That is not an easy question for me to answer, because, if I am honest, many Christians have disappointed me. But honesty requires that I say something more: I know I have disappointed others too.
It is easy to speak about love, compassion and faithfulness when they remain ideas. It is far more difficult when love asks something of us—our time, our comfort, our patience, our presence. Perhaps that is why the account of the Good Samaritan troubles me as much as it inspires me. The Samaritan did not merely feel sorry for the wounded man lying by the roadside. He stopped. He crossed the road. He allowed another person’s suffering to interrupt his journey.
And I find myself asking: would I have done the same?
In 2009, I was travelling home from Rome, a city layered with history, memory and ancient stories. As the car moved towards the airport, a roadside sign caught my attention:
Via Appia.
The Appian Way.
In that instant, my mind travelled back nearly two thousand years to the Apostle Paul. He had journeyed along that same ancient road towards Rome, not as a tourist admiring its beauty, nor as a pilgrim seeking inspiration, but as a prisoner. He was under guard, facing trial, carrying the weight of uncertainty, and moving steadily towards a future he could not fully see.
I imagined him there upon the road: weary from the journey, marked by hardship, perhaps wondering what awaited him in Rome. Paul was a man of extraordinary faith, but he was still a man. He still knew what it was to feel tired, vulnerable and alone.
Then something remarkable happened.
Word reached the Christian believers in Rome that Paul was approaching. They could have waited for him to arrive. They could have had a prayer meeting. They could have reasoned that Paul was strong enough, faithful enough, important enough to manage without them.
But they did not remain at a distance.
Luke records the moment in Acts 28:15:
“The brothers and sisters there had heard that we were coming, and they travelled as far as the Forum of Appius and the Three Taverns to meet us. At the sight of these people Paul thanked God and was encouraged.”
The Forum of Appius lay sixty-four kilometres from Rome—a grimy stopping place the poet Horace once described as crawling with frogs, gnats, and dishonest innkeepers. The Three Taverns, only slightly closer, stood fifty-eight kilometres from the city. And yet the believers walked.
Some of them travelled more than forty miles from Rome to meet him; others walked around thirty. They walked the Appian Way not because they could remove Paul’s chains, change the decision of Rome, or guarantee his safety. They could not solve the great problem before him.
What they could do was refuse to let him face it alone.
They walked because they loved him.
They walked because faith is sometimes expressed not in grand speeches, but in tired feet, dusty roads and a willingness to be present.
There is something profoundly moving in that picture: Paul, the great apostle, the courageous missionary, the man whose letters would strengthen generations of Christians, receiving strength himself from the simple sight of fellow believers coming towards him.
Scripture tells us that when Paul saw them, he thanked God and took courage.
I have often wondered what that moment looked like. Did his eyes fill with tears? Did something in him finally loosen after the long voyage, the shipwreck, the uncertainty and the fear? Scripture does not tell us. Yet I know what happened in me when I first truly pondered it. I wept.
For there are moments in life when words are not what we most need. There are roads so lonely, burdens so heavy and fears so deep that what gives us courage is simply the sight of someone coming towards us rather than turning away.
Perhaps that is what it really means to be a Christian.
Not merely to profess the right beliefs, important though belief is. Not merely to attend worship, read Scripture or speak warmly about love. It is to become the kind of person who sees the wounded traveller and stops. It is to become the kind of person who hears that a brother or sister is struggling and begins walking in their direction.
The priest and the Levite in Jesus’ parable saw the wounded man, but passed by on the other side. The believers in Rome heard that Paul was coming, and they went out to meet him. The difference is not found in what they knew, but in what they were willing to do.
And that thought searches me.
How many times have I passed by someone’s pain because I was too tired, too busy, too preoccupied or too uncertain of what to say? How many times have I wanted compassion from others while failing to offer it myself? I cannot judge the shortcomings of other Christians without also allowing the light of Christ to search my own heart.
There are people all around us walking difficult roads. Some are facing illness. Some are grieving. Some are burdened by loneliness, disappointment or fear. Some are silently carrying struggles that no one else can see.
We may not be able to change their circumstances. We may not be able to take away their suffering or answer all their questions. But perhaps we can walk a little way towards them. Perhaps we can sit beside them. Perhaps we can let them know that their hardship has not made them invisible.
How Far Are We Willing to Walk?
How Far Are We Willing to Walk?
That is not an easy question for me to answer, because, if I am honest, many Christians have disappointed me. But honesty requires that I say something more: I know I have disappointed others too.
It is easy to speak about love, compassion and faithfulness when they remain ideas. It is far more difficult when love asks something of us—our time, our comfort, our patience, our presence. Perhaps that is why the account of the Good Samaritan troubles me as much as it inspires me. The Samaritan did not merely feel sorry for the wounded man lying by the roadside. He stopped. He crossed the road. He allowed another person’s suffering to interrupt his journey.
And I find myself asking: would I have done the same?
In 2009, I was travelling home from Rome, a city layered with history, memory and ancient stories. As the car moved towards the airport, a roadside sign caught my attention:
Via Appia.
The Appian Way.
In that instant, my mind travelled back nearly two thousand years to the Apostle Paul. He had journeyed along that same ancient road towards Rome, not as a tourist admiring its beauty, nor as a pilgrim seeking inspiration, but as a prisoner. He was under guard, facing trial, carrying the weight of uncertainty, and moving steadily towards a future he could not fully see.
I imagined him there upon the road: weary from the journey, marked by hardship, perhaps wondering what awaited him in Rome. Paul was a man of extraordinary faith, but he was still a man. He still knew what it was to feel tired, vulnerable and alone.
Then something remarkable happened.
Word reached the Christian believers in Rome that Paul was approaching. They could have waited for him to arrive. They could have had a prayer meeting. They could have reasoned that Paul was strong enough, faithful enough, important enough to manage without them.
But they did not remain at a distance.
Luke records the moment in Acts 28:15:
“The brothers and sisters there had heard that we were coming, and they travelled as far as the Forum of Appius and the Three Taverns to meet us. At the sight of these people Paul thanked God and was encouraged.”
The Forum of Appius lay sixty-four kilometres from Rome—a grimy stopping place the poet Horace once described as crawling with frogs, gnats, and dishonest innkeepers. The Three Taverns, only slightly closer, stood fifty-eight kilometres from the city. And yet the believers walked.
Some of them travelled more than forty miles from Rome to meet him; others walked around thirty. They walked the Appian Way not because they could remove Paul’s chains, change the decision of Rome, or guarantee his safety. They could not solve the great problem before him.
What they could do was refuse to let him face it alone.
They walked because they loved him.
They walked because faith is sometimes expressed not in grand speeches, but in tired feet, dusty roads and a willingness to be present.
There is something profoundly moving in that picture: Paul, the great apostle, the courageous missionary, the man whose letters would strengthen generations of Christians, receiving strength himself from the simple sight of fellow believers coming towards him.
Scripture tells us that when Paul saw them, he thanked God and took courage.
I have often wondered what that moment looked like. Did his eyes fill with tears? Did something in him finally loosen after the long voyage, the shipwreck, the uncertainty and the fear? Scripture does not tell us. Yet I know what happened in me when I first truly pondered it. I wept.
For there are moments in life when words are not what we most need. There are roads so lonely, burdens so heavy and fears so deep that what gives us courage is simply the sight of someone coming towards us rather than turning away.
Perhaps that is what it really means to be a Christian.
Not merely to profess the right beliefs, important though belief is. Not merely to attend worship, read Scripture or speak warmly about love. It is to become the kind of person who sees the wounded traveller and stops. It is to become the kind of person who hears that a brother or sister is struggling and begins walking in their direction.
The priest and the Levite in Jesus’ parable saw the wounded man, but passed by on the other side. The believers in Rome heard that Paul was coming, and they went out to meet him. The difference is not found in what they knew, but in what they were willing to do.
And that thought searches me.
How many times have I passed by someone’s pain because I was too tired, too busy, too preoccupied or too uncertain of what to say? How many times have I wanted compassion from others while failing to offer it myself? I cannot judge the shortcomings of other Christians without also allowing the light of Christ to search my own heart.
There are people all around us walking difficult roads. Some are facing illness. Some are grieving. Some are burdened by loneliness, disappointment or fear. Some are silently carrying struggles that no one else can see.
We may not be able to change their circumstances. We may not be able to take away their suffering or answer all their questions. But perhaps we can walk a little way towards them. Perhaps we can sit beside them. Perhaps we can let them know that their hardship has not made them invisible.