The Lord taught using a parable recorded in Luke chapter 10 that I will transpose to a slightly less modern setting (than the last post):
There was once an early member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints making his way from Nauvoo to Ramus, Illinois, in 1838. It was inadvisable for Mormons, as they were then called, to do so considering the dangerous social climate, but this man had to make the journey to receive payment for a piece of land he sold so he could feed his family for the coming winter. On the path early that morning, however, he was attacked by an angry mob, and he was left for dead on the side of the road, robbed of all that he had. Unable to move himself or call out for help due to the severity of his injuries, he laid there for a few hours before another traveler finally came by. As the passerby neared, the dying man took heart: it was a Mormon bishop from Nauvoo—surely he would be saved. But the bishop crossed over the other side of the path and did not even look his way.
“I’m sure the sheriff will deal with this drinker of strong drinks,” he thought. “I need to get going.” A faint wave of guilt washed over him, hoping this man would be okay, but he quickly told himself that he wasn’t responsible for saving the world. “They have people for that,” he thought. “It’s not my calling.”
The dying man lapsed in and out of consciousness a couple times before a local lady walked by in a rush. She was carrying a Bible, and was known in the community as a devout Christian. The beaten man thought surely she would administer to him. He tried to call out to her, but she did not help. Instead, she put her nose in the air and quickly walked away in horror and disgust. The woman had lived in southwest Illinois for years, and with the arrival of Joe Smith and his followers had seen everything decline in the last few months. What had once been a hard-working population had been overrun by religious fanatics, mobs and militiamen. Every day, she heard of more horrors in the neighborhood gossip gatherings, and it made her sick. She had once been proud to live there, but now she lived in fear. When she saw the prostrate man looking toward her, she was sure he would be begging for money to buy some more booze. She was tired of being lambasted by these welfare-dependent bums. She looked at him in disgust, angered at the way the country was going, and hurried home to her little cottage, safe with reinforced shutters on the windows and a good guard dog. She knew she shouldn’t have gone out so late in the afternoon.
Just as he was almost passing into unconsciousness for what he felt would surely be the last time, the beaten man caught a glimpse of a figure kicking up dust as he walked. He wore striped pantaloons; a linen jacket, which had not lately seen the washtub; long, greasy hair; and a scruffy beard of some years’ growth. He would have been afraid of this drunk-looking ruffian under different circumstances but he had no fear left, only a dying ember of the will to live. The approaching man, who was dressed like a Missourian, was on his way to his cousin’s wedding in nearby Carthage. He had just come off of a hard year of work down in Missouri and was looking forward to forgetting his troubles with some family and good friends. Just as he neared his destination, he noticed a man who looked like he’d been beaten nearly to death. Feeling compassion for him, he went over and gently felt his wrist. Yes, he was still breathing.
“Are you okay?” he whispered, not wanting to startle the beaten man, but he could not be roused. Though the Missourian knew he’d miss the wedding party, he began immediately to tear strips off of his linen jacket to cover some of the dying man’s wounds. He then struggled to first lift and then carry the man on his back the two miles left to Carthage. There he left the man at the house of a local doctor, and paid his fees, being sure to include extra money for the medicines and food and lodging that the wounded man would surely need during his recovery.
“How can this man find and repay you,” the doctor asked in behalf of his unconscious patient.
“Tell him not to worry about it,” the Missourian replied.
“But,” the doctor hesitated, familiar with the identity of the beaten man, “Did you know he was a Mormon?” The Missourian made no reply but stared intently toward the floor deep in thought. The doctor inquired, “If you’d known he was Mormon would you have helped him?”
“Love thine enemy,” the Missourian spoke instantly. “I’m sure anyone else would have done the same.”
Adapted from “The Biker—A Modern Day Version of the Good Samaritan Parable” by Sharilee Swaity on owlcation.com (web: https://owlcation.com/humanities/The-Unscrupulous-Lawyer; accessed 30 Mar 2019).
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