Pure

This post is part of Simple Incarnate: Encircled by Love hosted by the Missional Wisdom Foundation.

Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God.

Philippians 4:6

"Sometimes," said the horse. "Sometimes what?" asked the boy. "Sometimes just getting up and carrying on is brave and magnificent." (Mackesy)

There is a story in the gospels about a man who has been robbed, beaten, and left in a ditch and the “Good” other who stopped to help. I want to talk about the man in the ditch.

What must have been running through his mind after the beating was over?

Why him? He was a good Jew. He showed up where and when he was supposed to. He observed the Sabbath, paid his tithe and his taxes, and went every year to Jerusalem. He was not supposed to be lying here, face broken, robbed, and powerless. 

There was something hard under his hip, and there was a fly on his cheek. He could hear the buzzing of more gathering to the stench of his injuries and fear. He had been so afraid when the three men rushed in on him from behind that he had no clear memory of what had happened. He was walking, thinking of how the price of oil was going to make it hard to survive on the harvest from his olive trees this year. He needed more trees. He should find a way to buy the small field to the west of his southern field. When the world exploded in shouts and fragments of fists and sticks and pain. He went down with not much more than a whimper. Now that he thought about it, tears leaked from his eyes. When faced with a fight, he had gone down with almost none. He couldn’t even remember shouting much. There hadn’t been much in his purse except a few coins, some twine, and the stone Hannah had given him when they married. The loss of the stone hurt more than the lump on the back of his head. The stone had been worn glossy by twenty-three years of smoothing away worry. The births of their five boys and three girls, the bad harvests, the years when the passover lamb had been a dove. The little stone had rolled between his fingers, calming him, punctuating his prayers, and now it was gone. 

The day was fading, he had heard footsteps approaching twice, but no one had stopped. He had called out for help, sitting up and trying to crawl toward the oncoming feet, but the feet had veered away, quickened, and faded. His voice had broken and cracked as he begged for mercy. Now he heard footsteps for a third time. He rolled onto his elbow, coughed, and squinted toward the sound of feet. His mouth was dry. His voice a bare rasp. Perhaps he should let this one pass unmolested. No one wanted to help a coward. A man too weak to fight back.

When the man had gotten him onto the small donkey, his cuts still stung from the wine the man had poured over them. The water he had tipped into his mouth had been warm but clean, and he could move his tongue again. When the man had strapped his ribs to keep him from the worst pain while riding, he had been gentle but sure. Practiced?

The injured man’s hands trembled on the rope around the donkey’s neck. He bent over, forehead almost touching the little bristly mane, too tired to look up,

“Why?” he asked.