the text says that this man expressed his gratitude vocally and bodily.  “[O]ne of them, when he saw that he was healed, turned back, praising God with a loud voice. He prostrated himself at Jesus’ feet and thanked him. And he was a Samaritan” (Luke 17.15-16).  Notice that we are told that the man was a Samaritan.  During Jesus’ day, the Samaritans were more or less considered Gentiles, which of course means that they were despised by Jews.  Samaritans claimed that the focal place of worship was Gerizim rather than Jerusalem (cf. John 4.20) and that the holy books consisted of the Pentateuch alone.  In light of these significant religious differences, one can readily see that relations between Jews and Samaritans, whom the Jews considered “half-breeds,” were strained and at times hostile and violent.  St. Luke takes particular interest in the Samaritans—the others, the foreigners, the social outcasts.  His Gospel account, as well as the theological history he crafts in Acts, highlights several stories in which Samaritan others are central figures or topics of discussion (Luke 9:51–56; 10:30–37; 17:11–19; Ac. 1:8; 8:1–25; 9:31; 15:3).   Though Jesus commanded his disciples to proclaim the kingdom of heaven and engage in works of healing among the “lost sheep of the house of Israel,” forbidding them to enter the “way of the Gentiles” and “any city of the Samaritans” (Matt 10.5), when He Himself encountered Gentiles and Samaritans, He neither turned them away nor refused to heal them.   Rather, he treated them with respect (see John 4 and the exchange with the Samaritan woman), which often involved transgressing established social and religious norms and customs.  In Luke 17.18-19, Jesus praises the Samaritan leper’s response—a faith response marked by gratitude and thanksgiving. “‘Were not ten made clean? But the other nine, where are they? Was none of them found to return and give praise to God except this foreigner [ἀλλογενής]?’  Then he said to him, ‘Get up [ἀναστὰς] and go on your way; your faith has made you well [σέσωκεν].’”  As N.T. Wright observes, the Greek word, ἀναστὰς (translated here as, “get up”) is the same word which is translated as “resurrection” in other contexts.    Early Christians would not have missed this connection with resurrection, nor should we.

The famous parable of the Good Samaritan is also worth considering.  Here Jesus, in response to a lawyer’s question, “who is my neighbor,” replies with a parable which presents a Samaritan as the moral hero (in contrast to the villains—a priest and a Levite).

Jesus replied, “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’” (NRSV, Lk 10:30-37).

It is highly likely that the man who fell into the hands of robbers was a Jew.  He was after all, “going down from Jerusalem to Jericho.”  So the Samaritan is not only helping some stranger in need, he is showing mercy to an “enemy.”  The priest and the Levite in order to avoid becoming unclean choose to ignore the man in need.  As N.T. Wright puts it, “it was better that they remain aloof, preserving their purity at the cost of obedience to God’s law of love”—a law which was, by the way, an OT law and not simply something that emerged with the NT (Luke for Everyone, p. 127).

The lawyer in the story is disingenuous and poses his question in order to test Jesus.  The lawyer wants to know whom he should consider as his neighbor.  Again, Wright offers helpful commentary on the exchange.  Pointing out that the lawyer’s question and Jesus’ answer don’t exactly correspond, Wright goes on to say,

For him [the lawyer], God is the  God of Israel, and neighbours are Jewish neighbours.  For Jesus (and for Luke, who highlights this theme), Israel’s God is the God of grace for the whole world, and a neighbour is anybody in need.  Jesus’ telling question at the end isn’t asking who the Samaritan regarded as his neighbour.  He asked, instead, who turned out to be the neighbour of the half-dead Jew lying in the road.  Underneath the apparently straightforward moral lesson […], we find a much sterner challenge, exactly fitting in with the emphasis of Luke’s story so far.  Can you recognize the hated Samaritan as your neighbour? (Ibid., pp. 127-28).

I suppose the question to ask is, can you, can I, can we recognize ____________ as our neighbor/s?

As Alfred North Whitehead famously said, the history of Western philosophy “consists of a series of footnotes to Plato.”  The more I study the Western philosophical tradition, the more convinced I am that this is the case.  At the center of Plato’s philosophy is his doctrine of the Forms or Ideas.  In Greek there are two words, which we translate into English as “idea”:  εἶδος (eidos) and ἰδέα (idea).  Interestingly, in Greek these works mean something that is seen; however, Plato uses the terms to mean that which is not seen physically, but mentally.  Nonetheless, seeing is still the root metaphor pervading his philosophy.  Consider some of his most famous images-the cave, the sun, and so on.  In the cave, there is no light, no knowledge.  When one emerges from the cave into the light, one comes to know (or potentially comes to know) reality by first seeing the things of the sense world and then ascending to the Forms or Ideas in which the sense objects participate and imitate.  As is well-known these days, postmoderns have challenged this privileging of the visual metaphor and have attempted to imagine what it might mean for some of the other senses to serve as a central metaphors.  For example, postmodern philosophers and theologians such as Jean-Luc Marion and Catherine Pickstock have written with great effect on the more “neglected” senses such as taste and hearing.

Personally, I think that touch offers particularly fertile ground that ought be explored and put to use in philosophy.  To be touched is, I submit, something that all humans need.  Unfortunately, it is something that has been lost in our interactions with one another-perhaps in part due to our technological mode of being-in-the-world and perhaps also because of a fear of communicating the wrong idea or of a negative response from the other to whom we wish to encourage. Yet, an embrace and a simple clasping of hands can often communicate more than anything we might say.  Two examples come to mind:  one personal and the other Scriptural.

My husband and I lived in Moscow, Russia for about three years.  During our time in Russia, we had the opportunity to visit various cities, small towns and villages. One winter we traveled by train to Kirov, staying approximately two weeks. While there we were invited to spend a day at one of the orphanages just outside the city. The memories of that visit are quite vivid, and the time with the children, though brief, was a life- changing experience. When we first arrived, the children, who ranged in age from 4-16 years old, were extremely shy and stand-off-ish. I noticed immediately a small, very cute little boy, Sasha, who was about 5 years old and very withdrawn. I walked up to Sasha and said, “Привет Саша,” (“hello, Sasha”).  But Sasha said nothing – no smile, no handshake, no eye contact – nothing. As the day progressed, we played games, performed skits, ate lunch and attempted to get to know the children better. While playing one of the more active games (something like dodge-ball), Sasha and I began slowly to “bond.”  When it was time to eat, I noticed that he wanted to sit with me (which made me of course extremely happy), so I tried to take his hand; however, he did not want me to touch him and quickly pulled his hand away.  Nonetheless, he still wanted to sit with me. So we sat and ate borsch together and then went off to play more games. As the day was drawing to a close, I was sitting on a bench resting and Sasha walked up to me, sat next to me, and to my surprise (and joy) he let me hold his hand. After that connection, he would not leave my side and even let me hold him. He actually wanted very much to be held and touched, but he of course was simply “one among many” in the orphanage and had been for most of his short life deprived of physical touch. When it was time to leave, he did not want to let go of my hand (nor did I want to let go of his). Then the dreaded time came and we were told that the bus was leaving and we’d better pack up and board the bus. As we drove off, the kids ran behind the bus as long as they could keep up, and we of course cried our eyes out. I often think about Sasha, and hope that he remembers me-more than that, I hope that he finds a home and a family that will give him the love and affection for which he longs, needs, and deserves.

Not long after our short trip to Kirov, I began studying the book of Leviticus, which among other things describes the law of the leper’s cleansing (chapter 13).[1] For example in Lev. 13:45-46, we read,

The person who has the leprous disease shall wear torn clothes and let the hair of his head be disheveled; and he shall cover his upper lip and cry out, ‘Unclean, unclean.’ He shall remain unclean as long as he has the disease; he is unclean. He shall live alone; his dwelling shall be outside the camp.

Why must the leper wear torn clothes?  In the Old Testament, the rending of a person’s clothes was a symbolic expression of mourning over death. Here the leper is to wear torn garments to represent his/her absolutely hopeless condition-after all, the disease was incurable.  Prior to aids, leprosy was perhaps the most dreadful disease a person might contract.  For example, the body becomes covered with ulcers, the person loses his/her hair, s/he experiences extremely slow bodily decay even to the point of losing limbs, and the mental and psychological anguish endured is excruciating.  The person with leprosy is alienated from his/her own family and from societal life; s/he experiences death daily, moment by moment over period of many years and, worse of all, isolated, alienated.   Although we are not exactly certain of the kind of leprosy that existed in the time of the OT, we can, however, grasp how this disease illustrates well the nature of sin in the spiritual sphere.

In addition to wearing torn clothes, the leper must cry, “Unclean, unclean.” Here “unclean” is not so much a reference to the physical disease itself, but speaks of the ceremonial status of the person according to Levitical law. That is, the individual remains unclean ceremonially until s/he is pronounced “clean” by the priest – that is, when and if healing comes. As mentioned above, “He shall live alone; his dwelling shall be outside the camp.” The leper experiences a separation, s/he has no koinonia with the people of God, and is considered ceremonially under judgment.

Though we do read in the OT of some lepers who were healed, there are very few illustrations of healing the disease until Jesus came on the scene. In other words, as to the “tonal center” of the OT, it was extremely unusual for anyone to be healed of leprosy. Yet, in Mark’s Gospel account, we read:

A leper came to him [Jesus] begging him, and kneeling he said to him, ‘If you choose, you can make me clean.’  Moved with pity, Jesus stretched out his hand and touched him, and said to him, ‘I do choose. Be made clean!’  Immediately the leprosy left him, and he was made clean.

Jesus, who was well-acquainted with the Torah and the intricacies of Levitical law, did not rebuke the leper, explaining that lepers are social outcasts who belong outside the camp.  Nor did He worry about being socially stigmatized or becoming ceremonially unclean through contact with the leper.  Rather, Jesus reached out his hand and touched the leper.  Then the Incarnate Word said, “be made clean,” and it was so.  Jesus, who would soon know exile, alienation, condemnation and ultimately death, stretched out his hand of flesh and touched this diseased, dying leprous man.  Jesus, whose body was rent and broken for us – we, who in Adam are spiritual lepers – acted with compassion towards the leper, touching him and thereby affirming his humanity, and I assure you the leper knew love as he had never known it before.

If philosophy can’t find a use for these kinds of images, then theology certain should, indeed, it must.

Notes

---

[1] Many of the observations given here were first brought to my attention about a decade ago through a lecture series on Leviticus by Dr. S. Lewis Johnson.

“Then Pilate took Jesus and flogged him. And the soldiers twisted together a crown of thorns and put it on his head and arrayed him in a purple robe. They came up to him, saying, ‘Hail, King of the Jews!’ and struck him with their hands. Pilate went out again and said to them, ‘See, I am bringing him out to you that you may know that I find no guilt in him.’ So Jesus came out, wearing the crown of thorns and the purple robe. Pilate said to them, ‘Behold the man!’ (John 19:1-5).

Have you ever wondered why the soldiers chose a crown of thorns? After all, they could have constructed the crown from a number of other materials.  Yet, the crown of thorns seems purposed, that is, it draws us back to  Genesis and the series of curses that resulted when our first parents fell.  “Cursed is the ground because of you; in pain you shall eat of it all the days of your life; thorns and thistles it shall bring forth for you” (Gen 3:17-18).   As Jesus begins to walk the path that leads to his death by crucifixion, we have a glimpse here of how he, the true guiltless Man, will take the curse, our curse upon Himself.  The scene is shot through with irony-Pilate, the image of a false and corrupt “king,” presenting the true King as a helpless prisoner and eventually condemning Him to die.  Likewise, we see Jesus, the Lord of creation, the perfect image of God, who unlike Adam and Eve, listened the voice of the Father in humble obedience even to the point of death on a Cross-this Jesus, Pilate proclaims is the true man (talk about meanings going beyond the intention of the author/speaker), and indeed He is-the icon of God who makes the invisible God visible, who opens blind eyes, softens hard hearts and who gives life to the dead. Yet, the One through whom all things were made and who, came to His own, finds His own in rebellion against Him.  In fact, they even weave together a crown of thorns and dress Him in a purple robe to mock Him.  What is our Lord’s response to this? Does He lash out and call down legions of angels to wipe out the rebels?  No.  The innocent, yet true King, crowned with signs of creation’s curse, stands silent and walks the path that was both His destiny and our blessing.  How shall we answer Pilate’s question, “What is truth?”  Ironically, Pilate answered it himself:  “Behold the Man!”

In John 8:19 Jesus pointedly answers the Jews’ unbelieving question “Where is your Father?” with, “You know neither me nor my Father. If you knew me, you would know my Father also.” As Ridderbos explains, the Jews’ question was not a case of simply needing more information, rather “[i]n raising the question they are assuming a formal legal position: if a person appeals to the testimony of a witness, that person should be able to produce the witness! Again, […] they are presenting a demand for legitimation and an indirect challenge: if the Father is going to be your witness, bring him forward!” (The Gospel of John: A Theological Commentary, p. 297). This demand for legitimation is actually an indication of their failure to acknowledge Jesus’ own self-testimony as Lord (as St. Paul would say, a “suppressing of the truth in unrighteousness”), which is in turn a rejection of the Father’s self-testimony. “That is, they are inwardly strangers to and outside the fellowship of both Jesus and his Father. And the two are inseparable. If they really knew Jesus and if his words did not sound strange and presumptuous in their ears, they would not ask, ‘Where is your Father?’ They would know that what he says is of God and that the Father is his witness” (Ibid., p. 297).

Jesus has repeated made the claim throughout this pericope that He and the Father are one, but now He says it in such a way to press what some Reformed theologians call the “antithesis,” i.e., the divide between believer and unbeliever in which the ultimate question becomes: will you acknowledge and embrace Jesus’ claims and place yourself on the side of covenant-keepers or will you reject his claims, demand further “legitimation” (to what higher authority could one appeal?), and align yourself with covenant-breakers who suppress the truth? Though, of course, at this point, the wisdom of the world cries, “circularity, circularity, circularity.” That is, the “person will say that Jesus’ ‘evidence’ consists precisely in what needs to be proved: that the Father is with him as the great ‘witness’ of what he says and does. This short circuit is inherent in the issue itself. God’s revelation does not subject itself to human control and cannot be required to legitimate itself by human standards. It can only be ‘known’ and assented to by those who ‘know’ him, that is, by those who, as children of God, are born not of flesh and blood but of God (1:13; 3:3ff.). But this a priori is not a demand for blind faith in the one sent by God. It is a ‘knowing’ in the light of Jesus’ words and works. If, therefore, Jesus bears witness to himself as the light of the world, this does not call for ‘unknowing’ acceptance (cf. 6:69). Rather, it is a coming to know, by the content of Jesus’ words and the power of his deeds, the claim and irrefutability of the love of God extended to the world in him. It is to that decision of faith that all these dialogues lead and in the confrontation with which they all find their conclusion and climax” (Ibid., p. 298). In sum, Ridderbos seems to be saying that not all circles are vicious (though some are) and indeed some circles are necessary. I tend to agree.

Not only does Balthasar see a Trinitarian acting in the Word becoming flesh, but Ridderbos does as well (here focusing specifically on the Father and the Son). In his commentary on the Gospel of John, Ridderbos writes, commenting on John 3:16,

“Here we read not of the Son of man but of God’s only-begotten Son (cf. 1:18), so designated here as the highest gift God could give (cf. Ro. 8:32: ‘who did not spare his own Son’; Gn. 22:16). And we read, ‘gave’ in the sense of what is elsewhere called ‘giving up,’ ‘surrendering’ (e.g., Ro. 4:25; 8:32; Mk. 9:31), namely to death on a cross. All this shows how in the Fourth Gospel, as elsewhere in the New Testament, the God-given sacrifice of Christ is of central significance. This is surely the case also because in that surrender the glory of God manifested itself so clearly ‘in the flesh’ of the man Jesus, but above all because it brought to its highest manifestation the measure of God’s love for the world (cf. 13:1). [...] it is God who makes the all-embracing sacrifice for the world. There is no further analysis of why God loves thus. The text’s exclusive concern is the fact and the magnitude of God’s love. It is love that not only manifests itself over death, the death into which the world (like Israel in the wilderness) would sink: in the death of Christ it also identifies with the world in its lostness and thus imparts the deepest meaning to the great statement in the prologue, ‘and the Word became flesh.’ [...] God in his eternal love returned to the world as to his own, that he loved it in the surrender of his only-begotten Son (cf. 3:35), and that the Father loves the Son because he gave his own life (cf. 10:15) in a love that persisted to the end (cf. 13:1ff.)” [pp. 138-39].

Addressing the common allegations of a flesh and Spirit opposition as a hermeneutic key to understanding the Fourth Gospel (e.g., Bultmann’s gnostic interpretation), Ridderbos offers a different take. First, reveiwing briefly Bultmaann’s position, according to his view “flesh” and “spirit” denote “the radical opposition between two mutually exclusive metaphysical principles, which he then “demythologizes” and interprets utilizing terms and concepts taken from existentialist philosophy (Ridderbos, The Gospel of John, p. 130). “Flesh,” e.g., speaks of the “nothingness” and “inauthenticity” of human existence, whereas “spirit” refers to “authentic” existence in which “nothingness” ceases to have dominion. Ridderbos, in contrast, rejects an original dualism, pointing out that from the very beginning of the Fourth Gospel, we encounter the notion that the Word is the creation of all things–παντα δι αυτου εγενετο, και χωρις αυτου εγενετο ουδε εν (John 3:3). Commenting further, Ridderbos states,

“The opposition between flesh and Spirit primarily relates therefore to the creatureliness and dependence of humanity in relation to God as Spirit, Source, and Ruler of all life. In that connection, ‘flesh’ does not denote what is ‘lower’ in humankind but the whole human person, physical as well as spiritual. Accordingly, what is opposed to humankind in its ‘authentic existence’ adn threatens us as our ‘fate’ is not our existence as flesh but the radical disturbance that has arisen in that existence as the result of the self-direction that has brought us into a position of estrangement from God, of guilt and powerlessness, of transience, uncertainty, and meaninglessness. Hence, when, as here, the ‘Spirit’ is contrasted with this powerlessness of the flesh to enter the kingdom of God and to inherit the true life, ‘Spirit’ does not denote the great ontological anti-flesh principle, but God himself as the source of life (cf. 1:13) and above all in his restorative and life-renewing power as the only possibility left to humans to save them from lostness and alienation from God and to give them eternal life. [...] The alternatives ‘flesh’ and ‘Spirit’ are not ‘anthropological’ in the sense of humankind as it is and as it should become in order to rise from the inferiority or nothingness of one existence (flesh) to a higher or ‘authentic’ existence (Spirit). The alternatives rather concern humankind in its (fleshly) powerlessness over against the sovereignty of and omnipotence of God (the Spirit), who alone can transform humankind, that is, grant us the needed rebirth from above” (Ibid., p. 131).