Seeing Like the Samaritan

Several years into my teaching career, I found that a personal connection could transform even the most indifferent students—especially when teaching about the Great Depression. For my parents, especially my much older father, those years were vivid realities that shaped our family and, eventually, me.

History in textbooks, I realized, was mostly words and statistics—dry facts, easily glossed over. Yet putting a human face on those facts draws students in, even now. The haunting expression of a migrant mother and her children, captured in Dorothea Lange’s photograph, resonates when students pause to truly see. In those moments, history becomes personal and moving.

Showing clips from The Grapes of Wrath makes the impact even deeper—especially after students move past their resistance to an old black-and-white movie. As the story unfolds and the characters’ struggles come alive, something changes in the room. By the end of class, students who were once uninterested are now impatient to see what happens next. I witness a shift from indifference to something more than curiosity—real concern—and know that true learning is happening.

Many of us respond the same way in daily life. We hear so many stories—about illness, loss, or disaster—that often become just words on a screen, easy to scroll past as we go about our day. Only when we slow down and really see the faces behind those stories, or allow ourselves to feel the weight of another’s struggle, do they begin to matter.

Hebrews 13:3 reminds us:
“Remember those in prison as if you were together with them in prison, and those who are mistreated as if you yourselves were suffering.”

In other words, God has not given us the option to overlook the suffering of others.

Some object that the needs are too great and our resources too limited—and that’s true. Yet each of us has people in our circles who either need help or know of people in our community who do. Even small acts of compassion can bring light into someone’s darkness.

The beautiful irony is that helping people—sharing God’s love—has brought me some of my greatest joy. Events that once seemed like inconvenient obligations have become treasured memories.

Reflecting on this, I often remember a story Jesus told in Luke 10—one that still calls us to active compassion:
“A Jewish man was traveling from Jerusalem down to Jericho and was attacked by bandits—stripped, beaten, and left half dead. A priest passed by on the other side; so did a temple assistant. But a despised Samaritan stopped, felt compassion, soothed the man’s wounds, took him to an inn, and paid for his care.”

May we, too, be quick to see, quick to care, and quick to bring light and love wherever we find need.

. . . and that’s what I know today.