The Good Samaritan Contemporization: A Modern Example

"The Good Samaritan" is a parable, or a story that is an extended metaphor for a bigger concept, that Jesus told to his disciples. It can be found in Luke 10:25-37. (https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Luke+10%3A25-37&version=NIV)

Here, I have taken the main point of the parable and rewritten it in a way that would be more meaningful to people in today's age. This process is called "contemporization". I encourage you to read the parable of the Good Samaritan before reading my own story to practice checking the validity of what I say, and also to have a deeper understanding of what I am talking about in this contemporized version of Luke 10.

Enjoy:

On a bright winter day, a short man with graying hair and a stubby beard pulled on his snow boots, wrapped himself in his coat, and stepped outside only to be met with a bitter wind. Mr. McTavish was his name, his face carved with the lines of many years’ experience. He never harmed anyone and led a humble life. Five years ago on that very day, his wife, Miranda, had passed away from old age, and the old man was left to live alone. It hadn’t been the easiest week for him.

Cautiously, he began descending his front porch, step-by-step. He figured that a quick trip to his mailbox and back wouldn’t require the use of his cane, which meant he had to be extra careful going down his driveway caked in snow. Finally at his mailbox, he began pulling the lid to reach inside, when all of a sudden he heard the sound of Trevor, the twelve-year-old boy who lived next door, and his terrible dog, Oscar.

“Go Oscar, go!” Trevor yelled, throwing a bone just past Mr. McTavish, and unleashing his dog that could have easily been mistaken for a horse. Oscar barked as he began stampeding in the bone’s direction. “Get him, boy! Get the old man!” The young boy cackled, finding his game hilarious.

Mr. McTavish tried to move, but couldn’t get out of the way in time. Only a second later, Oscar plowed over the old man, danced on him for a moment, licking his face, snatched up the bone, and ran back to Trevor.

“Good job Oscar!” Trevor praised. Then he and his dog scurried back inside his house, leaving Mr. McTavish only half-conscious in the middle of the road. The old man cried out in pain. He could taste the blood from his lip and feel a warm trickle bleeding from the back of his head. The place where the dog had licked him began to freeze on his face. He shivered.

After laying helpless in the bitter wind atop his bed of snow for what felt like eternity, he watched as Sarah, the woman who sat in the row in front of him at church, walked right by him pretending like he was never there. She cleared her throat and shifted her gaze away from him as she pulled her young daughter along in the sled behind her. The child stared as they passed, and Mr. McTavish let out a groan.

Not long after, he heard footsteps on the opposite side of the street. He painfully turned his head to the left to catch a glimpse of who it was.

“Help me!” He cried as loud as his small voice would allow. But the person continued on.

Soon the winds began to pick up and snow fell violently like sheets from the sky. Mr. McTavish was sure that he was going to die that night, the same night his wife had passed five years before. The sun was soon to set and no car would spot him in the dark. He began to accept his terrible fate.

Just after he thought that all hope was lost, he felt a man lightly smacking the side of his face to make sure he was conscious. The person’s touch burned his frost-bitten cheek. “Sir,” a deep voice said. “Sir, let me help you.” Mr. McTavish’s eyes fluttered open. It was the teenage punk, George, who was tattooed up and down with piercings on his ear. He lived across the street and always had the radio blaring too loud in his rusty old car. What reason did he have to help an old man?

George helped Mr. McTavish sit up, took off the old man’s wet coat, and replaced it with his very own. Then he hoisted Mr. McTavish up, and walked him back to the inside of his house. Flicking on the lights, he guided him to the living room where the old man plopped down onto the sofa.

“Thank you” Mr. McTavish whispered in a scratchy voice. George nodded. Then he went to the kitchen and made a cup of coffee to warm Mr. McTavish up. He set up a table in front of the sofa where the old man laid, and set the freshly made coffee down.

“I’ll call your doctor.” George said.

“It’s Doctor Jefferson– look in my phone book.” George found the phone book on the kitchen table and flipped through the pages until he found Arnold Jefferson, MD. He took his cell phone from his pocket to call. He finished, and only fifteen minutes later, the doctor pulled into the driveway and was at the door.

“This man could have died of hypothermia if he was out in the cold for very much longer.” The doctor said. “You probably saved his life. He’s lucky that he didn’t break his hip, or else he would have faced certain death. Thank you for that, young man.”

George smiled. It was only a small deed in his eyes.