Sometimes when Jesus told stories, Peter closed his eyes. Time slowed down. The story came with images in his mind.
The man lost consciousness when they broke his arm.
At first, he thought he might be able to talk his way out of it. Before they broke his arm. He thought maybe he could just surrender his money bag. It had been his father’s, a gift, handmade, but maybe a price worth paying to save his life. They had weapons – fists and swords and teeth. He had a punchable face, so he’d been told, and that’s all he knew of a fight.
Maybe they would take his donkey too. That would be unlucky, but he would manage. And once the donkey and the money bag with his father’s insignia were gone, he wouldn’t attract any more attention.
Well, he was right about that.
He didn’t wake up for a while. Impossible to say how long he was out. The sun didn’t seem to have moved in the sky. He couldn’t really tell, though. He couldn’t roll over because everything hurt, and his arm was this new part of him, teaching him how to be this new human body. A body of pain.
His left eye was swollen almost totally shut. His nose was a wet bag of blood and bone. Lying on his stomach with the right side of his face in the dirt, he could just barely see the road through the battered remains of his left eye. Bones were probably broken there too. A quiet wind picked up and aimless dust fumbled back and forth across the road. Then, the wind died down. He tried to open his other eye to get a better view, but he couldn’t lift his head against the pain; he closed it again. Another stifled breeze wandered past along with a sudden darkness.
When he woke again, it was much later, and the afternoon heat had subsided. Only the most reckless travelers would be out now, with sundown just a few hours away. He stretched his toes. Or he tried to. Movement of any muscle, no matter how small, activated a tidal wave of pain that rushed from his lower back, up his spine, through his arms and neck. He gasped and generated another violent burst.
This time he held his breath until it was over.
Through the slit of his eye, he could still see the road. The air was still. A tiny ridge of windswept dirt and rocks and sand lay piled along the edge of the barren road. A scorpion arched its tail, shuddered, scuttled a few steps away. The sun was behind his field of vision, spraying everything with a menacing brightness. Especially that scorpion. It flicked its yellow head. Shimmering light and heat made everything beyond the creature blurry; for some reason, its raised tail was entirely in focus. The black stinger glistened and trembled. Nothing made a sound anywhere along the forsaken stretch of highway.
The sun sank lower. A vulture traced lazy circles. The scorpion darted out of sight, somewhere behind his turned head. If it weren’t for the incessant, pulsing pain in his back and elbow he might have been worried. Instead, he wondered if the venom might ease his suffering.
He closed his wounded eye. Too long he’d kept it open, straining for the vision of a figure on the road from Jerusalem. He let his mind drift; his father’s hands, cutting and drying and sewing together a brand new pouch; his brother, setting sail all those years ago, the water shining with false promise; a flower, violet and frozen with an early frost, held in the palm of his hand; memories. What would it be like to freeze? Or would it be something else? He knew he wouldn’t last the night.
The priest could see the broken form of a man, sprawled on the ground to the side of the road. A careful look around confirmed that nobody else was nearby. You can’t ever be too sure, though, you know, said the priest to himself. He moved to the other side of the road. He forced his knees into the ribs of his animal. Hurry would keep him safe here. His schedule and some well-placed religion. More talking, perhaps? As he came closer and closer to the figure, the priest began to mutter pious words. He made sure to raise his voice over the harried groans from below; he was out of earshot within minutes.
Another religious leader came not too long after. He didn’t actually notice the body until he’d passed it by. Stopping, he turned, and after disembarking from his donkey, he crept toward what he could now see was a man, badly beaten and whimpering. The man was missing teeth, bloody all over; the passerby couldn’t make out what the injured man was saying, and he stayed frozen in a defensive crouch for several minutes. His hand was held out and up, almost as if to ward away the garbled pleas of the dying man. Yes, dying, came the thought. Certainly dying and almost dead and what can I do about that? His attackers –
Then, panic. A sudden jerk of the shoulders and knees, as if under tremendous weight; this second passerby spun in one, then two clumsy circles, tripped toward his donkey, and fled. A lethargic vision of dust remained, floating and noncommittal.
A song on humble lips. Through the fog of his tortured mind, he could hear it, and he tried to open his eyes, both of them in one, final effort. Of course, he couldn’t. Pain was his master; movement his supreme enemy. He couldn’t even moan. A hiss of desperation bubbled up from deep within and came choking out of his throat. Too soon. This new man, this voice singing on the road – it was impossible for him to have noticed.
And then.
“My friend.”
Here, in this wasteland? A friend?
“My friend, you’re hurt.” The voice, no longer singing, but still full of music. “Do not be afraid.”
Days later, sunlight. But of a gentle kind; this light wasn’t crushing him with its indifferent heat. In fact, nothing was crushing him – no heat, no despair, no pain. He opened his eyes, both of them. His left still seemed a bit swollen, but it opened nonetheless, and his right wasn’t buried in dirt. Looking around, he could see the comfortable, precious decorations of a familiar guest room. In fact, he’d been in this exact one before, on his trip to Jericho two years prior. He recognized the jagged line cutting through the wall beside him. He remembered the particular fragrance of this place: flowers he couldn’t name, and something else.
And nothing was crushing him.
When Jesus finished telling the parable, Peter opened his eyes. The crowd was fidgeting. Many of them had already left, and soon none would remain. The lawyer stood still before Jesus for a while until he finally shrugged, giving Jesus a weighty nod and smile, and walked away. There was something lonely in his eyes as he left and something jaded, but there was also a chink in the armor, an authentic light revealed, and Peter couldn’t help but wonder if he might see this man again someday. Humility. It’s contagious, thought Peter, and he watched Jesus stand silently until everybody was on their way home.
“Teacher, a question?” asked Peter when Jesus turned.
“You know me, Cephas,” Jesus grinned.
They walked for a heartbeat, quiet together.
“Eternal life. It isn’t about law or license. And how to be a neighbor is more important than who it is that qualifies. And how isn’t about qualifications or proper attention. It’s mercy. It’s unbridled, ridiculous mercy.”
Jesus stopped and put his hand on Peter’s shoulder. “That’s not a question, Cephas.” A soft chuckle.
“Okay.” Peter laughed briefly, shivered, and let out a breath. “Eternal life. How can I inherit eternal life? That’s what the guy asked. And then he kept going, and he tried to make distinctions, and of course there are no distinctions – even my worst enemy is my neighbor, I get it…but there’s more. True heirs of eternal life aren’t busy checking religious boxes. True heirs are getting their hands dirty with mercy. They’re on their knees, touching the sick and wounded. True heirs are doing because words can be too hollow, and we need thick and heavy love. True heirs aren’t consumed with appearances or events or articulate theology. These people are too humble to be cool, too present to be busy. True heirs might not have all the right churchy boxes checked, and they might not even know the terms of all the boxes, but they’re definitely not walking past the oppressed, the persecuted, or the hurting on their way to their next religious duty. True heirs, true religion – ”
“Peter.”
A pause. Jesus’ hands on Peter’s shoulders, both hands now, eyes full of playful humor. Peter’s breath held quick and shallow in the chest. Waiting. Did I misunderstand? Did I get it wrong?
“Peter,” Jesus’ voice again, and he’s holding back a smile. “Peter, that’s not a question.”
Laughter, uncontainable. It bursts forth. It compels us.
May our love be the laughter of our faith.
Luke 10:25-37