Today's reading presents us with the parable of the Good Samaritan, familiar to every reader of the Gospel (vv. 25-37). This parable is often understood simply as a call to show mercy to everyone, regardless of social status, religious affiliation, or anything else that so often divides people. Yet the situation described in the parable is not so simple. The question asked by the “lawyer,” probably a teacher of the Torah, was: “Who is my neighbour?” In modern language, this distinction is usually expressed in terms of “our own” and “outsiders.” Jesus' interlocutor evidently understands “neighbour” in precisely this way: who is one of “my own”? Surely I cannot love everyone I happen to meet!

Without answering him directly, Jesus tells a parable about a devout man who had apparently suffered at the hands of Samaritans on the road from Jerusalem back to his own region (v. 33). In those days, the road from Galilee to Judea passed through Jericho, and Jews making a pilgrimage to Jerusalem had to pass through Samaria along the way; its inhabitants were generally extremely hostile to them. Most likely, it was they who attacked the lone traveller. The situation became utterly incredible: the beaten man's compatriots and fellow believers passed him by (vv. 31-32), while help came from the person from whom it could least be expected, a Samaritan (vv. 33-35). Thus his own people became outsiders, and an outsider became one of his own.

The point here is not assistance as such, or even mercy. It is relationships, without which there is no Kingdom: people's relationships with God and with one another. This is the meaning of the commandment that Jesus' interlocutor knew perfectly well (vv. 25-28). The relationships of the Kingdom cannot and must not be conditioned or limited by anything: they are unconditional and absolute, or there can be no question of the Kingdom. Having told His parable, Jesus called His interlocutor to build relationships with every person as if they were already dwelling in the Kingdom; otherwise, the way into it will never open.

Today the Orthodox Church celebrates the Day of the Holy Spirit. The Epistle to the Ephesians reminds us that 'the fruit of the Spirit is in all goodness, righteousness, and truth' (v. 9), and calls us to 'be filled with the Spirit' (v. 18). The apostle Paul calls this new state of the human being 'light in the Lord'; the apostle John also turns to this image of light when he speaks of brotherly love among believers (1 John 2:10). In the spirit of love we are called to 'seek those who have gone astray' (Matt 18:10-14), to resolve problems in our relationships (Matt 18:15-18), and, finally, to receive God's grace in unanimous prayer in the name of Christ and in His presence, just as we were promised.

The parable of the Good Samaritan is perhaps one of the most widely quoted and often mentioned Gospel texts. This is not surprising: it is usually perceived as a call to mercy and good works, becoming the Gospel foundation for what in church practice has come to be called social ministry. Meanwhile, on closer reading everything turns out not to be so simple. Indeed, Jesus tells the parable of the Good Samaritan in answer to a question asked of Him: and who is my neighbor? If we follow the logic of the text of the parable, then the answer to the question asked of Jesus sounds quite specific: my neighbor is the one who helped me, who did good to me.

The demand "go and do likewise" sounds somewhat strange against this background: for in this case the issue is not how a person acts, but how others act toward him. The answer to the question asked is connected precisely with this. A transition from the text of the parable to a justification of works of mercy and, more broadly, social ministry is possible only through a semantic inversion: the reader must identify himself not with the traveler who suffered at the hands of robbers, but with the Samaritan who helped him.

Although the question itself was connected precisely with the suffering traveler: which of all of them turned out to be his neighbor? But then the Savior's answer is obviously connected not only with what the Samaritan did, but with the situation as a whole. And the parable becomes not simply a parable about kindness and helping one's neighbor; it turns out to be a parable about relationships between people. And about the primacy of these relationships. About a situation when help comes not from those who think alike or share the same faith, but from those from whom it would least be expected. From enemies, for Jews and Samaritans in those days were bitter enemies. And then it turns out that what in relationships had seemed decisive proves on examination to be meaningless tinsel.

That in a critical situation all social, national, and religious frameworks and ties suddenly prove to be conventions that oblige no one to anything. What becomes significant is something that lies deeper in the human person than all of this, at the depth where a person's true spiritual "I" is found. Only there, at this depth, are help, compassion, and mercy possible. On the surface there is nothing of the sort. There is only social ministry. It will, of course, keep a poor person from starving to death, but it will not give him love. Nor the life of the Kingdom.