The Rich Samaritan

Rev. Michael J.V. Clark • July 26, 2025

“No-one would remember the Good Samaritan if he’d only had good intentions - he had money as well.”


Jesus uses parables to explain deep truths - things that we need to mull over for a long time; things we need to keep coming back to. The word means to throw alongside - it’s the same root as the ‘parabolic’ in a parabolic curve - the kind you don’t want to see in your 401k. You could think of it as a boomerang - instead of giving a direct answer that you might forget, the Lord paints a vivid picture with a memorable story, so you can keep returning to the ideas again, and again. It’s the perfect strategy. But there’s a risk.


Parables, you see, have multiple layers. There’s a superficial reading, perhaps one or two slightly deeper readings, and then there’s the core teaching, which makes all the little details in the story sparkle like diamonds. Only then can you say you have received what the Lord wished to convey. So let me disavow you of the superficial interpretation: the moral of the story is not simply: “be kind to people in need” - that is the most basic teaching, and does not need a parable to convince you of its suitability. Indeed, the Lord teaches this directly on multiple occasions: e.g. “love one another, as I have loved you.” It’s not about being kind. 


So what is it about?


Well, to understand a parable, you need to pick it apart, and see the details. There are many, but let us concentrate on a handful:


  1. The traveler’s direction: from Jerusalem to Jericho
  2. The traveler is described as “a certain man” - anthropós tís
  3. The Samaritan is wealthy and generous
  4. He uses oil and wine to minister to him
  5. He takes him to an Inn
  6. He gives two denarii.
  7. He will return


The traveler’s direction is important. Although a journey of merely 18 miles, it involves a descent of 3439 feet to the lowest city on Earth. Jericho is 864 feet below sea level, whereas Jerusalem is on a high mountain. Jericho, in this sense, represents hell - the bowels of the Earth. Man has turned his back on Jerusalem, where the presence of God tabernacles among men, and instead is journeying into the pit. He’s going the wrong way - and thus the victim is not entirely innocent. He is in a bad place because of his previous bad choices.


The Greek word for man here is very broad. Almost every interpretation of this parable assumes that the man going to Jericho is a Jew - and therefore the parable is all about Jews receiving mercy from their despised enemies, the Samaritans. That is there by implication - remember there are multiple layers of meaning - but to conclude this about the parable you have subconsciously imported a detail which is not explicitly there. The parable takes on a very different vibe if the robber’s victim was also a Samaritan, doesn’t it? Who’s to say he isn’t? The Lord just tells us it was a certain man - an everyman. The robber’s victim is you - and me. 


The Samaritan represents someone who is entirely different from us - he is not our friend. He is a foreigner in this land - and he is extraordinarily generous and wealthy. The quotation I began with is from the late Margaret Thatcher, quondam Prime Minister of the United Kingdom. She was manipulating the parable to make a different point - that wealth generation enables us to be charitable. She’s not entirely wrong there, but she misses the point. We don’t actually know why the Samaritan is wealthy - we’re not told he is hard working - it’s just supremely obvious he is able to flash the cash however he chooses.


Note carefully the mention of tending the victim’s wounds with oil and wine. What does that remind you of? Who else do you know of that uses oil, and wine, to heal people’s wounds? Maybe the picture is becoming clearer…but let’s move on.


Next, the Samaritan uses his beast (redolent of the Sacrifice of Isaac on Mount Moriah) to take the victim to an Inn. This is not an irrelevant detail. I have told you before whenever you come across a ‘hapax legomenon’ - a word that is only used once in the Bible - it should scream out at you. Here is such a feature - the word, pandokíon is only found here in Luke’s Gospel. It is a construction from the word pas, meaning ‘all,’ and dechomi, which is the verb to receive. The Samaritan, having tended to the victim’s wounds with oil and wine, takes him personally to a place that receives all. What kind of a place might that be?


The Samaritan, we are told, cannot stay with the victim. He must go away, but he tells the innkeeper he will return, and gives him two denarii to cover expenses. Again, the two denarii are important. A denarius was a single Roman coin. It represents a day’s wages, and thus symbolically, a day. The Samaritan is the one who makes arrangements for two days only. He must return on the third day.


I hope by now the details are coming together to give an accurate picture of who the Samaritan is. It is, of course, Christ himself, and the parable is all about man’s need to receiving the healing that only he can provide and only he can pay for. As St. Teresa of Calcutta once said to a wealthy donor: God has lots of money. But the Samaritan has a place to take us - an Inn, which receives all, and is staffed by people he entrusts to look after us until he returns. This Inn is, of course, the Church. Only here can the oil and wine of Christ’s Sacraments be administered with his authority to raise us up when we find ourselves half-dead on the road to hell. 


Margaret Thatcher was right that the Samaritan had both good intentions, and resources, but she failed to spot the sting in the tail. The Lord says at the end: ‘go, and do likewise.’ This is impossible. No-one has the purity of intention or abundance of resources to do what the Samaritan does. Oh no. Instead, ‘go, and do likewise’ is an invitation to assist him in doing it. 


Only he will not pass by on the other side; only he will move towards the victim who got himself into a mess by turning away from God; only he has the oil and wine; only he will return on the third day. But there’s a final question. When the Samaritan goes away for three days, where is he going? Well, since man had set out on the road to hell, someone had to complete the journey. The Samaritan is the only one who could go to hell…and back. 


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Ask, Seek, Knock

By Rev. Michael J.V. Clark • July 26, 2025
“ Father, I pray all the time and God doesn’t answer me .” I want to say something this week about prayer - and in particular what we can expect of God if we pray. The Gospel message looks superficially simple: ask, seek, knock - and a promise that everyone will be satisfied if they do so. Have we been set up for disappointment? Does God only do this for certain people? Is it a promise without conditions? Well, the Lord answers that question: If you then, who are wicked, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will the Father in heaven give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him? The simple answer is that God, who is supremely good, will not give bad gifts to us, his children, so there is a condition to the triple injunction: ask, seek, knock. The condition is connected to God’s goodness. Imagine if it were another way. Imagine God simply did our bidding, like a genie in a lamp, granting whatever wish we ask for - what would ensue would be chaotic - no-one would have any stability upon which to base future decisions: or, in other words, we would no longer be free to act, and morality would be emptied of all its content. You could be walking over the Brooklyn Bridge, and, surprise, it disappears and you fall into the East River, just because someone else prayed that God would remove it. “ But I would only ask for good things ” - the boast is poor. If that were so, you would become the first benevolent dictator the world has ever seen. To have every wish granted just for the asking would give us limitless power. J. R. R. Tolkein illustrates this beautifully in his famous trilogy when the Elven Queen of Lothlorien, Galadriel, is offered the one ring: ‘You are wise and fearless and fair, Lady Galadriel,’ said Frodo. ‘I will give you the One Ring, if you ask for it. It is too great a matter for me.’ Galadriel laughed with a sudden clear laugh. ‘Wise the Lady Galadriel may be,’ she said, ‘yet here she has met her match in courtesy. […] And now at last it comes. You will give me the Ring freely! In place of the Dark Lord you will set up a Queen. And I shall not be dark, but beautiful and terrible as the Morning and the Night! Fair as the Sea and the Sun and the Snow upon the Mountain! Dreadful as the Storm and the Lightning! Stronger than the foundations of the earth. All shall love me and despair!’ Galadriel contemplates the possibility of limitless power - and recognizes it for what it is - a test. Having passed the test, she must depart. In a nutshell, that’s the story of Redemption. You see, remaining holy if one were omnipotent is only possible for God, not for man. Our motives are mixed because our perspective is limited. Not only can we not pray as we ought, we cannot see what good we need, either. So why doesn’t Jesus say: ask for good things, seek for good things, knock on good doors? Well, he does, actually. The disciples clearly catch him praying when they beg him to teach them how to pray like John taught his disciples. He teaches them the perfect prayer: the Lord’s Prayer. You will notice the text is slightly reduced from Matthew’s version which we learn in the cradle. It is distilled to the bare essentials - and the first petition is hallowed be your name. We say this line so frequently - and by selecting the antiquarian verb, hallow, which in every other context has been entirely replaced by its synonym, sanctify - the meaning often escapes us. It is really rather odd. Its passive construction tells us that we are not the ones doing the hallowing - God is the one who hallows himself, and we merely recognize it. When we pray, we recognize that God isn’t a genie in a lamp, but instead has a plan for our salvation, the includes working through sufferings. 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A Tale of Flesh and Spirit: The Parable of the Prodigal Son

By Rev. Michael J. V. Clark • July 3, 2025
Today’s parable, most commonly referred to as the Parable of the Prodigal Son, found in Luke 15:11-32, is often celebrated as a compelling illustration of God’s boundless mercy. The image of the father running to embrace his wayward son upon his return from a life of dissipation is a powerful testament to divine forgiveness. Yet, while this aspect of the story rightly captivates our attention, there is another dimension to the parable worth exploring: the contrast between two categories of sin—sins of the flesh, and sins of the spirit—as embodied by the two brothers. By shifting our focus, particularly to the older son, we uncover a deeper truth about human nature and the subtle dangers that threaten our relationship with God. But first a little theological anthropology. Human beings are a composite of body and soul, a union that gives rise to dual inclinations. On one hand, we are drawn to material comforts which satisfy the body—money, food, and physical pleasures—temptations we might call "beastly" because they align with the instincts we share with irrational beasts. On the other hand, we are also susceptible to spiritual temptations—for example, envy, prestige, or the desire for praise—which we might term "angelical" because they reflect the higher, immaterial aspect of our nature, akin to the spiritual beings created by God we commonly call, angels. All types of sin are serious, but the Parable of the Prodigal Son suggests that the angelical sins, exemplified by the older son, pose a greater peril precisely because of their clandestine nature. The younger son’s story is familiar: he demands his inheritance, squanders it in reckless indulgence, and eventually returns home humbled and repentant. His sins are of the flesh—self-evident and tangible. When his material resources run dry, he comes to his senses, recognizing the emptiness of his pursuits. His contrition is visible, his pathology clear, and thus, his return to the father is straightforward. He has chosen immediate gratification over lasting good, but his crisis forces him to confront this mistake, opening the door to reconciliation. The older son, however, presents a more complex figure. Note he too receives his inheritance (so Scripture is careful to stress he has not been cheated) but he remains in his father’s house, outwardly obedient and dutiful. Yet, when the father celebrates the younger son’s return, the older son’s reaction reveals a cankerous, and deeply sinful heart. He accuses his father, saying, “Look, these many years I have served you, and I never disobeyed your command, yet you never gave me a young goat, that I might celebrate with my friends. But when this son of yours came, who has devoured your property with prostitutes, you killed the fattened calf for him!” (Luke 15:29-30). His words betray a relationship with his father built not on love, but on a transactional sense of duty. He does not even call the prodigal one “my brother” but “this son of yours,” distancing himself both from his sibling and the father’s mercy. He is the great accuser, adding salacious detail to the narrative of which the father was previously unaware, as if that might revoke his mercy. Pope Francis, in his Angelus address on March 22nd 2022, highlights this flaw: “The elder son bases his relationship with his Father solely on pure observance of commands, on a sense of duty. This could also be our problem… losing sight that he is a Father, and living a distant religion, made of prohibitions and duties.” The consequence is a rigidity that blinds the older son to the familial bond he should share with his brother. His refusal to join the celebration— “he refused to go in” (v. 28)—symbolizes a self-imposed exile from the father’s love, driven by pride and bitterness, but one that is interior. Outwardly, all is well; inwardly it is a mess. Pope Benedict XVI, in Jesus of Nazareth , notes that for such people as the older son: “Their bitterness toward God’s goodness reveals an inward bitterness regarding their own obedience… In their heart of hearts, they would have gladly journeyed out into that great ‘freedom’ as well. There is an unspoken envy of what others have been able to get away with.” The older son’s obedience, though outwardly impeccable, is hollow. He has renounced immediate pleasures but he is angry about it. He harbors resentment, envying his brother’s escapades while clinging to a self-righteous sense of grievance. This contrast reveals a profound truth: sins of the spirit, like pride and envy, are actually harder to root out than sins of the flesh. The younger son’s dissipation is obvious and, in a sense, easier to treat because it is exposed by its consequences. He knows he has done wrong and seeks forgiveness. The older son, however, is more pitiable. His sin is hidden, masked by his adherence to rules, and he feels no need for repentance. He believes he is in the right, yet his heart is further from the father’s than his brother’s ever was. As St. Paul writes, “If I have faith to move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing” (1 Corinthians 13:2). Without love, even the most rigorous obedience is empty, and profits us nothing. Our Lord underscores this in his teaching elsewhere: “The prostitutes and tax collectors are entering the kingdom of God ahead of you” (Matthew 21:31), he warns the scribes and Pharisees—those who, like the older son, reduce faith to a rule-based system. Obviously, the Lord does not condone the antics of prostitutes, or tax collectors, but he does note that their repentance is more sincere. Christianity is not a checklist of obligations but a call to transformation: not “tell me what I must do,” but “tell me what I must be.” One in which the past does not govern the future. The father in the parable goes out to both sons, offering love and reconciliation, yet only one accepts it fully. The younger son’s childish faith falters under temptation but matures through repentance. The older son’s faith, equally immature, cannot cope with the reconciliation of sinners, trapping him in a cycle of judgment and isolation. The enduring legacy of Pope Francis’s pontificate may well be his challenge to this hypocrisy—calling out those who cling to regulations while secretly judging others in their hearts. We must repent of both types of sin, of course. The prodigal’s excess is not excused, but his visible struggle allows for a clearer path to healing. The older son’s spiritual cancer, rooted in pride, not unlike Satan and the fallen angels, is more treacherous because it festers unseen. It is a basic fact of pathology that a hidden infection is more difficult to treat. To live as true children of the Father, we must move beyond mere duty, embracing a faith grounded in love—for God, and for our brothers and sisters, prodigal or not. Only then can we recognize that the Father’s mercy is pure gift; entirely unmerited. He wishes to dress us with robe, ring, and sandals, but we cannot ever deserve it. To be like God is to be extravagantly generous, to give until the pips squeak, and to rejoice at the reconciliation of sinners.