Not from the precept, but from the overthrow

(Lk 10:25-37)

"You are a fool and a Samaritan!" - accused the Jewish leaders (Jn 8:48). "No, I am not mad...": this is how the Stranger defended himself against the accusation that the fanatics made against him, that he was possessed, obsessed and mentally ill.

Yet he calmly accepted the infamous title of 'Samaritan'... an epithet designating one who was out of the loop, vilified by decent people. 

One excluded from the sacred enclosure; practically an outsider, an irritant, an outsider, a heretic and impure: a 'bastard' and unbalanced, uninterested in his career, in the face of which one had to find strength in coalition.

The ancient religion seemed to have achieved tried and tested balances, sustained by the leadership of the interested alliance between throne and altar. Yet there was nervousness and dissatisfaction in the faithful.

The leaders quoted Scripture from memory, but to create restrictions - demonising those who did not immediately recognise them as 'authority'.

According to the Law - Leviticus and Numbers - the rules of purity prevented those who officiated in the Temple from touching a wounded person.

But the practitioners of the sacred do not understand that ancient procedures are worthless if they cause suffering to others.

By sacralising their own grievances, the legalists in the parable imagine that they do not have to learn anything, so they become perhaps worse than the insensitive and qualunquist: to us they appear rather, cruel and inhuman.

When there is a conflict between religious norms and the good of the brothers, they already have their excuses ready: they do not even notice the others. Painful events do not call them out, do not concern them.

In this way, even the traps of the vain against Jesus were never dialogue: always projections.

And the questions were only hurled to ridicule him, not to understand - question - or create freedom.

In short: what matters to some is the integrity of the doctrine-discipline and the prestige of the institution (which rules it).

Yet we ask ourselves: how much is the joy of humanity, and the good of the unfortunate, worth?

The man of 'titles' has no doubts whatsoever.

On the other hand, the careless perception and sensitive work of a 'half-breed' seem to be those of God himself!

The Lord gladly narrated his proposal of sharing, and of the new face of the believer.

Let us say it in words closer to us:

"Listen... no curtains: Love has no end point, and the believer is not one who obeys external provisions, but one who resembles God!".

After a brief reflexive gasp that he tried to disguise, the disposition expert retorted:

"Nice to say, of course; but how is it done in practice?".

And Jesus:

"In the same way as you think and equip yourself and desire fullness of life for yourself: in every decision [heart], in every moment of the way [life], with any of your resources [strength], not excluding intelligence" (cf. Mk 12:29-31), nor the legitimate desire for the life of others (v.27).

Already boiling over, the veteran squabbler played his last cards:

"I have to put a boundary on my neighbour, don't I?! And I justify myself again: who is 'my' neighbour?" (Lk 10:29).

"That is: who ever listens and loves me first, so that I can really do to others what I always desire for myself, even to those far away and enemies?"

"They do not feed us... and perhaps do not even respect us! So who is first 'to me' neighbour?"

Again the doctor of the law 'stood over', looming over the onlookers; but the different Rabbi did not flinch.

In conversations he was often forced (and accustomed) to lift his head, looking up at his interlocutor.

Everyone posed as an expert and chosen one, ready to scrutinise and judge; no one to be a disciple, subordinate and servant like him.

This is how he had behaved both with Zacchaeus (Lk 19:5) and with the adulteress - perhaps caught in the act by the group of peepers and watchers of public decency in Jerusalem (Jn 8, vv. 2.6-8.10; Greek text).

That carpenter's son proclaimed Father the One who related from below, without prior judgement; who made himself the Servant of man, putting himself on a par with the least.

In short, the crucial question was:

"Who loves me first, so that by feeling welcome, adequate and appreciated, I too may love my neighbour"?

The young Rabbi then told a story, to emphasise who is neighbour - He who is first Intimate and Close to us; so that we too are generated to proximity.

The ancient list of the Ten Commandments had over time become almost only an underlining of natural transience.

It was a code that imbued and exhausted the very souls most attentive to the ideal of perfection.

The last of the famous Words was summarising, but terrible: "Thou shalt not covet"!

It had spread dramatic lacerations and a sense of emptiness in the affairs of those closest to them who continued to attempt the impossible adventure.

Thus, the obsessives of ritual purity [priest and sacristan who had just officiated] became - by Law - ruthless.Instead, here proclaimed - by the stranger who had just arrived - a new Decalogue, with an accumulation of "verbs" of "taking charge":

"He came near, saw him, moved to pity, went down, poured out his first aid, bound up his wounds, loaded on his horse, carried to the dwelling that welcomes all, took care, brought out money".

Finally, he expounded, with special regard also for a caring and additional outlook: 'I will return to pay, where necessary'.

The authentic Ten New Decrees deify us without deception, in keeping with the Father's plan and feeling on our behalf: neither He nor His "pass over" victims.

In short, the Lord announced a different "Sacrifice".

In the custom of the time, through worship, the victim was supposed to be taken out of profane contact, in a bloody manner; on an altar.

With this sacral practice, the priests ideally introduced the victim into the world of the Most High, through the shedding of blood or a holocaust.

Instead, the Messiah did not want to distance the criteria of sanctification from the lives of ordinary people.

That which is made sacred [sacrifice: sacer-sacrum facere] must never depart from reality. It does not pass into the sphere of purity by means of a 'separation' from the weekday unclean.

For Jesus it is Communion - conviviality of differences - that transfigures the ordinary into the "Holy", because such a relationship makes the weak strong; and lifts all from misery.

Promise and concern that branch out into our future: when there is something else to be added, the Relief Friend will give it more and always.

This is where Love starts: from Someone who considers us, unconditionally.

Therefore, despite the risk of getting entangled in the situation, even the ordinary child of God notices and does not pass over the shaky person.

He identifies with it, preferring to defy the unknowns - and redeem the beaten, cornered like a reject who now only awaits the coup de grace.

He is a God of concrete experience; without schemes. And he tells us:

We are totally lovable in every condition, not 'wrong' or scarred for life.

From such awareness springs the desire and energy of selfless love - even unknown and without reputation.

As the encyclical Fratelli Tutti emphasises, so it will be "possible to start from the bottom and case by case, to fight for what is most concrete and local, to the last corner of the homeland and the world, with the same care that the wayfarer of Samaria had for every wounded man's wound" (No.78).

In the wilderness of Judah, on an engraved stone of a caravanserai that one tradition has identified as the Everyone’s House [image of the Church] to which Jesus referred in the parable - more or less halfway between Jerusalem and Jericho - an anonymous pilgrim wrote in medieval Latin

"If even priests and churchmen pass over your distress, know that Christ is the Good Samaritan, who will always have compassion on you, and at the hour of your death will bring you into the eternal inn. Whoever you are, He will take you there".