Once upon a time in the Klondike, two preachers, traveling to another town on foot, are caught in a Spring downpour. Upon arriving at the river, the preachers discover that the bridge is washed out and the only way to the other side is to wade through the river. Just as they are about to step in, a young lady appears with a sob story. Her mother is sick and she has no way to cross the river. The preachers can tell by her dress and demeanor that the young woman is a "lady of the evening" who works the saloons in Skagway.
Rev. Jones looks at her and launches in to a scathing sermon about her lifestyle. When he finishes, the other preacher, Rev. Smith, picks up the young lady, hoists her on his shoulders, and carries her across the river. After he puts her down, she immediately, without so much as a "thanks," runs up ahead of them and disappears from sight.
The two preachers walk along, silent. A miracle happens: no words are spoken for at least an hour. Finally, Rev. Jones blurts out, "Rev. Smith, I can't believe you did that for that awful woman."
Rev. Smith thinks for a minute, and says, "Rev. Jones, I stopped carrying that woman an hour ago. Can't you do the same thing?"
No matter who you are, there comes a time in life when you can't carry yourself. It is during those times that you wish that you had done a better job of carrying others, especially those who do not deserve it.
One of my heroes, John Calvin, began every one of his worship services with what is called the "sursam corda," Latin for "Lift up your hearts." The Greek word kardia and the Latin word corda both mean "heart."
To lift up your hearts means you are offering them up to God. We offer them up to God because, especially during worship, we need to be where God is. We offer them up to God because, especially in worship, there's where we find joy.
But mostly, we offer them up to God, especially in worship, because we cannot carry the load of life by ourselves. We need to be carried by God. That's the heart of the Gospel. That's God's heart.
A common thread running throughout the New Testament says that what you give has a way of coming back your way. If you are the forgiving kind, chances are you will be the fortunate beneficiary during one of those inevitable times when you manage to offend someone. If you are the giving kind, chances are that you will be given some day when you have a particular need of your own. If you are the gracious kind, chances are some day when you need grace the most, it will show up in the most amazing of ways.
There is a flip side of this. If you give with white knuckles, dole out forgiveness with a very small spoon, and the generosity of your spirit resembles a raisin seed, then chances are that a big judgment will be coming your way meted out by a four-ton concrete truck on the day you most need it.
The book of James says, "Speak and so act as those who are to be judged under the law of liberty. For judgment is without mercy to one who has shown no mercy; yet mercy triumphs over judgment. (James 2:12-13)"
The same thing goes for mercy. Jesus says, "Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy."
Our friend Saint Paul is very found of using the word mercy along with grace and peace. "Grace, mercy, and peace from God the Father and Christ Jesus our Lord."
Grace, mercy and peace are all from the same family, fraternal triplets, so to speak. Although they look alike, all three words mean something different.
Grace means "unmerited favor." Grace is a gift given someone that is undeserved. Because we are sinners, because we are a sinful people, no one deserves to go to Heaven. If we got what we deserved, everyone would receive a first class, one-way ticket stamped to the place of the devil and his angels. But God is gracious.
Grace. Unmerited favor. But what about mercy? Where grace means getting something that you don't deserve, mercy means NOT getting something that you DO deserve.
When Abraham Lincoln was practicing law, he once took a case from a very vengeful, vindictive man. The client was owed, by the defendant, the staggering sum of $2.50. Lincoln counseled his client to be merciful, to not go to the sham of dragging this debtor into court for such a paltry sum. The client, however, would hear nothing of the sort. So Lincoln charged his client $10.00 and convinced the defendant to plead guilty. Lincoln then gave the defendant the $2.50 to pay the fine.
Mercy is what I call a Mississippi Mud Pie word. It comes from an untranslatable Hebrew word called hesed. Hesed is a double dark, double thick, double rich fudge word so sumptuous in meaning that no way exists that can completely describe it. Boiled down to its essence, hesed means perfect friendship. It's an appreciation of other people, the power not only to have a surface feeling for them, but the ability to burrow underneath the skin, to be where they truly are.
There's a very dangerous road between Jerusalem and Jericho. In Jerusalem, it begins at 2300 feet above sea level. At Jericho, which is by the Dead Sea, the road is 1300 feet below sea level. In less than 20 miles between Jerusalem and Jericho this road drops 3600 feet.
The Jericho Road is very narrow, surrounded by a lot of rock columns, and was the favorite playground for bandits during the time of Jesus. Up until the 19th century, travelers had to pay protection money to the local sheiks to insure safe travel on it.
One day a traveler is making his way on the road: a very stupid traveler. His idiocy is in evidence not because he doesn't carry American Express Traveler Checks, but because he chooses to make the commute alone. On the way, the road hoodlums get to him, beat him senseless, take all his money and leave him beside the road, half dead, bleeding and naked.
Since he carried so much cash and traveled alone, the traveler deserves all the blame for his predicament. He concocted for himself a very large kettle of soup of which he is both vegetable and broth.
It so happens that a few hours later, a priest comes traveling by and sees the victim lying by the road. Now, you would think that a preacher would be one of the first people to stop. It is, after all, the professional duty for the clergy to help people in need. But this petulant priest was perfunctory in his posthaste, or else he wouldn't have been traveling that road at all. Besides, this preacher was a stickler for the rules, which state in the book of Number chapter 19 and verse 11 that it is against the law to physically contact a dead man. Touching a corpse makes the touch-er unclean for seven days, shut-off from family and community for a week's exile.
Now, the priest is in a tizzy to get to his destination; since touching the skin of what he thinks is a dead guy will simply put the screws to everything, the priest walks to the other side of the road and goes on to his preaching engagement, unwilling to disappoint those dying to hear him preach in Jericho. The temple, the liturgy and that day's sermon mean more to the priest than the pain of a wounded man.
It so happens that a few hours later a Levite passes by. Now, unlike the priest, the Levite comes a little closer to look, but is leery of the situation. For good reason: bandits had a way of using decoys like this. An outlaw would fake an injury and writhe in faux pain on the ground. Anyone getting close enough to help was jumped by the others.
Now, we don't know what the Levite is doing or where he is going, but he is a cautious guy. His mommy and daddy had probably taught him the principles of "safety first;" he isn't about to endanger his own life for what might be a faked accident.
It so happens that a few hours later a Samaritan passes by. Now, the Samaritans were considered the scum of the earth by Jews and Gentiles alike. They were half-breeds: half-Jew, half-Gentile, a mixed up race was and a mixed up religion. The Samaritans were everyone's favorite hate toys.
This Samaritan, however, doesn't walk to the other side of the road as the priest had done. Nor does he proceed with caution as the Levite had done. He doesn't feel sorry for the guy and make a mental promise to himself to send him a get-well card, nor does he resolve to call 911 as soon as he gets to Jericho, even though that would have been far more than the other guys had done. He doesn't even make a mental note to call the undertaker and send out the body bag for the victim. The Samaritan gets off his mule, reaches down, and touches the man. Since he is half Jew, this means that he himself becomes unclean if the victim is dead.
He then props up the near-fatality, cleans his wounds, hoists him up on the mule, and walks the remainder of the way to Jericho. Upon arrival, the Samaritan takes the victim to an inn and places him in care of the innkeeper. "Take care of him and use this money," he told the desk clerk, "and if I owe you anymore, I'll make it good on my next time through."
See what Jesus is saying in the parable of the Good Samaritan? To have mercy means helping out others from jams of varying degrees, even when they've brought their own trouble on themselves. That doesn't mean setting up a welfare state that encourages that kind of thing. It does, however, mean that in the same way we often get cooked in our own blood, the Lord would have us do to others as He does to us.
To have mercy means that everyone is our neighbor. That was the gist of the parable: a lawyer asked Jesus to define "neighbor." Neighbor is not simply a matter of geography. The word neighbor in Greek literally means one who is near. An old spiritual says that heaven is so high you can't leap over it, so low you can dig below it, so wide you can't get around it. The same kind of love that knows no height, depth or breadth is the kind of mercy and love God expects us to show others.
To have mercy means not simply to feel sorry for others, it means to do something about it. The priest might have FELT something for the victim. The Levite may have FELT sorry for the victim. But the fact remains is that they did NOTHING for him.
Mercy goes beyond the simple helping of others. To have mercy means that we sit on the mourner's bench when someone suffers.
Her mother gave Debbie some money and asked to ride her bicycle to the store for a few things. "Come straight home when you're done," her mother tells her. Two hours later, Debbie finally arrives home. Her mother is livid.
"Didn't I tell you to come straight home?"
"Yes, but I was riding my bike past my friend Jessica's home and I stopped to help her."
"What's wrong with Jessica?"
"Her baby doll broke in many many pieces."
"But you don't know how to fix dolls."
"I know that. But I stopped anyway and helped Jessica cry."
We show mercy to those suffering physically, mentally and emotionally. The greatest mercy we can show to others, however, is the mercy of God. Where a person spends eternity: that is the greatest mercy of all.
A young man named Francis once came to St. Philip Neri.
"I want you to know that I am going to the university to study philosophy."
"And then what?" asked Philip.
"And then I shall become a famous philosopher."
"And then what?"
"And then I shall become rich and famous."
"And then what?"
"And then I shall marry a beautiful woman."
"And then what?"
"And then I shall build a beautiful mansion for us."
"And then what?"
"And then we shall have children. Lots of them."
"And then what?"
"And then we shall have grandchildren."
"And then what?"
"And then we will grow old together."
"And then what?"
"And then I shall die."
"And then what?"
"And then. . ." the young man stuttered, "And then I shall await judgment like everyone else."
If we show mercy only to those whose need is bleeding by the road, or to those who weep, or to those whose need is readily seen, then it is commendable. But the eternal weight of glory cried so much more, that we become mercy-givers.
John Crittenden was a famous lawyer from Kentucky who had defended a man accused of murder. The guilt of the man was evident to everyone. While in jail, the murderer became a Christian and had a complete change of heart and life. When it came time to address the jury, Crittenden asked the court to save his client. "Ladies and Gentlemen, to err is human, to forgive divine. When God conceived the thought of man's creation, He called to Himself three ministering virtues, who wait constantly upon the throne -- Justice, Truth and Mercy -- and addressed them:
"'Shall we make man?"
"'O God, make him not," said Justice sternly, "the only thing he will ever do is trample all over Your laws.'
"'And Truth, what do you think?'
"'O God, make him not, for none but God is perfect, and he will surely sin against You."
"'And Mercy, what sayest thou?'
"Then Mercy, dropping upon her knees and looking up through her tears exclaimed: "'O God, make him! I will watch over him with my care through all the dark paths he may have to tread.'
"Then, brothers, God made man and said to him: "'O man, thou art the child of mercy' go and deal mercifully with all thy brothers.'"
Blessed are the merciful for they shall receive mercy.
Think mercifully. Speak mercifully. Act mercifully. Practice mercy. You never know when you yourself might need to be carried.
© Rev. Duane Brown, 2003
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