SERMON VI.

THE GOOD SAMARITAN.

(PREACHED AT MILAN, 1854, AND IN PART AT MOSCOW IN 1857.)

LUKE X. 29.

Who is my neighbour?

THERE are few congregations where this question may not naturally rise to the heart, if not to the lips; and assuredly not least to strangers in a land of strangers. "Who is my neighbour?" Who is there beyond our own immediate circle of home or country that has any claims on our sympathy or affection? To whom do we owe any duty? From whom can we learn any lessons? With whom are we in any way bound together in our onward passage through the changes and chances of life? There are many answers

which might be returned to this question. But there is one true Evangelical answer, which was given to the inquiry when it was put to our Lord and Master. Let us make out His answer as He gave it, and then see how it applies to ourselves. His reply was given us in the Parable of the Good Samaritan. Let us first see what is the story which it relates, and, secondly, try to apply it to ourselves.

I. Like all our Saviour's Parables, it was probably suggested, if not by any outward incident, at least by the circumstances of the time and country, possibly, of the very place, in which it was delivered. We are not told by the Evangelist where He was when the lawyer questioned Him; but immediately afterwards we are told that He entered into the village of Martha and Mary. That village (as we well know) was Bethany. Bethany was the mountain hamlet which stood at the head of that great descent from Jerusalem to Jericho which is the scene of the parable that He now delivered. If, as we may suppose, He was advancing up the road which He so often trod, leading from the deep valley of the Jordan

to the high country of Judea, the country which lay before Him would easily suggest the whole circumstances of the story. It is a steep mountain pass; descending for nearly 4000 feet; but, unlike the mountain passes with which we are familiar, it is enlivened by no verdure, it is cheered by no spring of living water. Bethany is the last human habitation before you descend into that deep abyss of bare precipice and rugged mountain. Far below lies the desert plain of the Jordan, broken only by the track of vegetation which follows the course of the river; and from that desert plain, and behind those rugged rocks, came forth, and have come forth in all times, those savage robbers of the wild Arabian tribes who have made the road from the earliest times known as the Bloody Way. But, unlike many of the waste places of the earth, it was a road which, in spite of its dangers and desolation, at the time of which our Lord spoke, was a necessary thoroughfare between two great and flourishing cities. Jerusalem at the head of the pass, and Jericho at its foot, were both important seats of government, of religion, and of commerce. The

one as the capital of Judea; the other, as the favourite residence of the Herodian family, and also as one of the chief stations of the Priests and Levites, and as producing in the rich gardens which grew up in the tropical heat of its beautiful oasis some of the chief articles of luxury to the surrounding countries. It was along this road then that a certain man "went down from Jerusalem to Jericho," and it was in the midst of this wilderness that the fate which has there so often befallen the solitary traveller overtook him on his journey. He "fell among thieves," (as we should say "among robbers,") the Arabian robbers of whom I have before spoken, whose hand is against every man, and every man's hand against them; who still render it necessary for every pilgrim who passes that way to go with an armed escort, on his road to the Jordan. They overpowered him in a moment; they stripped off his clothes, as is still their wont; they beat him cruelly, and they vanished again amidst the desert rocks, leaving him half dead in the glare of the Syrian sun, reflected from the white cliffs of the mountain pass on this side and on that.

The traveller lay helpless and alone. But "by chance" -so our Saviour speaks, and

shows that we too need not fear to use those casual expressions by which we describe the lesser events of life without always directly referring to a higher Providence-" by chance," another traveller came down that long descent, and the hopes of the wounded man would be roused as he saw the advancing figure of one who might be his deliverer, in this hour of his utmost need. It was one of the priestly order from Jerusalem, possibly on his way to join the station of his brethren at Jericho. Far off he must have seen the bleeding sufferer; but, "when he saw him," he determined not to be delayed on his journey, "he passed by upon the other side,” on the high pathway which skirts the precipice, and disappeared on his way to the distant city. One hope was thus extinguished; but the road, as I have said, was a well-known thoroughfare, and another hope soon revived. From the opposite quarter, so it would seem, from the deep valley below, another traveller wound his way up towards the fatal spot. He, when he was at the place, came and looked on