Who Is My Neighbor Today?

A homily given July 10, 2022, by Deacon Michael Sigwalt, SMM Oblate

On October 2, 2006, the peace of a typical fall day in Lancaster County, PA was shattered by the sound of gunfire resonating from inside an Amish schoolhouse.  By the time the police broke into the building ten young girls, ages 6 to 13, had been shot.  Two of the girls died instantly.  Another died in the arms of a state trooper.  In all, five girls would die from this horrific event.  The gunman had also taken his own life.

Violence, which has sadly become so much a part of our society, thrust itself into a peace-filled Amish community.  The violence left six dead, five wounded, and thousands more filled with shock, sorrow, grief, and confusion.  The horrors of violence and sin, which bring so much pain – so much tragedy – came crashing in on this small Amish community.  

Violence and sin, with all its pain, seems to be everywhere.  So many lives filled with shock, sorrow, and grief.  Just turn on the nightly news!  How many lives have been lost today?  How many people have been shot?  How many people find themselves filled with extreme emptiness as a loved one’s life has been tragically and prematurely stripped away?  How many dreams have been shattered?  How many futures have been brought to an abrupt halt?  

Society frequently wants to respond to violence with more violence.  We raise the cry for “justice,” but we so seldom demand mercy.  And justice without mercy is simply revenge.  Justice without mercy is so often more violence.  And as we seek to satiate our quest for vengeance, we find the “extreme emptiness” which brought about our initial rage is still there, lingering and festering within us.  And as we act out our thirst for vengeance, we find our roles shifting.  We find we’re no longer the “victim” in this life’s drama, but instead have become like the “robbers,” as in today’s Gospel.  “Robbers” intent on finding another “victim” to assault; another “victim” to blame.  An intention which simply leads to more emptiness, more sorrow, more pain . . . more division.

Just how far does this go in explaining our increasingly polarized world?  So many people running around clamoring to be the “victim” so they can justify their new role as an “avenging robber.”  All done in the name of “justice.”  But if all that zeal only creates more emptiness, pain, and division, then what has happened to our role as neighbor?  What have we really accomplished?

And Jesus asks, “Which of these . . . was neighbor to the robbers’ victim?”

“The one who treated him with mercy.”

As our own personal dramas unfold, it’s entirely possible our lives may not have been directly impacted by the violence of this world.  We might be disturbed as the tragedy of “man’s inhumanity to man” is revealed to us.  But places like Uvalde, Buffalo, Parkland . . . even Highland Park . . . can seem somewhat removed – out there somewhere.  We drive through the “tougher neighborhoods” of our nation’s cities, maybe feeling a bit uneasy about being there.  Hoping our car doesn’t breakdown – not there, anyway.  

I remember the first time I drove through the Bronx in New York City, seeing the remains of some stripped-down car alongside the road, perched up on blocks; razor wire strung along the tops of fences; burned out buildings scarring the urban landscape. . . . To me the area looked very much like a warzone.  I recall going to a Yankee’s game with a New York friend of mine, and in driving to the stadium we’d made a wrong turn.  A wrong turn in the south Bronx!  Imagine my discomfort as my friend – a native New Yorker – exclaimed, “We’re going to die!” 

We’ve probably all wrestled with this sense of discomfort at some point in our lives.  We encounter the dichotomy of poverty in this, our “land of plenty,” and we find it unsettling.  We see evidence of the violence of poverty as we witness the stripped-down cars, the razor wire, and the burned-out buildings.  “How can anyone live that way?” we wonder.  But we seldom stop to ask, “Why?”  Why does this exist?

So we take the “societal Hippocratic oath” to “Do no harm.”  We conclude, “It’s not my fault they live in poverty.”  “It’s not my fault their children are hungry.”  “It’s not my fault they live in a warzone.”  “It’s simply not my fault . . .”  And in the meantime, everyone living in those warzones – all those “others” – still have to struggle, on a day-to-day basis, with all the violence poverty imposes.  They still have children going to bed with empty stomachs.  They still have to live with rejection.  They still have emptiness.  They still have sorrow.  They still have pain.  And we’ve unwittingly expanded the rift of division as we silently and passively distance ourselves from them. 

How is this any different than the priest and the Levite in today’s parable?  Passing by, as it were, on the opposite side of the road. More concerned with “What will happen to me?”  What happens to me if I stop?  What happens to me should I care?  What about my own needs and comforts?  Surely God will understand.  And so we pass by.  Maybe dropping a coin into a begging man’s cup.  Maybe without so much as a sideways glance.  Maybe quickening our pace, ever so slightly, just in case the man in need wishes to bridge that divide and talk.

Sixteen-years ago, in the small Amish community of West Nickel Mines, PA, ten young girls, ages 6 to 13, were shot.  Five were killed and the gunman took his own life.  On the afternoon of the shooting a grandfather of one of the girls that died expressed his forgiveness for the killer.  On that same day, Amish neighbors visited the gunman’s family to comfort them as that family had to deal with their own sorrow and pain.  At the gunman’s funeral, the Amish mourners outnumbers the non-Amish. 

The community of West Nickel Mines had been thrust into the grave of violence.  But rather than choosing to dig the grave deeper, the people of that small Amish community instead chose to rise up out of their grave.  They chose the path of mercy and forgiveness.  They chose to lead a resurrected life; a life which rejects the death of sin and embraces the LIFE of love and mercy so beautifully illustrated by Jesus Christ our Savior.

Mercy cannot be passive.  Mercy does not place its own interests ahead the needs of others.  The Good Samaritan didn’t ask, “What will happen to me if I stop to help this man?”  Instead, the Good Samaritan asked, “What will happen to this man if I don’t stop to help him?”  Mercy involves reaching out and connecting and caring for the other!  It is perhaps the purest form of community as it seeks to eliminate divisions and places the needs of others ahead of our own.  Can this be more beautifully illustrated than when we look up and see Jesus on the Cross?

All the violence in our world ultimately stems from a lethal absence of hope brought about by a glaring absence of connection.  People having to face the violence of sin and division in their lives can be filled with unrelenting grief and despair, brought on by an unrelenting separation and isolation. We cannot walk on the opposite side of road!  We must live lives of mercy, compassion and forgiveness.  We must reach out and find our connections with each other; with all our brothers and sisters living throughout this world!  Then when Jesus asks, “Which of these . . . was neighbor to the robbers’ victim?” we can all reply, “It was me.”

A little bit of mercy makes the world less cold and more just. – Pope Francis