Driving through the land of the Kurds, the dust of time swirled about me. Nineveh is here and Ur there, each little more than toppled stone, fragments, and historical memory. But at my side is my driver, a Kurd. There is nothing remnant about him. He is flesh and blood, breathing, and as a Kurd, a descendant of the Medes of the Old Testament.

My driver and I entertained each other as we rode along by pointing to
things. “What is this called, what is that called?” we asked, learning words in our respective languages, stumbling over them, laughing. At dusk we pulled into a town nestled against spectacular mountains. “My brother lives here,” my new friend said. “No hotel. We stay with him.” To refuse was unthinkable.

Hot tea, a warm blanket, a palate on the floor, and a cold rinse in the courtyard in the morning was followed by walnuts for breakfast. We broke the pods with the point of a knife, and then wrapped the meat in pieces of the flat bread that is so much a staple in this part of the world.

Ish is one of the Arabic words for bread. It also means life. In breaking that bread, the phrases, “Bread of Life,” and “do this in remembrance of me,” took on new meaning.

There is so much we need to do in remembrance of Him. A little child, born into an age of uncertainty and violence not unlike our own, would grow to offer the ultimate act of hospitality. Along the way, He would remind us that beyond loving God we are to be a people of hospitality. We are to love our neighbor as ourselves.

That He chose a Samaritan for His story to illustrate this is no accident. It is a reminder that when we walk in His name we find neighbors in unexpected places among unexpected people. And in the offering of ourselves, the gospel comes one by one, like one hungry man offering another bread.