A donkey limped along the dusty road that led from Jerusalem to Jericho, its worn hooves kicking up little clouds of red dirt. I walked beside it, holding the reins gently, trying not to think about the bruised and bloodied man slumped across its back.
My name is Elias. I grew grapes outside Jericho, near the Samaritan border. Most folks like me kept to themselves. We didn’t have status like the priests—men who served in the temple and taught our laws. We weren’t like the Levites, either—the ones who helped the priests and were respected in every town. And certainly, we were nothing like the Samaritans, whom everyone around here tried to avoid.
But that day, I saw something no one in Jericho would believe. I saw who helped—and who didn’t.
It started early, when the air was still crisp. I’d gone into Jerusalem to sell wine and see my cousin, who served at the outer temple gate. On the way home, I walked carefully—everyone knew that stretch of road was dangerous. Thieves waited behind rocks, especially in those tight turns near the cliffs.
That’s where I heard the groan.
It was a terrible sound, like someone trying to breathe and cry at the same time. I crept closer and saw him: a Jewish man lying face-down in the dirt. His outer robe had been torn. Blood matted his curls. One sandal was missing, and his fingers grasped at nothing—like he’d tried to hold on to his life, but it was slipping from him fast.
I should’ve run. But my feet didn’t move.
Just then, I heard footsteps. A priest. At first, I felt a wave of relief. He’d know what to do.
But when he saw the man, the priest paused—only for a second—and then hurried by, crossing to the other side of the road. I stared at his back as he disappeared around the bend. Maybe he was afraid. Maybe he didn’t want to be blamed. Maybe he didn’t want to become unclean by touching a possibly dead man. I didn’t know.
Later, a Levite came—a young one, wearing the white sash showing his role. He saw the man too. Slowed. Then sped up and kept walking.
That was when I started to believe the man would die.
I don’t know how long I stood there, watching life drain from him. Long enough that my hands started to tremble. And then, hooves again. But slower this time.
A man riding a donkey stopped beside me. His clothes were worn differently. Not like ours.
A Samaritan.
I opened my mouth to warn him—Jews and Samaritans didn’t mix. Their people worship differently, and long ago they broke from our nation. Ever since, we’ve blamed each other—and stayed apart.
But he didn’t need warning.
He had already climbed down, knelt beside the injured man, and touched his face with careful fingers.
“Is he alive?” I asked.
He only nodded, then reached for his water and slowly poured a few drops between the man’s cracked lips.
He used oil to ease the bleeding, wine to clean the wounds. Then, without hesitating, he lifted the man onto his donkey and handed me the reins.
“I’ll walk,” he said. “You guide him. We’re taking him to safety.”
“But… he’s Jewish. You’re…” I couldn’t finish the sentence.
“I know.” His voice wasn’t angry. Just steady. “That’s why I’m stopping.”
We walked in silence all the way to Jericho. At the inn, the Samaritan paid extra—enough to keep the man fed and sheltered for days. Before he left, he turned to me.
“Take care of him if he wakes before I return.”
I nodded. I couldn’t speak.
Something changed in me that day. Not just because someone lived—but because someone loved, when no one else did. Not the priest. Not the Levite. But a stranger. An outsider.
That day, I stopped judging by where someone came from. I started looking at what they did.
And I’ve never walked past a hurting person since.
What the Samaritan did wasn’t just kindness—it was courage. The kind that changes hearts.
Mine was the first one.
A donkey limped along the dusty road that led from Jerusalem to Jericho, its worn hooves kicking up little clouds of red dirt. I walked beside it, holding the reins gently, trying not to think about the bruised and bloodied man slumped across its back.
My name is Elias. I grew grapes outside Jericho, near the Samaritan border. Most folks like me kept to themselves. We didn’t have status like the priests—men who served in the temple and taught our laws. We weren’t like the Levites, either—the ones who helped the priests and were respected in every town. And certainly, we were nothing like the Samaritans, whom everyone around here tried to avoid.
But that day, I saw something no one in Jericho would believe. I saw who helped—and who didn’t.
It started early, when the air was still crisp. I’d gone into Jerusalem to sell wine and see my cousin, who served at the outer temple gate. On the way home, I walked carefully—everyone knew that stretch of road was dangerous. Thieves waited behind rocks, especially in those tight turns near the cliffs.
That’s where I heard the groan.
It was a terrible sound, like someone trying to breathe and cry at the same time. I crept closer and saw him: a Jewish man lying face-down in the dirt. His outer robe had been torn. Blood matted his curls. One sandal was missing, and his fingers grasped at nothing—like he’d tried to hold on to his life, but it was slipping from him fast.
I should’ve run. But my feet didn’t move.
Just then, I heard footsteps. A priest. At first, I felt a wave of relief. He’d know what to do.
But when he saw the man, the priest paused—only for a second—and then hurried by, crossing to the other side of the road. I stared at his back as he disappeared around the bend. Maybe he was afraid. Maybe he didn’t want to be blamed. Maybe he didn’t want to become unclean by touching a possibly dead man. I didn’t know.
Later, a Levite came—a young one, wearing the white sash showing his role. He saw the man too. Slowed. Then sped up and kept walking.
That was when I started to believe the man would die.
I don’t know how long I stood there, watching life drain from him. Long enough that my hands started to tremble. And then, hooves again. But slower this time.
A man riding a donkey stopped beside me. His clothes were worn differently. Not like ours.
A Samaritan.
I opened my mouth to warn him—Jews and Samaritans didn’t mix. Their people worship differently, and long ago they broke from our nation. Ever since, we’ve blamed each other—and stayed apart.
But he didn’t need warning.
He had already climbed down, knelt beside the injured man, and touched his face with careful fingers.
“Is he alive?” I asked.
He only nodded, then reached for his water and slowly poured a few drops between the man’s cracked lips.
He used oil to ease the bleeding, wine to clean the wounds. Then, without hesitating, he lifted the man onto his donkey and handed me the reins.
“I’ll walk,” he said. “You guide him. We’re taking him to safety.”
“But… he’s Jewish. You’re…” I couldn’t finish the sentence.
“I know.” His voice wasn’t angry. Just steady. “That’s why I’m stopping.”
We walked in silence all the way to Jericho. At the inn, the Samaritan paid extra—enough to keep the man fed and sheltered for days. Before he left, he turned to me.
“Take care of him if he wakes before I return.”
I nodded. I couldn’t speak.
Something changed in me that day. Not just because someone lived—but because someone loved, when no one else did. Not the priest. Not the Levite. But a stranger. An outsider.
That day, I stopped judging by where someone came from. I started looking at what they did.
And I’ve never walked past a hurting person since.
What the Samaritan did wasn’t just kindness—it was courage. The kind that changes hearts.
Mine was the first one.
