From Mighty Rivers 

I am who I am.

One day I stepped into my sandals, put my cloak on, took my money bag and hid it in my belt. Then I started on my way from Jerusalem to Jericho.

Uphill and downhill and past dark caves where robbers might have been lurking. I pretended I wasn’t afraid, but all at once I was surrounded by thieves. One of them struck me, and that was the last thing I remember. They took my coat and my purse and left me half dead.

After a while I heart footsteps. It was a priest. I stuck up my arms, but he said, “I can’t stop now. Sorry. But I might come back.” And he went on his way.

Later on, I heard new footsteps. Again I signaled for help but could only raise one hand feebly. He looked at me and said, “Too bad, too bad!” And he continued on.

I lay there on the side of the road praying that God would help me, a Jewish man. Soon I heard the sound of someone coming. It was a man on a donkey.

I heard him say, “Whoa boy!” He jumped down, took off his coat, tore it into strips and bandaged my wounds. Then he lifted me up, put me on his donkey, and slowly walked until we came to an inn. He carried me inside and laid me down. I heard him say, “Here is some money. Take care of this man, and if the cost is more, I will pay you when I return.”  Then he went on his way.

The men who wouldn’t stop to help me were of my own race. The man who did help me was of another race, one my people despised. That was the day race ceased to matter to me.

That day, God sent a true brother to help me in my time of need. I never again judged anyone on the basis of his or her race.

Today is our opportunity just to  be fellow travelers down this uncertain road in these threatening times.