The parable of the Good Samaritan teaches us who our neighbor is. It must have sparked fierce debate among the first Jewish-Christian communities, yet we listen to it now almost by habit, politely nodding along. And yet it should shake us to our core.
One day my wife and I decided to go to Mass at the Cathedral of Amiens. Pushing a wheelchair with one hand while managing a stroller with the other is not simple. We made our way along the sidewalk as best we could and reached the portal of the beautiful golden Virgin. Two steps blocked the entrance.
The cathedral's builders loved marble more than practicality. A man in his fifties emerged from the morning fog, missal in hand. Surely he would help us up the steps. But impeccably dressed, he refused. He was late for Mass, he said.
"But we're going to Mass too," we called after him eagerly, but he had already disappeared into the magnificent building. We stood alone at the foot of those stairs. Why had this parishioner abandoned us? What was the meaning of this Mass on the church steps—this bitter taste? We were lost. Then, without warning, a man rose from a nearby café table. A glass of red wine had been his breakfast.
He came over and said: "I saw everything. Let me help you." He took the stroller and wheelchair and brought us into the Cathedral. We wept as we heard Mass before the Blessed Sacrament in a side chapel. Who was our brother? The man with the missal or the one sitting with his bottle? And why did we weep? We had believed the Christian community was made up of the baptized. The man from the café had changed our minds. Nothing would ever be the same.
Jean-Christophe Parisot, 2014
Ombres et Lumiere n. 192