Who Is My Neighbour? Lessons from the Ditch

Micah 6:8
And what does the LORD require of you
but to act justly, to love mercy,
and to walk humbly with your God?

The parable of the Good Samaritan has long been used to honour the Samaritan’s mercy and to encourage the laity to be kind to neighbours in need. Yet for centuries this story has also been used by theologians, priests, and ministers who have not fully understood it. Some have unwittingly kept the laity in the dark; others have deliberately politicized it to serve the world’s agenda. Secular values and ideologies have crept in to exploit the Samaritan’s mercy to keep people trapped in guilt, enabling sin rather than leading to repentance. Too often the Church has fed the milk of the Gospel without substance, to cater to new believers, forgetting that the parable calls us not only to show compassion, but to turn back and see God in fourfold harmony—Father, Mother, Teacher, and Grace.

The Parable challenges not only the Advocate, the expert in the law, and those standing and passing by, with the question: Who is my neighbour? It challenges all to heed the Lord’s requirement, anchored in the words of the prophet Micah:

"And what does the LORD require of you  
but to act justly, to love mercy,  
and to walk humbly with your God?" — Micah 6:8

The parable of the Good Samaritan is not a weapon to shame or a license for reckless giving that could endanger yourself or your neighbour. It is a mirror. In the priest, the Levite, the Samaritan, and the lawyer we see ourselves—and each one, in their weakness or their strength, as neighbour.

In reply Jesus said: A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, when he was attacked by robbers. They stripped him of his clothes, beat him and went away, leaving him half dead.

A priest happened to be going down the same road, and when he saw the man, he passed by on the other side. So too, a Levite, when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side.

But a Samaritan, as he traveled, came where the man was; and when he saw him, he took pity on him. He went to him and bandaged his wounds, pouring on oil and wine. Then he put the man on his own donkey, brought him to an inn and took care of him. The next day he took out two denarii and gave them to the innkeeper. “Look after him,” he said, “and when I return, I will reimburse you for any extra expense you may have.”

“Which of these three do you think was a neighbour to the man who fell into the hands of robbers?” The expert in the law replied, “The one who had mercy on him.” Jesus told him, “Go and do likewise.”

And who is that pitied man in the ditch — is it the Lord, the Rock?
And is the Samaritan his Bride, the Advocate, who bathes his wounds with oil and wine?

The Samaritan, the Bride — holding the cup of suffering, wakes at the Rooster’s call. Yet the Lord does not seek pity.

Oh what love she bears for the Rooster, her neighbour and friend, who crows her awake. His priests and Levites stand beside him, reminding her: mercy must flow from a heart that is humble and just. She must not spend her purse to indulge dependence. She must walk humbly, wisely — and with grace.

For she is beloved — cherished by the Rooster, who is also friend to the Bridegroom. And the Bridegroom too must awaken: to remove her cup, to lift her stripes of suffering — if it be his will. For should he forsake her and tend only to himself and his purse, he will die alone.

For unless a single kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies to singleness, it remains alone. But if a man in love dies to the single life, he will rise and don the wedding garment, ready to tend his Bride’s sheep.

For the roots of covenant love run deeper than any single life — and like the ancient olive tree of Vouves in Crete, they bear witness across generations.