A Samaritan's Mercy

A Samaritan’s Mercy

By Alexandre-Gabriel Decamps

"‘But a Samaritan, as he journeyed, came where he was, and when he saw him he was moved with compassion. He went to him and bandaged his wounds, treating them with oil and wine. Then he put him on his own animal, brought him to an inn, and took care of him. The next day he took out two denarii, gave them to the innkeeper, and said, “Take care of him, and when I come back I will repay you whatever more you spend.”’ Which of these three, do you think, was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of the robbers?  He said, ‘The one who showed him mercy.’ Jesus said to him, ‘Go
and do likewise.’”

Luke 10:33-37

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A Jewish man lies half-dead on the road to Jericho. A priest passes by, and then a Levite. Then a Samaritan appears. An outsider, from a despised group seen as ethnically and religiously unclean, he is the last person in the story anyone expected to kneel in the dust. But instead of passing by, the Samaritan “came to where he was” and, seeing him, “had compassion on him.” The Greek word that is translated “had compassion” is splagchnizomai—a word which literally means to have one’s insides torn up. It describes something much deeper than sympathy. It’s a visceral, almost gut-wrenching, response to another person’s suffering. The word is only used in the scriptures to describe the Savior’s response to human suffering, for the father running toward his prodigal son, and here. The Samaritan did not merely observe the wounded man’s pain. He felt that pain himself, and then he acted.

Matthew Henry wrote that the Samaritan’s compassion “was not an idle compassion; he did not think it enough to say, ‘Be healed, be helped’; but, when he drew out his soul, he reached forth his hand” to the wounded man and “did all he could to ease the pain.” Alexander Maclaren likewise taught that the parable "forbids all limitations of mercy," and warned that there is little value in “emotion that does not drive the wheels of action.” True mercy does something.

J. C. Ryle taught that a disciple’s love should be “a practical love,” one that costs money and time and trouble, “seen not merely in his talking, but his acting.” The Samaritan bound up the injured man's wounds. He lifted the stranger onto his own animal. He interrupted his planned journey, carried the man to safety, stayed with him, and paid for his continuing care. As Ryle observed, “He acted as well as felt. He spared no pains or expense in befriending him.”

In so doing, he embodied St. Ambrose's beautiful definition of neighborliness: “He became a neighbor by bestowing compassion. For relationship does not make a neighbor, but compassion.” The Samaritan never asks whether the wounded man deserves his help, if the two of them share the same background and beliefs, or how the man came to be lying injured beside the road. As John Chrysostom counseled, “When you see a man suffering … do not sit in judgment on him, nor require explanations, but relieve his distress.”

In doing so, the Samaritan becomes an image of Jesus Christ. Maclaren wrote that Christ Himself is “the great pattern of the swift compassion and effectual helpfulness” of the parable, and that only after we have found in Him “the pity and the healing which we need” can we go into the world “with love as wide as His.”

We are all first, the wounded traveler. Christ finds us on the road, comes near, binds our wounds, carries us, and pays what we cannot pay. Then He says, “Go, and do thou likewise.” As Marion D. Hanks taught, “The specialty of the Savior is mercy. And he requires that we be specialists in mercy.” Our Father “delighteth in mercy” (Micah 7:18). And Christ’s invitation is wonderfully simple: “Be ye therefore merciful, as your Father also is merciful” (Luke 6:36). 

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