Who Is My Neighbor?: Being a Good Samaritan in a Connected World

by Steve Moore

  As luck would have it, the coffee shop in which Eutisha worked was about six hundred feet from the Fire Department of New York (FDNY) headquarters. The proximity of the FDNY headquarters provided the coffee shop with a regular base of customers. It was often filled with FDNY employees in their government-issued blue sweaters, along with EMS personnel and their top brass.

  Shortly after 9:00 a.m., as Eutisha's symptoms escalated, colleagues raced to the front of the store looking for help. They discovered that two trained EMTs, with six years' and four years' experience respectively, were standing at the counter in uniform buying bagels. Eutisha's co-worker frantically explained that her pregnant friend was in need of medical attention. The two EMTs said they were on break and coldly suggested someone call 911. They did. Coincidentally, the Emergency Medical Services (EMS) dispatch center that handles 911 calls is located in the same building as Au Bon Pain, several floors above where Eutisha collapsed. Shouts from other employees warned that Eutisha was turning blue, but the EMTs appeared unfazed and left the coffee shop, bagels in hand.

  By now an Au Bon Pain manager was involved, again asking for help from anyone in the store. Eutisha, still collapsed on the floor, had begun foaming at the nose and mouth. Two other “good Samaritans,” as described by the New York Post, both FDNY employees, ran to the back office in an effort to provide assistance. By now several 911 calls had been placed, and paramedics arrived at 9:28 a.m., nearly thirty minutes after her initial symptoms. Eutisha, already in cardiac arrest, was transported to Long Island College Hospital, where she was pronounced dead at 10:17 a.m. Her six-month-old unborn daughter was too premature to survive, outliving her mother by just over two hours. She was posthumously named Jahniya Renne Woodson.

  When information began to surface about the tragedy of Eutisha's death, Mayor Michael Bloomberg was among the first to speak out, using words such as “unconscionable” and “outrage.” The story struck a chord with the national media, and people around the country responded similarly with disgust and unbelief. How could a twenty-five-year-old pregnant woman die with almost no emergency care, just six hundred feet from the FDNY headquarters, in the back office of a coffee shop bustling with EMTs, a few floors below the very 911 dispatchers handling the emergency calls?

  The visceral push back to the tragic and bizarre circumstances of Eutisha's death is amplified by our intuitive understanding of how to gauge the level of responsibility we assign to individuals who are provided the opportunity to be “Good Samaritans,” taking action in response to the needs of others. One's level of responsibility is determined, though none of us would consciously try to calculate it in these terms, by proximity, how close we are to what happened; urgency, how serious the need; and capacity, how qualified or capable we are to offer assistance or add value.

  proximity + urgency + capacity = responsibility

  The two EMTs at the counter who declined to get involved were a matter of feet from Eutisha (proximity). In fact, the entire FDNY was only six hundred feet away. The situation escalated to emergency status quickly (urgency) with a seizure that left her unconscious, foaming at the nose and mouth. A combined decade of experience as EMTs (capacity) suggested they were far better prepared than ordinary citizens to provide assistance, in spite of the fact that they did not have their equipment with them.2

  This combination of proximity, urgency, and capacity translates into extremely high levels of responsibility, but what happens when the needs of others are not only tragic but also chronic and epidemic? By tragic I mean urgent, life-threatening, or life-altering; by chronic I mean ongoing problems or challenges that are unlikely to be solved quickly or easily. Epidemic refers to the scale or scope of need, affecting many people. How do we assign responsibility for action when the problems others face are every bit as tragic as Eutisha's but not limited to the critical minutes associated with first responders and on a scale that exponentially multiplies the need beyond one person to thousands or millions of people?

  When the need is tragic, chronic, and epidemic, urgency is sustained, proximity becomes less relevant, and responsibility for action is much more difficult to assign. That's what makes Bant Singh's story so complicated.

  In 2000, Baljeet Kaur, the teenage daughter of Bant Singh, a Dalit farmer in Punjab, India, was lured by a woman into the waiting arms of two men who raped her. Sadly, nothing about this incident is unusual. Dalits, literally “broken people,” are on the lowest rung of the Hindu caste system and are viewed as untouchables, outcasts. Three Dalit women are raped every day; few are reported, and even fewer of the perpetrators are ever convicted.

  Bant Singh was determined to defy the odds and pressed charges against his daughter's rapists, including the woman who lured her to them. In an interview with Frontline, Bant Singh said, “I was determined to get justice, but initially I was stopped by the village panchayat [village leaders]. They kept telling me not to go to the police…. They offered money…. They offered my daughter gold ornaments and a scooter. But I refused to put a price on my daughter's honor. We went to the police, and in 2004 the district court convicted three people — Mandheer Singh, a … man called Tarsem … and a woman, Gurmail Kaur, who had lured my daughter to these men.”3

  Justice for Bant Singh and his daughter came at a high price. The year after the conviction, he was assaulted twice by people connected to the rape. On both occasions the attacks were reported to the police but the alleged perpetrators were released on bail. On January 7, 2006, a group of assailants attacked again. This time they had a gun, but they only used it to coerce him not to run away. They beat him with iron bars and axes and, like the man in the story of the Good Samaritan, left him half dead.

  Bant Singh's wife and family were notified of the beating and rushed him to a local hospital, where he was refused treatment because he was a Dalit. After lying untreated for thirty-six hours, he was transferred to another hospital, where both of his lower arms and one leg were amputated due to gangrene. Google his name and you will find videos of Bant Singh speaking from his hospital room, not only about his family's struggle but about the ongoing battle against oppression and exploitation facing millions of Dalits.

  Bant Singh readily understands the personal tragedy of his daughter's rape, and the subsequent assault on his life is but one chapter in a bigger story. This is not only about a single Dalit farmer or that farmer's daughter; it is about a quarter of a billion Dalits in India and millions more throughout South Asia. The challenges they face are tragic, chronic, and epidemic.

  Every seven days, three Dalits are murdered, five have their homes or belongings burned, six are kidnapped or abducted, and three Dalit women are raped. Baljeet Kaur, the daughter of Bant Singh, happened to be one of them.

  When we learn about tragic circumstances such as Bant Singh's and the millions of Dalits in South Asia, we understand the urgency of chronic needs such as these will not be resolved in the time it would take for a 911 call to produce a first responder. The urgency of Dalit exploitation is similar and yet very different from that of Eutisha Rennix.

  The same could be said about the needs of refugees in Darfur or the internally displaced people of the Democratic Republic of Congo, living in the dark shadow of violence due to conflict minerals, or the millions of children orphaned by HIV/AIDS in southern Africa.

  When the need of others is tragic, chronic, and epidemic, urgency is sustained, proximity is made irrelevant, and responsibility for action is much more difficult to assign. While I realize you don't live in proximity to Dalit farmers or AIDS orphans and you probably don't know any Congolese women who have been raped or robbed or exploited, their needs—along with the needs of Darfur refugees or street children in Bucharest or adolescent girls trapped in South Asia's sex trade or literally dozens of other compelling examples of human need here and around the world—are no less urgent. And because the challenges these people face are chronic as well as epidemic in proportion, it is much more complicated to sort out how much
responsibility we should accept in trying to make a difference, to be a neighbor.

  The story of the Good Samaritan reinforces the basic understanding of how we ascribe responsibility to act on behalf of others: proximity + urgency + capacity = responsibility. At the time Jesus told this story, proximity was the primary variable affecting the level of responsibility one would have with regard to taking action on behalf of others. Without proximity it would be difficult if not impossible to even be aware of the need of another person in a time frame that would allow helpful action. Travel over long distances was difficult and time consuming, so even where the needs of others were both chronic and epidemic, little responsibility would be assigned to those who were not in close proximity to the people who were suffering.

  Thomas Friedman, in his best-selling book The World Is Flat, explains how the combination of desktop computers and broadband Internet have flattened the world by giving more people access to more information more quickly than ever before. Faster communication and transportation continue to make the world flatter and smaller. Proximity is no longer the primary variable in ascribing the level of responsibility we have for others. I don't have to be near someone in order to know about her need, and even if I can't travel to where she lives, there are likely others with whom I could partner who have both the proximity and capacity to make a difference.

  In our global village, answering this once straightforward question, “Who is my neighbor?” has never been more complicated. But I believe there are answers to this question that empower each of us to leverage our giftedness and resources in our areas of God-ordained passion and live in the sweet spot of a fulfilling and fully engaged life. This liberating lifestyle is free from the guilt of inaction and the messiah complex of overcommitment. It is not limited to missionaries or aid workers or professional spiritual first responders. It is for ordinary people like me and you.

  The reality of a shrinking globe and the growing availability of smaller, faster technology do not make information overload inevitable. On the contrary, the curses of globalization can become blessings of increased opportunity to serve others. God is at work in this Google-ized world, and technological advances in the hands of Spirit-empowered Good Samaritans can set the stage for the “even greater things” Jesus said His followers would do (John 14:12).

  I believe it is time to recalibrate our answer to the question, “Who is my neighbor?” To help you with this process, I've organized this book in three parts. In part 1 we'll take a fresh look at the story of the Good Samaritan with a focus on the one big idea in this parable. It is important that we understand what Jesus had to say in response to the question, “Who is my neighbor?” and what His answer meant to the people who first heard Him tell the story. That foundation will enable us to make more informed application for our lives today.

  Part 2 of the book will explore the implications of living in a connected world on our responsibility for serving others. Google is one of the most visible brands associated with a connected world. It serves as a one-word metaphor for the impact of globalization, the flattening and shrinking of our world, and how we process and prioritize our biblical responsibility to be a neighbor to others. I believe Google's patented PageRank actually serves as a model that helps us prioritize our actions and focus our service on God-ordained passions. God uses life-shaping, Good Samaritan–like experiences to awaken and inform the passions within us, leading the way forward into opportunities to make a difference in the lives of others.

  Part 3 explores the question, “What would Jesus describe as His highest priority passions?” I suggest that God, though engaged and concerned about everyone and everything, has expressed a special affinity for the ultrapoor, the oppressed, and those trapped behind a thick veil of spiritual darkness with little access to the gospel. While each of us can expect to have unique passions that inform our service of others, there is a sense in which each of us will reflect the heart of God in response to these universal priorities of the kingdom.

  To get started on this journey together, I want to take you back in time, to the scene of the crime, for a closer examination of the words of Jesus about the traveler left for dead on the side of the road and the Good Samaritan who came to his assistance.

  Part 1

  RECONNECTING WITH THE GOOD SAMARITAN

  Chapter 1

  REDISCOVERING THE GOOD SAMARITAN

  One of the reasons Jesus was such a master teacher is that He was a master storyteller. The parables of Jesus are rich with imagery and packed with meaning. The Good Samaritan has only 162 words and can be read at a comfortable pace in sixty seconds. But the lessons of this story echo through the centuries, like the timeless voices of a choir in a majestic cathedral, exhorting generation after generation to pursue an others-focused lifestyle that reflects the true nature of God.

  The parable of the Good Samaritan is easy to read, but it is difficult to live, even for people who claim to follow Jesus, which is why my eyes were drawn to a news story with the title “Jerusalem Monks Trade Blows in Unholy Row.”1

  The traditional site of the crucifixion of Jesus is marked by the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Six Christian sects stake a claim to this holy site on the rooftop of the church like squatters after a land rush. The delicate balance of power is managed by a “status quo” law established in 1757 by the Ottoman Empire. Yet under the surface the tension remains like the fault line of a tectonic plate that could unleash the hidden fury of a fanatical earthquake at any moment.

  Ethiopians and Egyptian Copts have had an especially heated territorial dispute on the roof of the church for more than a century. The Ethiopians refer to the shrine as the House of Sultan Solomon, believing it was given to the queen of Sheba by the son of David, Israel's ancient king. They ceded control to the Egyptian Copts in the nineteenth century when they were unable to maintain a physical presence due to an epidemic. In 1970 the Copts were temporarily absent from the rooftop chapel, which opened a window of opportunity quickly seized by the Ethiopians, who have kept a monk huddled in the corner day and night ever since to stake their claim.

  On a hot Monday afternoon in July 2002, an Egyptian monk moved his chair to get out of the sun and mistakenly (or not) crossed an invisible fault line into what the Ethiopian monk perceived to be his holy territory. To quote from the Reuters story:

  “They (the Ethiopians) teased him,” said Father Afrayim, an Egyptian Coptic monk at the next door Coptic monastery. “They poked him and brought some women who came behind him and pinched him,” he said. Each side accuses the other of throwing the first blow in the fist-fight and stone throwing that ensued. Police eventually broke up the brawl but by all accounts many of the protagonists were already wounded.

  According to reports at least seven Ethiopian clerics and four Egyptians were injured in the fracas, including one broken arm. One monk was left unconscious and hospitalized. The anger continued to simmer the following day, like a volcano oozing lava, spewing the hot ash of angry words into the sky. An Egyptian monk hollered catcalls while simultaneously moving a hand across his throat, pantomiming the execution of his rival on the rooftop. He was surrounded by pieces of broken chairs and rocks like battlefield debris.

  When I first read this news story, I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. You can't make this stuff up. The irony is palpable. It appears that claiming to follow Jesus and being close to where He actually told the story of the Good Samaritan do not make it any easier to do the neighborly thing. No wonder the key to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre has been passed down for centuries from father to son by a Muslim family, the only way to keep a modicum of peace at the site where the Prince of Peace is believed to have died. Clearly what the Samaritan did was good but not easy.

  STUDYING THE PARABLE

  Putting the teachings of Jesus into practice does not come naturally for any of us. It requires careful thought and conscious effort. But before application comes understanding that builds on a commitment to ascert
ain the one overarching principle or idea that Jesus intended to communicate. A common danger is overanalyzing or allegorizing every detail of the story until you can't see the proverbial forest for the trees. The process of capturing the meaning of the single thought embedded in a parable involves a careful and prayerful analysis of the setting, story, and sequel.2

  To understand the setting we have to look at the immediate context that triggered the story. Who was Jesus talking with, and what was the nature of the encounter? Why did He tell this story? To understand the story we have to remember that Jesus intentionally focused on common experiences, plucked like low-hanging fruit from everyday life. He wanted to ensure the characters and setting would be relevant to His audience. He captured the attention of His hearers by talking about people and places to which they could easily relate; His words were like a pool of still water in which they could see a reflection of their own lives.

  The earthy, down-home approach to storytelling used by Jesus can work against our understanding of a parable. The culture and way of life in first-century Palestine were understandably quite different from what we experience today. When analyzing the story we need to be careful not to project meaning based on our worldview and culture that would not have been in the minds of the people to whom these words were first spoken. An important question to ask is, “What elements of this story will be difficult to understand without some level of historical and cultural background?”

  Finally, in addition to the setting and the story, we must also analyze the sequel. In this case sequel refers to a result, consequence, or inference, not a second parable building on the first like a Hollywood movie series. In the sequel, Jesus often summarized the message or made specific application to primary members of the audience as identified in the setting.