Parable of the Good Samaritan
Highway 1 between Jerusalem and Jericho is a well-maintained four-lane road, not quite twenty miles of scenic drive lined with rocky cliffs, running through narrow passes along the ridge of the Wadi Qelt gorge.
A path through the gorge, the road Jesus walked, is shorter, steeper, and narrow, a path punctuated by blind curves and deep caves. Even so, that ancient route connected Jerusalem to major trade routes and was well traveled by caravans, the Roman military, and the people of God going back and forth to the Temple Mount. Ergo, it was a haven for bandits.
It became known as the “Ascent of Blood.” To travel alone there was an invitation to be robbed, or even killed. Hearing of a man getting ambushed on the Jericho road wasn't unusual.
But when Jesus told the story, it got interesting.
The Parable of the Good Samaritan
“A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and fell into the hands of robbers, who stripped him, beat him up, and went off, leaving him half dead. Now by chance a priest was going down that road, but when he saw the injured man he passed by on the other side.” (Luke 10:30-31)
The priest was likely going home after a week of serving in the temple. He likely lived, as did thousands of other priests and temple workers, in the warmer, wealthy city of Jericho, 3000 feet below, and traveled up the mountain for his tour of duty twice a year and for the major feasts. At the end of his service, he’d take off his robes and descend.
Though he disrobed and returned to farming or a trade, he remained a priest, bound by the strictest laws of purity. If he went near a dead body — unless it was family — he became ritually unclean. Not only would he have to undergo a grueling purification process, he would be quarantined, kept away from everyone. No family, no friends, no home-cooked meals for another week.
If the man on the road was dead, principles of human dignity might allow him to set aside the purity laws to bury the body, but this priest decided not to get any closer. He squeezed by.
Then came a Levite. He stopped, looked, and considered. Did he see the form moving, breathing? We don’t know, but we know he moved on.
To assume they were heartless men may be harsh. Concerned for purity? Possibly. Not wanting to be inconvenienced? More likely.
More familiar.
Martin Luther King, Jr. suggested something we may not have considered: maybe they were scared. If that had been the fate of the traveler before, what might happen to them?
The Triad
Jewish stories often have three main characters. Like our jokes: “An Englishman, an Irishman, and a Scotsman walked into a bar…” Only for the Israelites, the three were a priest, a Levite, and a regular guy.
The Scriptures make it clear Jesus told this parable to an expert in the law, but if others were listening, they likely expected that third character to be someone like them: a common Jew. The priest and the Levite were the set-ups in the story; they would be the heroes.
Except they weren’t. A Samaritan was.
The Gospels hint at the tension between the Jews and the Samaritans, but the animosity ran much deeper than a regional rivalry or tribal prejudice.
The Old Testament exposes the depth of their hostility.
The History
After northern Israel was invaded by the Assyrians and its select citizens were deported, the Assyrians imported captives from other nations, and the genetic lines of the ten tribes were corrupted. The Judeans no longer considered them children of Israel; instead, they became known as “Samaritans.”
When the descendants of the southern tribes returned from their captivity, they refused to let the Samaritans help rebuild their temple. As a later repercussion, the Samaritans opposed the rebuilding of Jerusalem’s walls.
The Samaritans established their own temple on Mt. Gerizim, held to their own version of the Torah, and rejected the other sacred writings.
The estrangement became irreparable. In coming years, Judean leader Hyrcanus decimated the Samaritans’ temple on Mt. Gerizim, and the Samaritans littered the courtyard of Jerusalem’s temple with human bones.
So now, perhaps, it is clearer why the Samaritans refused to let Jesus and his company pass through their village on his way to Jerusalem, and why James and John asked if they could call fire down (Luke 9:52–55). The Sons of Thunder were simply expressing the desire of most Judeans. The Samaritans weren’t simply social outcasts. They were the most hated of people.
This — a Samaritan being introduced into the story — was shocking enough. What followed was scandalous.
Especially given the occasion.
Context
Luke chapter 10 indicates Jesus told “the parable of the Good Samaritan” when an expert in the law came to test him. This word for “test” doesn’t necessarily indicate hostility, but simply that he wanted to “probe” Jesus for an answer. He may not have been trying to set a trap, as many Pharisees and scribes did. He may have been dealing with feelings of guilt; who knows? As the conversation continued, it does sound like the expert wanted an answer for his own benefit.
“What must I do to inherit eternal life?” he asked.
The form of the word he used for “do” (poiēsas) indicates a one-time action. He wanted that kind of answer. What single action could he take to “check the box”?
Jesus redirected: “How do you read it?” In other words, “What does it mean to you?” The expert knew the pat answer well.
“You shall love the Lord your God” was the foundation of the first commandment and was repeated every evening and morning as part of the Shema, and “love your neighbor as yourself”—Leviticus 19:18—summarized commandments five through ten.
Jesus’ response: “Do this, and you will live.”
Jesus used the word for “do” in a form that indicated ongoing action (poiei). “Keep on loving God and keep on loving your neighbor.”
That’s a little harder box to check.
“But the expert, wanting to justify himself, said to Jesus, ‘And who is my neighbor?’” (Luke 10:29)
That tells us a lot. Ask the question, “Who is my neighbor?” and you’re also asking, “Who is not?” This man didn’t want a definition; he wanted a limit.
As a man who knew the Scriptures inside and out, he knew the command to love others went beyond loving the people next door or his fellow countrymen. Because, just a few commands later, the Law commanded this:
“The resident foreigner who lives with you must be to you as a native citizen among you; so you must love the foreigner as yourself, because you were foreigners in the land of Egypt.” (Leviticus 19:34)
That kind of love stretched beyond the expert’s sight.
So Jesus tells the story of the Good Samaritan.
Characters
The body lying on the side of the road is “a man.” No identity given. Not family or tribe. Naked, his clothes give no clue to his ethnicity, his social status, or his trade. This man could be anyone. Just a body in the dust. Jesus stripped him of every classification the expert, or anyone listening, might use to decide if the abandoned qualified for compassion.
Only one thing is sure: He is dying.
Here comes the priest. He’s had a hard seven days, sacrificing animals, cleaning ashes from the altar. Next, the Levite, who’s dealt with people all week, looked after the priests, and picked up animal poo. Their theology gave them an excuse to ignore someone else’s need. They could keep walking and justify any guilt they felt for ignoring their greater responsibility.
Then comes the Samaritan. If the man lying there bleeding is an Israelite, what could be the consequences for him entering their “space”? How might his own people respond? What if the bandits were still nearby?
Three men. Same opportunity. Subject to the same questions any average human being might entertain.
Where is the line? How far does my obligation extend? Who can I ignore without guilt?
But the Samaritan “was moved with compassion.” His heart arrested him before his mind excused him.
Compassion
The Greek word Luke used for “compassion” here literally means “to be moved in one’s gut,” the seat of deep emotion—the kind of emotion where the body reacts before the mind has time to process.
This kind of compassion is expressed eleven times in the New Testament. In three parables: when a master forgave his desperate servant’s debt, when a father saw his prodigal son coming home, and here, on the dusty road to Jericho. The other eight times, it speaks of the heart of Jesus.
This compassion doesn’t observe suffering from a safe distance; it enters into it. The Samaritan felt what Jesus felt; he was moved to the rescue, no matter the cost.
He made direct physical contact with a bleeding stranger. He poured his own oil and wine on the man’s wounds. He gave up his mount to carry the man, making himself more vulnerable to attack. He delayed his own business to spend the night caring for a man he didn’t know, then left an open tab for other expenses the innkeeper would incur.
“Who do you think was the neighbor?” Jesus asked. Who acted in obedience to the heart of the Law? The carriers of the Law, or the Samaritan, whose laws were corrupted?
The expert, it seems, couldn’t bring himself to say it. He simply answered, “the one.”
He had asked, “Who is my neighbor?” Jesus didn’t answer; instead, he gave him the opportunity to consider: Would he be ‘the one’?
Parable or possibility?
Were the priest and the Levite cruel men, or simply cautious people with reasons? Remove them from the over-the-top situation of the parable, and really, they’re just so normal.
The Samaritan was a man who had more than reasons; he had compassion. He, too, was just a character in a parable; it was the listener's choice whether that’s all he would remain, or whether he would take on their flesh.
Like a lot of Jesus’ parables, this one was left open-ended. We don’t know if the expert went away considering the story. If whatever prompted his question was resolved. If “loving his neighbor” became a life of compassion or remained a box to check.
I think it’s meant to be that way. It’s left for us to decide.
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