A hard lesson on the road to Jericho William Barlow on the day he discovered how arduous it is to walk in the footsteps of the Good Samaritan 21 November 2008
"...and a certain man went down from Jerusalem to Jericho and fell among thieves."
To me, as a child, the story of the Good Samaritan was true and, as I listened, often it seemed I was there. Years later, I more than once heard the story used in sermons as an argument against prayer because the Good Samaritan had been practical and not prayed for the man in need. By then, though, I had been on the road myself and seen, once and for all, that prayer was practical.
My fellow soldiers and I had been visiting Jerusalem from our base where Lawrence had been, travelling rough in the backs of our vehicles through what I regarded as biblical country. The journey was not without risk as we charged across the desert, but we were full of life and felt invulnerable as soldiers do until they see a comrade die, as we were to do.
I was new to the Middle East, and when my hat blew off as we descended into the Dead Sea valley, I forgot about the sun and paid no attention. Who would, with Jerusalem to look forward to? So, when the Golden Gate, through which Christ had ridden but no one since, suddenly appeared opposite us across the valley as we passed through a village, I was still hatless and, seemingly, none the worse.
That soon changed and when we reached our destination, a hotel yard, and my comrades unpacked to get into the city as quickly as they could, I was left in those comfortless surroundings lying on a straw bed and feeling very ill indeed. Suddenly, and as if from nowhere, I was befriended by some Arabs who came and knelt by me, saying, "You are the quiet one. We will help you." So, Samaritan-like, these wonderfully gentle fellow human beings started to attend to me, even offering to take me into their home.
This gave me heart and soon I rallied enough to see I hadn't crossed a desert to get to Jerusalem only to miss seeing the place. So, I sallied forth supported, at first, by two Arabs until I could risk walking alone.
The commercialism immediately put me off, as not befitting such a city but the Church of the Holy Sepulchre was no better. There, a scruffy, beared cleric was sitting by the stone said to have been rolled away from Christ's tomb, selling particles of dust from it. In the tomb itself, presumably the high point of their visit, I heard a tourists' guide say: "I don't want to stay here long." The Orthodox decor, reeking of religion, appalled me as being life-denying and I quickly departed, though not regretting having come to the place where, after all, the Saviour had actually been. That did mean something.
The Church of the Ascension, if that is what it was, had nothing in it to feel pious about. An obviously neglected, rather empty place with nothing about it to indicate what it was, even that it was a church, apart from its shape, contained in its centre a rock protruding from the ground. This was said to be the place from which Christ had ascended to heaven and, to prove it, I was shown an indentation on the rock, said to be the imprint of Christ's foot. I left not knowing what to think.
By the time we left Jerusalem I had seen enough to remind me that this was where Christ had been and that made the journey worthwhile. Now I looked forward, once more, to travelling down that very road Christ had spoken of in the parable of the Good Samaritan before we headed home by a different route.
The scenery was compelling as before, the vastness of the desert seeming to abolish time. There was no movement anywhere to suggest life yet the stillness was such as to make one think about life.
No wonder the Desert Fathers went there to find God, nor surprising indeed that some appeared to have found Him. Or was it that He was able to find them? I cannot forget being alone there myself, on guard at night, in remote places yet just able to hear, at times, in the distance, a solitary bagpiper playing our regimental lights out "Oft in the stilly night". There, in the silence Moses must have heard as he passed that way, I would look up into the same deep Arabian night where stars littered the sky like precious stones strewn across the floor of a looted oriental palace.
To get a good view I was standing on a toolbox to the left, behind the driver's cab. Another soldier, with whom I had made friends, was sitting on the canopy to my right. Suddenly, something told me to jump and even before I landed, the truck was disappearing sideways over the hillside. I immediately followed, scrambling down the rough ground and attending firstly to an injured comrade. When I reached the truck, I saw, for the first time, what crazy things can happen to the human body when it is badly injured.
It was my friend and he was almost unrecognisable, his face so badly swollen. I quickly joined the others who were desperately trying to lift the three-ton vehicle. It seemed the only practical thing to do. I was wrong, for my friend knew that he was dying believing, no doubt, that none but God could help him. But he, too, was wrong and as he cried out "God help me", a young sergeant, not known for having any religious beliefs, saw the need and immediately crawled up alongside the injured man to whisper the Saviour's Name, the last words he would hear in this world, and it was, truly, the only practical thing to do.
This happened just beyond the road leading from Jerusalem to Jericho and it was there I learned a lesson about prayer. I shall never forget it.
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