"The Good Samaritan" (Luke 10:25-37)
looking under the hood and finding some leviticus
I’m a member of a parish called Church of the Good Samaritan in Paoli, PA. My friend, Matt Messer, an Aquinas scholar out of Notre Dame, and I are teaching a summer Sunday School course on the parables, which we’re ending with readings of our titular parable—he’ll give a patristic reading; I’ll give a Leviticus-intertext reading. Here are some of my early notes:
To begin with, why do we call this man “the good Samaritan”? Jesus doesn’t call him “good” (kalos). The earliest written record I can find of the phrase, “good Samaritan,” is on pg. 31 of Francis Walsingham’s 1609 banger, A search made into matters of religion, in which the author, a scholar and a deacon in the Protestant English Church, narrates his defection into what he calls “Papism.” Okay, to the text:
Luke 10:25-29
And, you see, some lawyer arose, grilling (ekpeirazōn) Him and saying, “Teacher, what shall I do to inherit eternal life?” He said to him, “In the Law, what has been written? How do you read it?” Answering, he said, “You will love the Lord your God from the whole of your heart and from the whole of your soul, and from the whole of your power, and from the whole of your discursive faculty, and your neighbor (plēsion) as yourself.” And He said to him, “Rightly have you answered this. Do this and you will live.” But wishing to justify himself, he said to Jesus, “And who is my neighbor (plēsion)?”
Is it temptation?
The verb is ekpeirazōn. This verb has bad press, as Jesus uses it in his resistance of Satan: “It is said, ‘Do not ekpeiraseis the Lord your God” (4:12). I think it’s hasty to equivocate the lawyer’s question with Satan’s testing. The work literally means “to pry” (peirazō) “out” (ek-). For one, I don’t think “temptation” is the right word. For another, granting that what Satan did in ch. 4 was bad, I don’t want to automatically judge ekpeirazōn as bad. That doesn’t let me read the lawyer as an interesting character.
The legitimacy of the neighbor question.
The second of the laws the lawyer cites is “love your neighbor (plēsion) as yourself,” a phrase which summarizes Leviticus 19:17-18. But this text has, embedded within it, a “problem.” Notice the different words for the object of our love:
You must not hate your brother (MT: ach; LXX: adelphon) in your heart. You must surely reprove your fellow citizen (MT: amiyt; LXX: plēsion) so that you do not incur sin on account of him. You must not take vengeance or bear a grudge against the children of your people (MT: beney ammeka; LXX: tois huiois tou laou sou), but you must love your neighbor (MT: reaka; LXX: plēsion) as yourself. I am the Lord.
You’ll notice that at two places, the LXX uses the term plēsion to identify a figure the command has in view.
First, it’s the “fellow citizen” (amiyt) who must be reproved. The Hebrew term amiyt appears 9x in Leviticus, and 1x outside it, in Zechariah 13:7. It reads, “‘Awake, O sword, against my shepherd, against the man who is my associate (amiyt), says the Lord of hosts. Strike the shepherd…’”. Because of this rare occurrence at Zecharaih 13:7, some Jews in the Second Temple period identified the amiyt as a messianic term, and figure.
Next, it’s the “neighbor” (rea) who must be loved. The Hebrew term rea is more commonly translated either “other” or “friend” (e.g. Gen. 38:20; Deut. 13:6).
The lawyer’s question, whatever motivates it, is a legitimate one. Since the LXX uses plēsion to translate both amiyt and rea, a lawyer might reasonably ask the question, “And who is my plēsion?”
It is imperative, I think, to resist premature vilification of the lawyer. And I definitely want to hear how Jesus addresses this legal issue.
Luke 10:30-32
Retorting, Jesus said, “Some man was going down (katebainen) out of Jerusalem into Jericho, and he fell among robbers who, stripping him bare and laying hits on him, they departed, leaving him being semi-dead (hēmi-thanē).”
And, by-God (sun-kuria), some priest was going down (katebainen) to that road and, seeing him (idōn auton), went away opposite (anti-parēlthen).
Likewise, a Levite was coming down to the place and, seeing (idōn), went away opposite (anti-parēlthen).
Identifying the priest’s motives.
To begin with, they aren’t stated. In many of his parables, Luke’s Jesus narrates specific interior monologues in rhetorical self-address (e.g. 12:16-20, 45; 15:17-19; 16:3-4; 18:4-5). Perhaps most famously, the prodigal son says, “I will get up and go to my father, and I will say to him…”.
It is popularly taught that the priest couldn’t touch the man because he couldn’t compromise his ritual purity while on his way to Jerusalem, ostensibly to offer sacrifices, since that’s why priests go to Jerusalem. The reason this is wrong is that the priest (v. 31), like the man (v. 30) is “going down” (katebainen). For one, that implies they’re going the same direction, “out of Jerusalem into Jericho.” For another, leaving Jerusalem was colloquially identified as “going down,” whereas entering Jerusalem was colloquially identified as “going up.”
Here is, I think, the better explanation. It comes from Leviticus 21:1-4, a text which determines which relatives a priest might “defile himself” in order to bury. Look:
The Lord said to Moses, “Speak to the priests, the sons of Aaron, and say to them:
“No one shall defile himself for a dead person among his relatives, except for his nearest kin (sh’ero haqqarov) : his mother, his father, his son, his daughter, his brother; likewise for a virgin sister close to him because she has had no husband, he may defile himself for her. But he shall not defile himself for those related to him by marriage and so profane himself.”
The phrase “his nearest kin” (sh’ero haqqarov) is literally “his near-flesh.”
I think the priest saw what he believed to be a dead body and, keeping the letter of Leviticus 21, just a chapter and a half down from Leviticus 19:17-18, which the lawyer had quoted, as a priest, correctly did not defile himself by touching that dead body, so as to bury it.
Identifying the priest’s failure.
What this priest did not do is read the Law liberally—that is, according to the law of love, or mercy. Here’s an example of this: Deuteronomy 23:3 prohibits Moabites from entering the assembly of the Lord, but Boaz admits Ruth.
What the priest ought to have done was, seeing the man (idōn auton), to recognize him as “his nearest kin” (sh’ero haqqarov; cf. Lev. 21:2). This is how Jesus sees the world. Remember, for example, Matthew 12:48-50, “Whoever does the will of my Father in heaven is my brother and sister and mother.” A truly spiritual priest, who offers mercy rather than sacrifice, recognizes in the seeming-dead body of the Samaritan man sh’ero haqqarov.
Jesus responds to the legal question from Leviticus 19, “Who is my plēsion?” by raising another question from Leviticus 21, “Who is sh’eriy haqqarov?”
As a post-script, I have no thoughts about the Levite except this conjecture. Levites were authorized liturgical ministers who weren’t quite priests. Jesus has the priest “see him” (idōn auton), but He only has the Levite “see” (idōn). This sets up the Samaritan to “see him” (idōn auton) as a foil to the priest. Take it or leave it.
Luke 10:33-35
But some Samaritan, journeying, came down to him and, seeing him (idōn auton), was deeply moved and, approaching him, bandaged his wounds, pouring olive oil and wine, and making him to sit on his own (idion) pack animal, he brought him into an inn and took over care (epe-melēthē) of him. And in the morning, coming out, he threw down (ekbalōn) two denarii, he gave them to the innkeeper, and he said to him, “Take care (epi-melēthēti) of him and whatever more you spend, I, in my returning, will repay you.”
What the Samaritan does.
I’d rather not give a thin, moralized reading of the story. Here are some observations:
The Samaritan “sees him” (idōn auton). The implication, of course, is that he alone sees the man in truth (cf. John 9:39-41). If this passage has Lev. 21:1-4 in view, then ‘seeing the man’ must mean seeing the man as sh’ero haqqarov, his near-flesh (cf. Matt. 25).
What he sees deeply moves him. I read this as an illustration of the new covenant promise that the Law would be written on our hearts.
He “takes care” of the man (epe-melēthē). The root is melō, which denotes care, and the prefix is epi-, which means “over” or “upon.” The LXX uses this verb to translate the Hebrew shamar, commonly translated “to keep” or “to guard.” The connotation, I’d say is a commitment to care combined with a sense of ownership or responsibility. So this is the sequence: seeing truly, deep movement, an innate sense of responsibility to provide care.
I don’t know why Luke’s Jesus uses the dramatic verb, ekbalōn, to describe what the Samaritan does with his money. Luke has frequently used this verb, constructed from balō for “throw” and ek- for “out” or “out of,” to describe Jesus’s “casting out” of demons. I think this is meant to show the Samaritan’s detachment from his money — he can simply throw it down. Or, more creatively, the Samaritan is engaging in the discipline of self-exorcism, casting out his money from his purse.
The Samaritan then audaciously charges the innkeeper to regard the man the same as he had. The verb, epimelēthēti, is the same, just in the imperative mood. Consider what this entails. The Samaritan assigns a stranger a cumbersome duty of care on top of the already busy work in front of him. The Samaritan charges this man to spend his own money. The Samaritan promises to return and repay, and he expects this stranger to believe this. The most dramatic part of this promise is, perhaps, the blank check he writes: “whatever more you spend.”
Jesus picks up this return-and-repayment figure in 14:12-14, when he describes showing hospitality to the poor: “When you give a luncheon or a dinner, do not invite your [near kin], in case they may invite you in return, and you would be repaid. But when you give a banquet, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind. And you will be blessed because they cannot repay you, for you will be repaid at the resurrection of the righteous.”
I’ll add this. The central question of the parable isn’t What is faith? but What is goodness? However, the innkeeper is a figure of faith. The work of faith is to add to your own work burden, and pay out of your own pocket for the people presented to you by the strange man. The object of faith is the stranger’s promise both to come back and to repay whatever one spends.
Back to What is goodness? In Matthew’s gospel, Jesus only describes one figure as “good” (agathos), and it’s the generous landowner who pays each of his contractors for a day’s work, despite most of them having only worked a partial day (Matthew 20:15). Even if neither Jesus nor Luke call the Samaritan “good,” this depiction of goodness as a liberally fraternal generosity which engenders an inherent sense of responsible care and is fueled by shocking disregard for one’s own money, seems consistent.
Luke 10:36-37
So, which of the three of these seems to you to have become the neighbor of the one who had fallen among the robbers? And he said, “The one-who-did-mercy (ho poiēsas to eleos) with him.” So Jesus said to him, “Go forth, and you do likewise.”
Why “showed mercy”?
The lawyer answers Jesus’s question by identifying the Samaritan as the doer-of-mercy (ho poiēsas to eleos). This raises the question, why would the lawyer characterize the Samaritan not as a care-taker (epimeloumenos), a word Jesus used twice, but a doer of mercy (ho poiēsas to eleos), a phrase that has not yet appeared in the story?
“Mercy” translates the Greek word, eleos (from which we get the phrase and song, Kyrie, eleison). Notably, eleos is the term the LXX usually uses to translate the Hebrew, chesed, famously the word used in the Old Testament to describe God’s “mercy,” “faithfulness,” “lovingkindess,” “steadfast love,” “compassion,” and even “goodness.”
Constructs consisting of the verb, poieō, and the value, eleos, were common in LXX Torah. We see this word pair translated variously—maintaining love, doing a kindness, showing mercy—but it’s really those two words. Here are two illustrative examples:
From the Decalogue: “You shall not make for yourself an idol… for I, Yahweh, am a jealous God… showing steadfast love (poiōn eleos) to the thousandth generation…” (Exodus 20:4-6).
From Yahweh’s self-revelation to Moses: “Yahweh, Yahweh, a God merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love (poiōn eleos) and faithfulness, keeping steadfast love for the thousandth generation” (Exodus 34:6-7).
The lawyer knows Torah. And he could have answered by saying, “the third man,” or “the Samaritan,” or “the caretaker (epimeloumenos).” But when he answers Jesus’s question, he says, ho poiēsas to eleos met’ autou, or “the one who did mercy to him.” What the lawyer means is, “the one who embodied the character of God.”
What changes?
This reading offers the following benefits:
It takes the lawyer seriously by taking his question seriously.
Taking the lawyer’s question seriously motivates a close reading of both Leviticus 19:17-18 and 21:1-4.
It gives us another example of how Jesus would have people (i.e. priests) fulfill, rather than flout, the Law.
It lets us put the Samaritan next to the Landowner, and describe “goodness in the gospels” as liberally fraternal generosity which engenders an inherent sense of responsible care and is fueled by shocking disregard for one’s own money.
It offers both a lesson on goodness (vis-à-vis the Samaritan) and a lesson in faith (vis-à-vis the innkeeper).
It challenges J.D. Vance’s recent comments on ordo amoris. Vance: “[Y]ou love your family, and then you love your neighbor, and then you love your community, and then you love your fellow citizens in your own country, and then after that you can focus and prioritize the rest of the world.” Luke: “Ordering your loves looks like looking at the oppressed and recognizing them as sh’ero haqqarov.”