Dear friends in Christ,
The parable of the Good Samaritan is so familiar that it can pass us by, like the priest and the Levite passed the man on the road. But if we dare to stop—if we dare to linger within it—it has the power to reawaken something quiet and sacred within us.
“A certain man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho…”
Christ gives us no name, no face, no backstory. He is simply “a man”—a human being. Anonymous, wounded, and left for dead. It could be anyone. It is everyone. It is the stranger. It is the person we pass with indifference. It is the child hiding behind silence. It is the neighbour struggling behind their own closed door. And if we are honest, it is sometimes us.
There are times in each of our lives—whether we live in monastery, home, or hospital ward—when we have been beaten by grief, fear, or exhaustion. When we’ve been left by life at the roadside. And yet the question that comes to Jesus from the lawyer is not, “What can I do for the wounded?” but rather, “Who is my neighbour?” And Jesus answers, not with theology, but with a story.
The priest passes by. So does the Levite. Not because they are wicked, but because they are busy. Or preoccupied. Or afraid. Or perhaps they simply do not wish to see.
It is the Samaritan—a person despised by Jesus’ audience—who stops. And it is here we must pause.
He does not ask who the man is. He does not interrogate him. He does not try to solve him. He sees him. Truly sees. And he is moved to the gut with compassion.
That, dear friends, is the beginning of all true mercy—not action, but vision. To see the world as Christ sees it. To allow our hearts to be pierced by the suffering of another. Not just in distant lands, but in the one who sits across from us. In the people who wear masks of strength. In those who do not cry, but whose silence cries out.
There is a temptation, especially in our faith, to rush toward doing. But the contemplative life teaches us that love is not always loud. Sometimes it begins in stillness, in noticing, in holding the pain of the world prayerfully before God without needing to fix it.
But make no mistake—true compassion does move us. The Samaritan binds the man’s wounds, pours in oil and wine, lifts him up, and bears him to shelter.
And in the deep tradition of the Church, those actions become symbols. The oil is healing. The wine is Christ’s blood. The beast is the Cross. The inn is the Church. And the Samaritan—ah, yes—He is Christ.
Jesus is not only telling us how to behave. He is showing us who He is. The One who finds us bruised and barely breathing. The One who stoops. The One who stays. The One who bears the cost and promises to return.
And He does not come only to rescue us—He calls us to become like Him. “Go,” He says, “and do likewise.”
For those of us who live within these stone walls, this might not mean running into the street or dressing wounds in the literal sense. It means noticing the brother or sister who has grown silent. The one who is discouraged. The one whose pain is harder to see. To lift them quietly in prayer. To speak kindly. To tend the wounds of the spirit.
And for you who live in the world—in cities and villages, homes and parishes—this parable is no less vital. The Jericho road is the world around us. People lie beside it every day. Some in need of bread, some in need of listening, some in need of grace.
To be a Christian is not to pass by, no matter how inconvenient it may seem. It is to kneel beside the broken and say, you are not alone. To bind what we can. To love as Christ loves, without counting the cost.
But perhaps, before any of that, we must each allow ourselves to be found. To be seen by Christ. To let Him lift us when we cannot lift ourselves. To rest in the inn of His mercy, while He pours wine and oil into our wounds.
And so I leave you with this thought—not as a command, but as an invitation:
Let yourself be seen.
Let yourself be healed.
And when you are ready,
Go. And do likewise.
Amen.