When Jesus of Nazareth was asked, as he often was, some question turning on what everyone around him thought to be high, implacable principle, he did not quote from ‘Mormon Doctrine’ nor from ‘Answers to Gospel Questions.’ Instead, he told a story. And we, who have never very well understood why he did this, have ourselves long since lost the skill of storytelling. Jesus’ stories to his first audiences were unheard of, striking, disquieting, unorthodox. To us, however, they —like our own stories for pulpit, classroom, and official publication — have become the very soul of orthodoxy; we know the central ones by heart, and because we know them so well, we hardly know them at all. They are, to borrow a simile from Nietzsche, like coins so long in use they have lost their imprimatur and circulate among us as smooth blank metal. We know they are a unit of value, but no longer remember clearly what that value is. Who among us does not know the story of the good Samaritan? […] Whenever I have asked for volunteers to recount that story, there have been numerous applicants to choose from. What’s more, whoever was called upon told it confidently and comprehensively without reminder or hesitation. Afterward I have asked questions, and we have done what good Sunday School classes always do. We have carefully noted that the first man to pass by the victim on the roadside was, in fact, an official of the Jewish faith, and that the second, the Levite, was an even higher, aristocratically certified, religious official. And, finally, that the man who actually stopped to help, who went out of his way and out of pocket to care for the injured Jew, belonged to an ethnic group commonly despised by Jews. This, of course, is the cultural information most crucial to understanding the question which Jesus puts at the end of the story: “Which of these three men,” he asks, “was neighbor to the man who fell among thieves?” (Luke 10:36). And yet, even carefully analyzed and placed into context, our tellings are a far cry from the parable as it was first told and intended. Jesus of Nazareth, a Jew, told his story to the Jews. We tell it —and, I think, rather like to tell it —on the Jews. The truth is that in order to be faithful to a story, sometimes it is necessary to be not quite so faithful to the text. I am not a Jew in ancient Israel. I am a late twentieth-century Mormon living in Cleveland, Ohio, where, one might, for instance, speculate, there was once a certain man who on a Saturday evening went into a part of the city into which respectable men normally do not go. Why he went there has not been determined, though this is a matter of concern to many among us who think his reason makes all the difference in the world. Still, whatever the reason, his trip ended in misfortune. He was attacked by thugs who took his money and credit cards, his dark blue blazer, and his late model car with the George Bush bumper sticker. They left him beaten and filthy and unconscious in the gutter. And then by chance a certain high priest drove by, a former Mormon bishop and member of the stake high council, who was taking a short cut through that part of town because he was late for the priesthood session of stake conference. And when he saw the man lying in the gutter, he shook his head and said to himself with not a little disgust, “Look at that, would you. Just look at that. The things people do to themselves.” And because there were other men, black men, standing on the sidewalk staring at him, he pulled into the center lane and, accelerating, ran a yellow light at the next intersection. Not long after, there also came that way a General Authority, traveling from the airport in a very large car. He was a well-known official from a well-known family, and when he saw the man in the gutter, he too was troubled, though in a different sort of way, and asked, "Shouldn’t we stop to help?“ But the security man who was driving and who was an experienced man who knew his business said, “That's not a good idea. This is a bad part of town. Anything could happen here, and besides, he’s probably just sleeping it off. If you want to pick up this one, sir, what about the one on the next corner, and the next? You’d need a semi to pick up all of them.” So the General Authority sat quietly back while his driver moved into the center lane and got up speed to get him to conference on time where he told the assembled brethren he’d been impressed by the spirit and by an experience he'd had that very evening to set aside his prepared text and speak instead about the importance of the Word of Wisdom in the last days. At about this time, a certain aging hippie drove the very way the General Authority and the high priest had just come. He was a kind of middle-aged adolescent with a pony tail and an earring, who played lead guitar in a local rock ‘n’ roll band and drove a rusting VW van covered with bumper stickers promoting abortion rights, gay liberation, legalization of marijuana, and the making of love not war. And when he saw the man in the gutter, he put down his joint and stopped the van. And when he could not revive the unconscious victim, he dragged and lifted him inside the van and drove several miles out of his way to an emergency treatment center in the suburbs where the pretty girl behind the desk asked if he and the injured man were related. “No,” he said. And she frowned and asked what the patient's insurance carrier was. “Who knows?” he said. “I found him in the street. Maybe he doesn’t have one.” To which she replied while filing her fingernails that in that case, unfortunately, they couldn’t take him in, not without insurance. She was sorry, but it was policy, and there were no exceptions. But the lead guitarist with the earring and pony tail lost his patience, and he yelled at the girl behind the desk, and at the physician on call, and at an administrator on the telephone until they became mute and embarrassed and agreed to do what they could if he would just quiet down and go away. So he left, leaving his van in the parking lot and his wrist watch and van keys on the desk as a kind of unsolicited guarantee, and he promised to come back Sunday night right after his gig was finished and pay what he could of the charges. He took off down the street walking and whistling and smoking a cigarette and balancing his electric guitar on his shoulder like a ghetto blaster. It was almost Sunday, and the Sunday School question which hovered in the air and always has, though it’s not often asked very well nor answered very carefully, is just this: who in that story was neighbor to the man who strayed into a bad part of Cleveland?
Neal Chandler, “Book of Mormon Stories That My Teacher Kept From Me” Dialogue Vol. 24 No. 4 (via mormonmonastery)
