A compassion which knows no boundaries

LET me begin with a confession. It concerns something I did – or rather didn’t do – when I was community minister in Easterhouse, the big, sprawling, and somewhat notorious Glasgow housing scheme.

The Church of Scotland had decided to appoint a couple of ministers to work with people of all denominations for the benefit of the wider Easterhouse community. I was one of them. It was a worthy, though sadly under-resourced project. It’s not false modesty to say that I received much more than I gave. I was, in effect, tutored by some wonderful people “on the ground”.

The street that Cristine and I and our three small children lived in, Torran Road, had its own gang, the Torran Toi.

Life was never dull. Having spent the previous four years studying Hebrew and Greek at St Andrews and Edinburgh Universities, I was not, shall we say, over-equipped for the task of housing scheme ministry. (After giving a report at 121 George Street about the project, I was dumfoonert to be asked: “Are you winning?” Jings. Winning what?)

On one occasion I was roused from my slumbers by a din in our street. A battle was going on. Swords were being used. One callow youth flashed a scimitar at a dog; mercifully, he missed, with sparks flying out from the road. Quite what the wee dug thought he was doing in the midst of the rammy, I have no idea.

The situation clearly demanded a peace maker. At that moment, I had a blinding epiphany: I was not going down into that street to do my St Francis of Assisi bit, No way.

I definitely wasn’t winning: as a dyed-inthe- wool Cowdenbeath supporter, I was practised in the art of losing with dignity.

But here’s the thing: as a minister, shouldn’t I have gone out into the throng, still in my jammies, and appealed to peoples’ better nature? Should I have shouted the biblical admonition, “Gonny no dae that?”

The situation I was in clarified some things for me – about my own limitations, about the police, whose car would be parked around the corner till everyone had left the scene – and about the tough demands of the Christian gospel.

I’ve never understood those critics who say that Christianity is a comfortable religion. It is not. It is a very challenging religion. There is a price to be paid for unlimited compassion, and I wasn’t prepared to pay that price.

Right at the heart of the Christian message is the parable of the Good Samaritan. Remember: Jesus told the story to a clever lawyer who had asked the question: ‘Who is my neighbour?

The lawyer wasn’t interested in the truth; he simply wanted to trap Jesus.

Instead of answering the lawyer with legal quotations, Jesus told a story about a Jewish man who was robbed and beaten as he travelled from Jerusalem to Jericho. A priest came down the road, but he turned a blind eye to the wounded man. So did a Levite, who was also of the priestly caste. Then along came a Samaritan who stopped when he saw the wounded man. He bound up his wounds, put him on his donkey and paid for him to be accommodated at an inn.

There is a price to be paid for unlimited compassion, and I wasn’t prepared to pay that price.

The significance of the story is that the Jews regarded the Samaritans as enemies.

“Which of these three,” Jesus asked the lawyer, “was neighbour to the man who fell among the thieves?”

“The one who showed mercy,” replied the lawyer.

“Then go and do likewise,” said Jesus. Oof! The story of the Good Samaritan both inspires and challenges Christians. What Jesus is saying is that his followers have got to help anyone, irrespective of their background. That’s the trouble with compassion: it can get you into very difficult – even dangerous – situations.

But a compassion which knows no boundaries is, as Jesus knew, the most revolutionary force in the world.

This article appears in the October 2020 Issue of Life and Work

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