From the Relief Society Magazine, October 1966 –

The Good Samaritan

By Becky Dawn Wood

I was returning from Jerusalem to my home in Jericho. I had just spent a very successful month selling my wares.

My business takes me to our magnificent city of Jerusalem about four times a year. There, the rich Sadducee women welcome my coming, for they delight in seeing the latest patterns and textures of materials, some of which I import from Egypt and lands beyond Decapolis. The wives of Roman officers, who abound in this city and who are used to the fineries of Rome, thrill when I have for them to drape upon their shoulders that strange sheer cloth through which one can see.

In all humbleness, I am quite a well-to-do cloth merchant. I travel all over the land of Judea selling my cloth and rugs to anyone from peasant woman to nobleman’s lady.

Sometimes, I even venture to the coastal city of Caesarea which lies in Samaria. Of course on these journeys I always travel by ship, for never would I tread over that foul and unsafe land of the corrupt Samaritans. But the market is so good in Caesarea that I am almost forced to make these rare visitations. I must tell you that my wares decorate the summer homes of many high Roman officials who vacation there.

My caravan, which consists of eight donkeys, two servants, three guards, and myself, was traveling on the dusty road to Jericho when a centurion and his company of an hundred soldiers joined us. I learned from the centurion that they were on their way to the borderland of Samaria and Judea to stop some fighting that had broken out between the Jews and Samaritans.

Although thieves were few, because of Rome’s oppressive measures, and it was almost safe to travel alone, I inquired of the centurion if my caravan might go with his army as far as Jericho, to which he consented.

We traveled until the sun was no longer burning upon us and the sky had grown faintly dim. The centurion called his soldiers to a halt and informed me that they would spend the night at the village which we were approaching. To this reasonable suggestion, I readily agreed.

The soldiers would camp that night in the town square, my servants would sleep in the stables in order to watch over the donkeys, and I decided to spend the night at the only inn that the small village afforded for the convenience of weary travelers. The people of the wayside town were used to Roman soldiers and caravans, so our arrival caused little commotion, and life in the town went on as if no outsiders had come.

I was up in my room washing the dust from my feet and getting myself ready to eat the evening meal when, beneath my window, I heard awful groans — like groans of the dying. In the fading light I beheld two men. One was sitting on a donkey and resting his head on the mane. He was wrapped with crude bandages, and his excruciating pain was made apparent by his frequent moaning. The other man was leading the beast and now was inquiring of the innkeeper for a place to stay. Everything about this man told me he was a hated Samaritan — his clothes, his looks, his speech, but not his manners. Samaritans always stand out in this land of the Jews. Overcome by curiosity, I went downstairs to discover the Samaritan’s purpose and that of his hurt companion.

I listened intently as he explained to the innkeeper, “Sir, I need a room where this man can stay and rest until he has regained his strength. I found him by the roadside. He had been robbed and also badly beaten by thieves. He needs good care and food. I will pay you well if you will attend to him while he recovers.”

I watched as the innkeeper agreed to the bargain, and the Samaritan paid him much more than enough to cover the charges. He then mounted his donkey and rode off into the night toward his native Samaria.

I helped the innkeeper carry the wounded man to a room. In the morning I sent word to the centurion that I had decided to remain in the village for a few days and for him to go on without me.

I stayed in the town until the unfortunate man had recovered from his afflictions. One day he told me that he was planning to leave the next morning, and then he related the story, which I had been eager to hear, of his misfortune.

“Being out of work I had left Jerusalem when I heard of the fighting between the Jews and Samaritans in the borderland, and planned to travel to Jericho where I might help in this war against the Samaritans. As I journeyed, five men fell upon me. They beat me and took my money, all I had left in this world. I lay almost lifeless upon the ground and cursed them, who had left me there to die.

“I lay there for a long time, not having the power to rise, when I heard footsteps. I raised my eyes and saw a priest approaching, but when he saw that I had been attacked by robbers he passed by on the other side of the road. Later, another came, a Levite, and he also ignored my need for help and passed by. Then came the Samaritan you saw, who bound my wounds with rags he made of his own clothing and brought me here. Now that I am better I am going back to Jerusalem.”

“Back to Jerusalem? Then you are not going on to Jericho?” I asked.

“No, for that Samaritan has taught me a lesson I cannot forget. I have heard some people in Jerusalem speak of a great leader who comes from Nazareth and performs many wonderful miracles and teaches of God’s love for all men, Samaritans as well as Jews. I am going back to Jerusalem to find the whereabouts of the great One and become one of his disciples.”

He left the next morning, walking with the aid of a staff towards Jerusalem.

Then I went out among the people of the village. I gave silver coins to the blind man who sat in the shade of the stone wall and begged. I gave to the small children who chased a white goat through the streets some black licorice, purchased from the vendors in Jerusalem.

I thought to myself, that on my next visit to Jerusalem, I, too, would inquire of this great One — this Nazarene.