A Better Resurrection

A Better Resurrection
BY CHRISTINA ROSSETTI

I have no wit, no words, no tears;

My heart within me like a stone

Is numb'd too much for hopes or fears;

Look right, look left, I dwell alone;

I lift mine eyes, but dimm'd with grief

No everlasting hills I see;

My life is in the falling leaf:

O Jesus, quicken me.

My life is like a faded leaf,

My harvest dwindled to a husk:

Truly my life is void and brief

And tedious in the barren dusk;

My life is like a frozen thing,

No bud nor greenness can I see:

Yet rise it shall—the sap of Spring;

O Jesus, rise in me.

My life is like a broken bowl,

A broken bowl that cannot hold

One drop of water for my soul

Or cordial in the searching cold;

Cast in the fire the perish'd thing;

Melt and remould it, till it be

A royal cup for Him, my King:

O Jesus, drink of me.

Click here for more Poetry Wednesday.

Finishing The Course

It was a gray, chilly evening in October of 1999, and my husband and I stood at the threshold of the Eastern Orthodox Church. Literally. Positioned at the entrance of Holy Trinity Cathedral on Leavitt Street in Chicago, we were attended by Fr. Joseph, a black robed, heavily bearded priest and an impressive figure who I would have sworn was a transplant straight from "Holy Russia." (We later found out that he was an ex-Lutheran from Ohio.) On this night, following a series of professions, we would officially be recognized as catechumens in the Orthodox Church. After asking us our full names, (yes, mine is really just Beth), Fr. Joseph authoritatively and I believe prophetically declared, "You are now Elizabeth after the mother of St. John the Baptist." In less than twenty minutes, prayers were offered on our behalf; the devil exorcised and spit upon (once again, literally); the Nicene Creed professed; and a series of "Lord have mercies," chanted by the choir. Behind me stood two figures that I remember: my dear friend Molly who would later serve as my sponsor and His Grace, then Bishop JOB. While there is little else I recall about this particular evening, I do remember receiving Bishop JOB's blessing at the conclusion of the service. Meeting at the rear of the cathedral, near the icon of the priest-martyr and individual primarily responsible for the construction of the building in which I now stood, St. John of Chicago, Bishop JOB quoting from the Psalms, raised his right hand and bestowed his blessing upon me and my bowed head, "May the Lord God bless you from Zion. May you see the good things of Jerusalem all the days of your life."

Last Friday, as I was cutting up pieces of fudge and crafting packages to be sent later that day to our precious friends in Chesterton and Indianapolis, the phone rang. Our family was in a bit of a rush, attempting to get on the road for a journey to Pontiac, Illinois, for a visit with my father-in-law. I let the machine pick it up. On the other end of the receiver was a friend and former parishoner from our church in Chicago now living in New York. Bad news clung to his voice; instantly I knew someone had died. "An hour and a half ago," Steve related, "Archbishop JOB died unexpectedly while on route back to Chicago from Ohio."

It was another gray, chilly day as we pulled our van up to the Archbishop's chapel and our former parish, Christ the Savior, last Monday afternoon. With an assortment of people, friends and strangers, we awaited the arrival of the Archbishop. And in typical Orthodox fashion, he was late - held up in traffic. After nearly a half hour, word began to spread in hushed whispers that Archbishop JOB was home. An awed silence permeated the sacred space until black robed clergy and Metropolitan JONAH entered the temple singing "Holy God" and bearing the body of our beloved Vladyka into his own chapel. As his coffin was censed, the lid was opened and Archbishop JOB received his crown on his head and his familiar purple vestment initialed in gold at his feet. His cross was placed in his right hand. Prayers were offered; "Lord have mercies" chanted; and then the official visitation. As my youngest son and I stood at the body of Archbishop JOB, we paused, prayed, bowed our heads, kissing the cross and the Archbishop's right hand for a final blessing.

There is much I could tell you about Archbishop JOB. He was a caring, compassionate, generous individual committed to the truth even when it made him unpopular. He loved children and, like His Lord, never wanted the little ones pushed aside. And sensing his genuineness and love, children loved him right back. He was down-to-earth, never one to flaunt his authority or the power that came with it, but always leading His flock as a true Shepherd by serving them. He was wise and his words, I believe, inspired, always encouraging those around him to love first and not allow zeal or lethargy to take hold of them. "Be grateful for where you came from," he would relate to converts. Do not harbor animosity towards your former religious background for that is not Orthodoxy, not the way of Christ. Go to the work parties or the parties held by non-Orthodox friends, he urged, even during the periods of fasting, and enjoy them. Just don't wind up being the one with "the lamp shade on your head." Glory in the incense, the icons, the magnificent colors, sounds, and rich smells of the Orthodox church. Let them permeate your being for they are the gifts of God to draw you closer to Him, but remember never to mistake them for the true object of worship. Never tire of hearing the Gospel accounts of Christ's passion. Listen, even when it seems we have read them over and over "for my brothers and sisters, it is never enough. It is never enough." Undoubtedly for Archbishop JOB "to live was Christ and to die was gain." Collectively Orthodox Christians throughout America and the world mourn the premature loss of a beloved Shepherd. We will miss you Vladkyka. May His Memory Be Eternal!

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It is poetry Wednesday. I came to love this poem of Houseman's my freshman year of college. Archbishop JOB looked forward to his upcoming retirement and probably even longed for it so he could slip into obscurity and to paraphrase his own words, work on his own salvation. God did not want it that way and took him while still young and greatly revered. Click here to read others' poems for today. A blessed Christmas to you all!

"To An Athlete Dying Young"

A.E. Houseman

The time you won your town the race

We chaired you through the market-place;

Man and boy stood cheering by,

And home we brought you shoulder-high.

To-day, the road all runners come,

Shoulder-high we bring you home,

And set you at your threshold down,

Townsman of a stiller town.

Smart lad, to slip betimes away

From fields where glory does not stay

And early though the laurel grows

It withers quicker than the rose.

Eyes the shady night has shut

Cannot see the record cut,

And silence sounds no worse than cheers

After earth has stopped the ears:

Now you will not swell the rout

Of lads that wore their honors out,

Runners whom renown outran

And the name died before the man.

So set, before its echoes fade,

The fleet foot on the sill of shade,

And hold to the low lintel up

The still-defended challenge-cup.

And round that early-laurelled head

Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead,

And find unwithered on its curls

The garland briefer than a girl's.

For The Beauty Of You

Considered one of the German language's greatest 20th-century poet, Rainer Maria Rilke wrote what is now known as The Book of Hours following a trip to Russia during his early twenties. Rilke's Book is broken down into three parts: "The Book of a Monastic Life," "The Book of Pilgrimage," and "The Book of Poverty and Death." Though Poetry Wednesday is nearly over, my three offerings for this bitter cold Iowa day are taken from "The Book of Pilgrimage." And you can click here to enjoy what others have shared today. Enjoy!

Ich bete wider, du Erlauchter

I am praying again, Awesome One.

You hear me again, as words

from the depths of me

rush toward you in the wind.

I've been scattered in pieces,

torn by conflict,

mocked by laughter,

washed down in drink.

In alleyways I sweep myself up

out of garbage and broken glass.

With my half-mouth I stammer you,

who are eternal in you symmetry.

I lift to you my half-hands

in wordless beseeching, that I may find again

the eyes with which I once beheld you.

I am a house gutted by fire

where only the guilty sometimes sleep

before the punishment that devours them

hounds them out into the open.

I am a city by the sea

sinking into a toxic tide.

I am strange to myself, as though someone unknown

had poisoned my mother as she carried me.

It's here in all the pieces of my shame

that now I find myself again.

I yearn to belong to something, to be contained

in an all-embracing mind that sees me

as a single thing.

I yearn to be held

in the great hands of your heart-

oh let them take me now.

Into them I place these fragments, my life,

and you, God- spend them however you want.

Losch mir die Augen aus: ich kann dich sehen

Extinguish my eyes, I'll go on seeing you.

Seal my ears, I'll go on hearing you.

And without feet I can make my way to you,

without a mouth I can swear your name.

Break off my arms, I'll take hold of you

with my heart as with a hand.

Stop my heart, and my brain will start to beat.

And if you consume my brain with fire,

I'll feel you burn in every drop of my blood.

In tiefen Nachten grab ich dich, du Schatz

In deep nights I dig for you like treasure.

For all I have seen

that clutters the surface of my world

is poor and paltry substitute

for the beauty of you

that has not happened yet.

My hands are bloody from digging.

I lift them, hold them open in the wind,

so they can branch like a tree.

Reaching, these hands would pull you out of the sky

as if you had shattered there,

dashed yourself to pieces in some wild impatience.

What is this I feel falling now,

falling on this parched earth,

softly,

like a spring rain?

How Lovely Are Thy Branches

Pictures? You want pictures, Mrs. Sabourin? Well, these are a week old, but they will have to do. With a day off of work for Jared and our first winter storm in the forecast, we ventured out last Tuesday for our annual trip to Mumma's Tree Farm in Port Byron. Due to cold temperatures during our trip last year, Russell, Elliot, and I never left the van. We hoped that the above freezing temps this year would allow all of us to participate in our tree excursion, but after Elliot fell out of the sled into the snow, the three of us retreated back to the van while Jared and Thomas completed the task at hand once again.

My two guys did a fabulous job - the tree is perfect and smells great. Nothing quite like the smell of fresh pine greeting me first thing in the morning. (Well, maybe a fresh cup of coffee. Picky. Picky. Picky.) And while I would love to have a picture of it now, decorated and shining in our living room, at this point, that is impossible due to my youngest son's launching of our camera into a sink full of water later that afternoon. Oh Elliot. Just know that as Thomas and I unwrapped ornaments from the tissue paper in which they were stored, he cooed at nearly each one of them like a mother to her young infant. "Oh mommy. Look at this one. Isn't it cute?" And isn't he just precious? I think so.

Saint of Light

Baptized into the Lutheran church at four months of age on Easter Sunday 1973, I was marked in more ways than one. Entrusted to my godparents, parents, and members of the church community, I was to be raised according to the Lutheran beliefs. And with the last name Swanson, I joined an elect group of people with names like Patterson, Anderson, Johnson, and Townsend, because half of my gene pool could be traced back to the motherland, Sweden.

When you grow up in a Lutheran church composed mostly of Swedes, there are two climacteric events, besides the obvious feasts of Christmas and Easter, which are heralded and revered with gusto: Midsummer in June and St. Lucia Day in December. As a young girl, I remember the anticipation, the mystery: Which teen-aged girl would be the Lucia Bride? and Would I someday be chosen to perform this part? As a member of the children's choir, I recall walking into a darkened auditorium at my church where men, women, and children assembled to commemorate this special day. Dressed in traditional Swedish costumes, the only light driving out the darkness was that emitted from candles each of us children grasped in our hands. As we entered, we would sing verse after verse, in Swedish and English, the song tributing this Saint of Light.

Night treads with heavy step. Round yard and hearth

Woods brood in darkness now. Sun's gone from earth

But through the darkness comes. With brightness glowing

Saint of the heav'nly light. Our Savior showing

Maiden so sweet and fair, Bright candles in your hair,

Santa Lucia, Santa Lucia!

Child of the holy light, Banish the dark of night,

Santa Lucia, Santa Lucia!

And then she would appear; an adolescent girl clothed in a white gown, a crimson sash cinched around her waist, a crown of seven candles aflame upon her head, a tray of bread and coffee to serve her guests. From the eyes of a young child, it was beautiful and magical, like Christmas Day. My family left the Lutheran church when I was in eighth grade; I never was the Lucia Bride.

St. Lucia was a young, Sicilian woman who lived in the late third century. So committed was she to Christ, she desired that He alone be her Bridegroom. Although promised in marriage by her mother to a pagan man, Lucia ultimately was given permission by her mother to terminate her betrothal and give her dowry to the poor. Upon learning of Lucia's rejection, her fiance betrayed her to the governor of the island as being a Christian, which was illegal at the time. After being arrested for her faith and refusing to sacrifice to idols, St. Lucia received the crown of martyrdom when a soldier stabbed his sword into her throat. Her adoration by the Swedes stemmed from an event which occurred in the Middle Ages. According to Swedish tradition, in the midst of a horrific winter and famine in southern Sweden, a ship sailing across Lake Vannern appeared. At the prow stood a young woman dressed all in white and emanating a holy light. Once upon shore, the maiden dispersed bag after bag of wheat until the ship was empty, thus saving the people from starvation and imminent death.

Last Sunday evening, each of my sons deferred my offering that one of them play the role of St. Lucia, and so, finally, twenty years after the fact, I acquiesced and became the Lucia Bride. It was nothing fancy. There was just the five of us. There was not a white gown to don nor a crown of lighted candles to adorn. Instead, I plopped one of the boys' homemade autumn crowns - a hat cut out from a used Cheerios box decorated with disintegrating leaves and buttons - which lost most of its grandeur on my head. Rather than flaming candles, I concocted a quirkie seasonal replacement - seven pine cones strapped on with orange pipe cleaners. We did form a procession (I mean, we are Orthodox; we love to process), and with lights dimmed, lit candle in my hand, a plate full of ginger cookies precariously in Thomas' hold, our family circled our home singing "Santa Lucia."

By the third stanza, the electric mayhem duo was causing enough of a ruckus that cookies were spilling onto the floor, shouts of, "No!" were being heard, and there was laughter. We concluded our first annual St. Lucia celebration by reading a lovely book, Lucia Saint of Light by Katherine Bolger Hyde which the boys recently received from my parents. And as Russell and Elliot bumbled around our room, turning the box fan off and on, moving icons from the icon table to the bedside table, Jared, Thomas, and I snuggled on our rumpled bed. And there was more laughter as my dear husband put little Thomas into the kind of near-frenzy only possible for a five-year-old boy as he insisted on calling the governor from the story, Paschasius, "Pass Gas"-ius. Oh potty humor. I am confident, it will be the one and only thing Thomas remembers about this day.

With what wreaths of praise shall we crown Lucy, the namesake of light? What

diadem of honor befits the brow of her who willingly gave up her life for her

heavenly Bridegroom, bringing Him as dowry, as though they were priceless rubies,

the drops of her precious blood, shed by the sword for His sake?

Come, you who love the martyrs, and let us fashion wreaths of praise, glorifying

her who in her pure virginity, her blameless life and spotless death glorified above

all the Holy Trinity, the one true God, and put to shame the mindlessness of the

pagans! For having been faithful to Christ unto the end, she has truly entered into

the joy of her Lord, and abides forever in the eternal bliss of His mansions on high.

From the Aposticha for the Feast of St. Lucia

December 13

Walk On

Sunday afternoon I opened up an email from a friend I have known since high school. While the message itself was brief, the content was weighty: The wife of one of our fellow classmates had died. Having attended a private school, my graduating class was intimate; there were merely fifteen of us. Over the years, I lost contact with the majority of the people with whom I graduated until we were reassembled in the spring of 2005 for our fifteen year reunion. Gathered together in a small wine room at a local Italian restaurant, we rehashed past memories and reconnected by catching up on the goings on of our lives post high school.

As you can imagine, after fifteen years, there was much to discuss. Besides, there were spouses to meet and pictures of children to ooh and aah over. Due to a conflict in his schedule, Andy Grizzle was not able to attend our dinner but was able to dash in for a mere half hour. In that short amount of time, I learned that he was married and teaching at a local private school. Knowing that Jared and I were in the midst of an adoption, he shared with me that he and his wife were also attempting to launch a family by adopting a child, but that they had recently suffered a failed adoption. Andy's wife, Regina, was absent, and I never had the opportunity to meet her.

Regina Meyers-Grizzle was only 38 years old when she departed this life last Saturday. She and Andy celebrated their eleventh wedding anniversary on the day she died. According to her obituary, Regina liked to fish, sing, spend time with her family, and play practical jokes. From the comments left online by those who knew her, Regina was a joyful woman who made others laugh in spite of the fact that she herself lived with pain and bore the burden of poor health.

"What is your life?" St. James the apostle queried. "It is even a vapor that appears for a little time and then vanishes away." Even though I never had the opportunity to meet Regina, her death is sobering; a wake up call and reminder that life is grievously terse, withering and fading like grass, and that I am so often guilty of allowing little, irrelevant cares, like dirty kitchen floors and fingerprint smudged windows, to weigh me down. Truly, these are paltry and of no real consequence.

Each of us has been given a vocation, Mother Teresa once conveyed while being interviewed by Malcolm Muggeridge. We are all called to "take the little we have and make it beautiful for God." Regina Meyers-Grizzle suffered in this life and could have easily and perhaps even justifiably chosen to become an angry, bitter, contemptuous human being, diffusing the seeds of her despondency upon those around her. But instead, she chose to walk the narrow path - the path of joy, hope, and love - knowing that these are the only things you can't leave behind. May her memory be eternal!

O Me! O Life!

Walt Whitman

O ME! O life! of the questions of these recurring,

Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill' with the foolish,

Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I,

and who more faithless?)

Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of the struggle

ever renew'd,

Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I see

around me,

Of the empty and useless years of the rest, with the rest me intertwined,

The question, O me! so sad, recurring-What good amid these, O me,

O life?

Answer.

That you are here-that life exists and identity,

That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.

More Thoughts On A Monday Afternoon

Maybe in our family we have somebody who is feeling lonely, who is feeling sick, who is feeling worried. Are we there? Let us know the poor in our own families first. We have old people: they are put in institutions and they are never visited; with less and less time even to smile at each other, with less and less time to be together. Love begins at home, if we can only make our own homes temples of love. -Mother Teresa

St. Nicholas Day

A letter of appreciation left for St. Nicholas.

Who ate the cookies? More importantly, who ate the carrots?

We had a hard time getting Russell to eat the chocolate instead of the foil wrapping.

Elliot looking at his new Koo-Kah (translates as Star Wars) figures.

Elliot reading the boys' new book - Silent as a Stone: Mother Maria of Paris and the Trash Can Rescue.

Cookies ready for gifting to the neighbors.

Thomas assembling his new Lego AT-Walker.

Delight

We officially launched our holiday baking today. As snow flurries whirled outside the kitchen window and Handel's Messiah blared from the basement CD player, Thomas and I donned our aprons (it never gets old seeing my eldest son wearing an apron) and the four of us cluttered up the kitchen with baking essentials and some non-baking essentials in order to make double chocolate cranberry cookies. You see, St. Nicholas Day is right around the corner, and it has become part of our family's tradition on that day to anonymously leave cookies on the doorsteps of our neighbors in an effort to emulate in a miniscule way the generosity of that beloved saint. Of course, Thomas had his own plans and within minutes of our cookie making requested a bowl, spoon, and host of ingredients so that he could concoct some other delicacy. "Coffee!" he declared as I skeptically peered into his bowl of brownish colored liquid complete with lumps of flour. "Can we heat it up?" In a similar fashion, his two younger brothers began to politely request (yeah right) spoons and bowls so they too could create their own desserts. "Pumpkin pie," Elliot stated as he held up a spoon for me to taste. (It sounds something like, "Puhkuh Piee," but we know what he means.) And Russell? Well, as he offered me his spoon, he announced that his tidbit was, "Noony. Bobby." Don't ask. Though the boys covered their ears because the music was a bit loud and Thomas insisted on making a cookie minus the cranberries for himself, the cookies received a big thumbs up from my eldest son-a little Friday afternoon delight.

O Living

It has been a bleak, gray day here in Davenport, Iowa, marked with a crispness and frigidity in the air which makes me realize that winter is indeed here. Even as I viewed the beginnings of a magnificent sunset of deep pinks and purples through our second-story window, a twinge of melancholy manifested itself within me as the day began to segue into night. Perhaps the sadness was the result of too little sleep or the beginnings of a sore throat. It might have commenced because after rummaging through my cedar chest in an attempt to find our passports, I rediscovered old letters and postcards received by precious friends while in college, and the passage of time seemed even more pronounced. Before email, blogs, cell phones, texts, we wrote letters. Page after page we filled with our thoughts, our feelings, our questions, and our supposed and real sufferings and laments. We decorated the outside of the envelopes with images torn from magazines and witty quotes from our favorite authors, theologians, or philosophers. These letters are lovely really; a tribute to a time past but living in the relationships which still remain. A postcard with Ms. Emily Dickinson on the front written by my friend Julie caught my eye and I pulled it from the sundry items in my memory box. It now lies on the table beside my bed. And though attempting to drive away these dark feelings by drinking cup after cup of hot coffee, the absence of many of those closest to me was unmistakably profound.

Today is poetry Wednesday. My dear friend Molly posted one of my favorite poems by Walt Whitman; one which I even considered for today. In the end, I opted for e.e. cummings. I first heard this poem via Woody Allen's work, Hannah And Her Sisters. I am not sure if I ever read the entire poem until today, but it is lovely.

somewhere I have never travelled, gladly beyond

e.e. cummings

somewhere I have never travelled, gladly beyond

any experience, your eyes have their silence:

in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,

or which I cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me

though I have closed myself as fingers,

you open always petal by petal as Spring opens

(touching skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, I and

my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,

as when the heart of this flower imagines

the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals

the power of your intense fragility: whose texture

compels me with the color of its countries,

rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes

and opens; only something in me understands

the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)

nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

The Power To Change The World

When you attend Bible college, or as my dear husband likes to point out a Bible "Institute," rather than your typical liberal arts college or university, you encounter a variety of experiences atypical to your average young adult. Those differentiations in and of themselves could easily constitute another post. For the record, I did wear skirts every day for four years. (Though by my senior year, I exchanged a knee-length black skirt for a longer one.) Another distinction was that each student, in an effort to fulfill the founder D.L. Moody's vision, was required to participate in a practical Christian ministry, affectionately known as a PCM. Looking back at my Moody experience, my involvement in these practical acts indeed helped shape much of the way I think about what it means to preach the gospel without using words. As a junior, I had the privilege of spending one afternoon a week at an organization called the Children's Place. A refuge for drug-addicted or HIV/AIDS infected babies, I simply came into their temporary place of living and held, fed, rocked, diapered, or played with these beautiful children of God.

Today, Tuesday, December 1st, has been set aside to remember those people living and dying throughout our world because of AIDS. While drugs available to those afflicted with AIDS in wealthier nations like our own have perhaps caused us to forget the painful reality of those suffering from this disease, there are 92,000 children in Ethiopia and 33.4 million people worldwide infected with AIDS. A few months back I came across an article written by Richard Stearns, president of World Vision, entitled, "Women and Orphans: The Hidden Faces of AIDS." Below is an excerpt:

Years from now, the AIDS pandemic will be judged as one of those rare crossroads in human history, where everything that comes after it will be seen through its lens. Every generation struggles with events and crises that ultimately define it. Every generation has its sins- of commission and omission. The lens of history can be brutally honest in its judgment.

How could American pioneers justify their treatment of Native Americans? How could pre-Civil-War America have tolerated slavery? How could churches in America have turned a blind eye to racial discrimination in the '40s and '50s? These are the kinds of questions history asks, and the questions that children and grandchildren ask of their parents and grandparents. 'Why didn't you act?' 'How could you remain silent?'

No one can predict the outcome of the AIDS crisis with certainty-whether vaccines will be found or whether the epidemic will be somehow stopped ten, fifty or one hundred years from today. No one can predict how many men, women and children will die, or how many orphans and widows will suffer in obscurity. No one can predict how this generation will be viewed through the lens of history. But I know that we cannot remain silent, and I am certain of what Jesus would have us do.

A call to action. I am certain about God's expectations of His people. I am certain that God sees these widows and orphans as our neighbors, lying beaten and bleeding on the side of the road, helpless and needing our help. And I am certain that He calls us to stop, show compassion, comfort them, bind up their wounds and see that they and their children are cared for.

Mother Teresa saw Christ in every dying beggar or leper she served. She once said this of these broken and forgotten souls: 'I see the face of Jesus in disguise- sometimes a most distressing disguise.' She understood that in serving the 'least of these,' she was not serving the loathsome and despicable but was privileged to serve the person of Jesus Himself.

We can reach out to the one: the one widow, the one orphan, the one father, the one mother. We can demonstrate the love of Christ to these dear children who have lost their parents...We can come alongside grandparents, aunts and uncles trying to raise these orphaned children. And we can comfort the sick and dying and offer them hope for a new life in Christ. We can reach out to the 'least of these.'

Jesus ends the parable of the Good Samaritan with a powerful challenge. When he asked the expert in the law which of the three men had been a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of robbers, he answers with a new understanding: 'The one who had mercy on him.'

Jesus then looks at this man and concludes what is perhaps the most powerful moral teaching in all of history with a command of just four words. Four words that reverberate through history. Four words that declare Christ's expectations of every Christian. Four words with the power to change the world.

'Go and do likewise.'