×

It’s not exactly the Jericho Road, a path known to be dangerous in Jesus’ day, but in April the train route between Town Hall and Sydney Airport proved similarly inhospitable to a Muslim couple as the ancient highway did in the experience of the unfortunate traveller of Jesus’ famous parable of the Good Samaritan. The pair were racially abused by a fellow passenger, an older woman, before a young woman defended them, told the abuser to pipe down if she had nothing nice to say and, in a particularly modern touch to this old story, recorded the whole affair to later post on Facebook.

Like the hero of Jesus’ parable, the young woman showed uncommon kindness to strangers. It’s right that all eyes are on her and the victims of the assault. But what do we do with the perpetrator—is it possible to spare a thought for them?

It also seems profoundly unfair to ask victims that they extend mercy to those who have denied it to them. And yet this is exactly what Jesus asks of us in the Sermon on the Mount

It seems outrageous to suggest such a thing. We are right to worry that such an attitude might confuse the issue as to who the real victim is, minimise the offender’s abusive and discriminatory behaviour, and disregard the very real hurt and pain they have caused. It also seems profoundly unfair to ask victims that they extend mercy to those who have denied it to them.

And yet this is exactly what Jesus asks of us in the Sermon on the Mount: to love our enemies.

Even the parable of the Good Samaritan might lead us in such a direction. The telling of the parable was initially prompted by the expert in the law’s question—‘and who is my neighbour?’ In other words, who do I need to care about? Jesus’ answer was characteristically confounding in his refusal to obey the terms of the question. Worry less about who counts as a neighbour, Jesus responded, and just get on with the business of being a neighbour to others.

Jesus’ parable, then, commends neighbourly behaviour to anyone in need across all lines of race, culture, and ethnicity, no matter who they are or where they come from. No one is excluded. So all-encompassing, then, is the sphere of neighbourly concern that it’s hard to escape the uncomfortable implication that your enemy-neighbour might just, in fact, also be the one you are called to love.

That your enemy is also your neighbour seems particularly apparent when we consider another racist tirade on a Melbourne train a few years ago. In this case, a woman’s abusive, drunken rant featured fairly predictable claims to ‘my country’ and the sacrifices of ‘us original Aussies’ being defiled by the presence of racial others. The recording of the incident, however, also picks up the response of another passenger to the woman’s comments: “If this is your country, then I don’t want to be here”.

Few can claim enough presence of mind to respond well in stressful situations like these, and this comeback did a good job at expressing solidarity with those on the receiving end of the woman’s spray. But it isn’t clear that this remark rises above the woman’s much cruder abuse since both rely upon the same logic: that excluding the other is the solution to whatever problem we face.

We are all diminished when we protect a victim by ridiculing and abusing their victimiser instead.

Seeing abusers get a taste of their own medicine may feel eminently satisfying in the moment, but there’s a sense in which we are all diminished when we protect a victim by ridiculing and abusing their victimiser instead. Excluding the bigot, moreover, seems a poor answer to the injustice that racism names: the desire to cast out others unlike the self.

I can’t remember the last time I experienced racism, but I can’t forget how it felt: like shame burning up my cheeks, like everyone knew and believed I didn’t belong. The red in the face eventually fades, the feeling of exclusion however, remains. It’s a feeling that, I imagine, would be familiar to victims of racist attacks on public transport. It’s incredibly hard to even think of being gracious in the face of such assault and no one, least of all me, believes that any effort to reach out to perpetrators can be anything but fraught for, especially, their victims.

The gospel’s answer to this issue is both offensive and liberating for it indiscriminately extends mercy to all: both victims and those who victimise them. The gospel embraces wrongdoers, while holding them to account for their crimes. It simultaneously invites victims to appeal to God for justice, lest their desire for retaliation sees them become, in turn, victimisers themselves. The gospel is a vision of reconciliation that, in Miroslav Volf’s terms, seeks to embrace, rather than exclude.

It’s fitting that we praise modern day Good Samaritans for coming to the aid of victims of racist abuse. Even this, however, is part of a larger story where Jesus, on the cross, spreads his arms to welcome all, reminding us that even our enemies are ripe candidates for embrace.

LOAD MORE
Loading