I have sometimes wished that Jesus had been a little less specific. A general encouragement to be good would leave considerable room for interpretation, and I am ordinarily quite pleased with my interpretations. I wish people well. I dislike cruelty. I can become sincerely distressed by suffering at a distance. It is only when goodness requires something particular of me, when another person’s need interferes with an afternoon I had meant to keep for myself, that I begin to discover how many qualifications my sympathy contains.
This is an uncomfortable disposition in which to read the Gospels. One comes upon a teaching that seems admirably suited to somebody else, and has scarcely finished appreciating its relevance before finding oneself implicated. The rich should give away their possessions; the self-righteous should examine themselves; our enemies should certainly learn to love us. There is a great deal here for other people to work on. I could spend a satisfying life supervising their progress.
Yet the figure who emerges from these accounts is remarkably difficult to employ in this way. He keeps addressing the person who has come to ask the question.
