Edited by Jim McCrory, Thursday, 17 July 2025, 20:25
Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot
In 1973, two social psychologists, John Darley and Daniel Batson, conducted a study with a title that immediately catches the eye: “From Jerusalem to Jericho: A Study of Situational and Dispositional Variables in Helping Behavior.” The title borrows from Jesus’ parable of the Good Samaritan, and the study asks a question as old as that story: why do some people stop to help while others walk by?
Darley and Batson didn’t take their research to a desert road in ancient Judea. They stayed on the campus of Princeton Theological Seminary, recruiting students training to become ministers. If anyone should stop to help a stranger, surely it would be them—or so we might think.
The setup was clever and simple. Each student was asked to walk to another building to give a short talk. Some were told the talk would be on job prospects for ministers, others on the parable of the Good Samaritan itself. On the way, each student passed someone slumped in a doorway, coughing and groaning—a man clearly in need of help.
The twist? Time pressure. Some students were told they were already late. Others were told they were just on time. A third group was told they had a few minutes to spare. That small variable changed everything.
The results were stark. Of those in a hurry, only 10 percent stopped to help. Of those not rushed, 63 percent did. And what about the topic of their talk? Whether they were about to speak on the Good Samaritan or on ministry careers made little difference. Ironically, some students on their way to deliver a sermon about compassion stepped right over the man in need.
It’s easy to smile wryly at that—but then the discomfort sets in. Isn’t this us? How many times have we passed someone in need, not because we’re heartless, but because we’re in a rush? The world may no longer demand ritual purity as it did for the priest and Levite in Jesus’ story, but it certainly demands efficiency. And in that demand, something gets squeezed out: the space to see, to notice, to care.
What strikes me most is the weak influence of personal disposition on behaviour. Being more “religious” or inwardly spiritual didn’t make much difference. Even preparing a talk on the Good Samaritan wasn’t enough to make someone act like one. That’s a sobering thought. It suggests that moral character on its own is fragile. We like to believe we’re guided by principles, but so often we’re shaped by pressures—the tyranny of the urgent.
For people of faith, this raises uncomfortable questions. If theological training, spiritual reflection, and even preaching on mercy don’t automatically translate into compassionate action, what does? Perhaps the answer is less about what we believe in the abstract and more about the rhythms of our lives. If we never allow margin, if we’re always rushing, the groaning man in the doorway becomes invisible.
Reading about this experiment feels like holding up a mirror. In the past I was part of a religious group where there was always a driving force to do more. I felt Like a whirling Dervish. I can recall moments when I’ve walked by—not always physically, but emotionally or spiritually. Times when someone near me needed help and I had the words, but not the time. And I wonder if that isn’t the quiet tragedy of our age: not that we don’t care, but that we don’t pause long enough to show it.
And yet there’s hope in these findings too. If environment plays such a big role, then we can shape it. We can slow down. We can create breathing space in our lives. We can choose to look up. Helping behaviour, after all, often begins with something as simple as stopping.
The road from Jerusalem to Jericho may have been short, but it revealed everything about the travellers who walked it. In our own modern roads—crowded schedules, relentless alerts, tasks demanding attention—the challenge remains the same. Will we notice? Will we stop?
Darley and Batson’s study is more than an academic exercise. It’s a quiet parable about us. Belief without action is noise. Compassion without time is a dream. And out there, still, are people in doorways, coughing, waiting, hoping someone will care enough to be late.
No Time For Love
Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot
In 1973, two social psychologists, John Darley and Daniel Batson, conducted a study with a title that immediately catches the eye: “From Jerusalem to Jericho: A Study of Situational and Dispositional Variables in Helping Behavior.” The title borrows from Jesus’ parable of the Good Samaritan, and the study asks a question as old as that story: why do some people stop to help while others walk by?
Darley and Batson didn’t take their research to a desert road in ancient Judea. They stayed on the campus of Princeton Theological Seminary, recruiting students training to become ministers. If anyone should stop to help a stranger, surely it would be them—or so we might think.
The setup was clever and simple. Each student was asked to walk to another building to give a short talk. Some were told the talk would be on job prospects for ministers, others on the parable of the Good Samaritan itself. On the way, each student passed someone slumped in a doorway, coughing and groaning—a man clearly in need of help.
The twist? Time pressure. Some students were told they were already late. Others were told they were just on time. A third group was told they had a few minutes to spare. That small variable changed everything.
The results were stark. Of those in a hurry, only 10 percent stopped to help. Of those not rushed, 63 percent did. And what about the topic of their talk? Whether they were about to speak on the Good Samaritan or on ministry careers made little difference. Ironically, some students on their way to deliver a sermon about compassion stepped right over the man in need.
It’s easy to smile wryly at that—but then the discomfort sets in. Isn’t this us? How many times have we passed someone in need, not because we’re heartless, but because we’re in a rush? The world may no longer demand ritual purity as it did for the priest and Levite in Jesus’ story, but it certainly demands efficiency. And in that demand, something gets squeezed out: the space to see, to notice, to care.
What strikes me most is the weak influence of personal disposition on behaviour. Being more “religious” or inwardly spiritual didn’t make much difference. Even preparing a talk on the Good Samaritan wasn’t enough to make someone act like one. That’s a sobering thought. It suggests that moral character on its own is fragile. We like to believe we’re guided by principles, but so often we’re shaped by pressures—the tyranny of the urgent.
For people of faith, this raises uncomfortable questions. If theological training, spiritual reflection, and even preaching on mercy don’t automatically translate into compassionate action, what does? Perhaps the answer is less about what we believe in the abstract and more about the rhythms of our lives. If we never allow margin, if we’re always rushing, the groaning man in the doorway becomes invisible.
Reading about this experiment feels like holding up a mirror. In the past I was part of a religious group where there was always a driving force to do more. I felt Like a whirling Dervish. I can recall moments when I’ve walked by—not always physically, but emotionally or spiritually. Times when someone near me needed help and I had the words, but not the time. And I wonder if that isn’t the quiet tragedy of our age: not that we don’t care, but that we don’t pause long enough to show it.
And yet there’s hope in these findings too. If environment plays such a big role, then we can shape it. We can slow down. We can create breathing space in our lives. We can choose to look up. Helping behaviour, after all, often begins with something as simple as stopping.
The road from Jerusalem to Jericho may have been short, but it revealed everything about the travellers who walked it. In our own modern roads—crowded schedules, relentless alerts, tasks demanding attention—the challenge remains the same. Will we notice? Will we stop?
Darley and Batson’s study is more than an academic exercise. It’s a quiet parable about us. Belief without action is noise. Compassion without time is a dream. And out there, still, are people in doorways, coughing, waiting, hoping someone will care enough to be late.