The Jericho Road

The sun burns your forehead as you walk the Jericho Road, better known as “the bloody way.” You hurry past a cave in the rocky mountainside and wonder, yet again, why you took this way. This road holds as many caves and cracks as stories to fill them—stories of thieves and robbers, muggers and murderers. Every crevice large enough to hold a man is a threat.

Your pace increases. You’re not far from Jericho. Dirt rubs between your sandaled toes with each step, but you don’t stop. You can’t stop, not until you’re safe. You don’t want to add to the reputation of this road.

A shadow moves from behind a boulder ahead. Your heart leaps into double-speed, but before you can run men surround you. 

“No,” you whisper in dread, thinking, How could I have been so foolish? I should have known this would happen.

Chaos hits. 

Jeers and laughter attack your ears like the clubs that suddenly pound your body. You cry out for help and struggle against them, but the thieves throw you to the ground. You scramble for a footing, but hands shove you down and pull your bag from your tight grip. Muscles seem useless against their numbers—your every attempt at defense is met with brutal beating.

They yank your clothing from your body. You don’t have time to curl up for protection before they assail your flesh with kicks and blows. You plead for relief. They increase their attack, stripping you of even your sandals. Blood obscures your vision. You’re shaking. You can’t think straight, you can’t breathe.

They leave.

Eerie silence follows, broken only by your groans and gasps. Time creeps by in agonizing minutes. Your thoughts are too blurred to even pray. Suddenly, hustling footsteps reach your ears. You tense in a mixture of terror and hope.

They’re back, you think with dread, but you dare to crack open your swollen eyes. Squinting against the burning sun, you see a lone man approach, wearing a long white robe.

A priest. A leader of the people who is closer to God than any other. Your aid! Your rescue!

“Help,” you croak as he nears. He doesn’t look over, but you think his footsteps quicken. Maybe he didn’t hear. You lick your lips and try again. “Help me.”

His eyes flicker over you and he hugs the other side of the road, practically running past, leaving you to your pain. You can understand his fear and hurry. After all, he’s a priest and you’re covered in blood. If he touches you, he will become unclean. You can’t expect him to endanger and bring shame upon his duties to the people and to God by helping you.

You close your eyes again, breathing slowly against the throbbing of your wounds. Even breathing hurts. Ants and bugs crawl on your exposed mangled body, drawn to your scent of dwindling life.

I’m going to die out here, you think, drifting in and out of consciousness. Shadows increase as the sun progresses in the sky. What will happen to you at night? Will the thieves return?

Another sound echoes through the walls of the mountainside. Brisk steps carry a second person across your path. A Levite—an assistant to the priests. He, too, is cleansed, but fewer duties rest upon his shoulders. Perhaps he will stop and help you.

“Please,” you rasp. “Help.” The pain to speak is almost too much for you.

The Levite’s eyes narrow as he looks over your bloody form. He then scans the cracks, caves, and boulders around you.

It’s just me, you want to shout as he hurries by, keeping a wary eye on your surroundings. But your strength is nearly gone. You watch him hustle past. His caution doesn’t surprise you. You resemble a common ploy among the robbers—they might station a man to fake injury to cause a passerby to stop. Then the robbers could attack.

But you’re no ploy. You are desperate, cold, and losing hope by the minute. Will no one stop? The priest and Levite, two holy men, left you alone. You are meant to die here, where no one seems bothered by your despair.

Buzzing meets your ears from the blood-hungry bugs. You grow dizzy and can no longer muster energy enough to lick your drying lips. More sounds break the silence of the mountainous road. Footsteps followed by the clop of hooves. You squint enough to see a Samaritan man lead his donkey around the bend toward you.

You suck in a ragged breath, but your voice has failed. You can no longer call out. Your will for survival is fading; instead, you close your eyes again and wait for him to pass. He is a stranger. Perhaps he has a long journey home. Jews and Samaritans don’t associate.

The clops stop. Gentle hands wipe blood from your face. Cool liquid douses your wounds and the smell of wine and oil interrupts your own stench. Tender fingers wrap cloths around your injuries.

Then your body is lifted from the ground. It aches to move, but soon you are on the back of the donkey and the hoof-clops resume. Time passes in a haze and you ride in disoriented awe. This man—this Samaritan who has no reason to help you—is your rescue. As the sun sets, your awareness dwindles. You cling to consciousness long enough to register the softness of a bed welcoming your suffering body. The Samaritan speaks softly to the innkeeper as they bend over you.

“Look after him,” he whispers, followed by the clink of coins. “When I return, I’ll reimburse you for any extra expenses you may have.”

Look after him, you think. The Samaritan’s words echo in your mind until at last, painful, yet hopeful rest overcomes you. Look after him.