I didn’t see the accident coming. I fell forward, my head hitting the ground hard. Everything went dark for a few seconds, then I became dimly aware that I must have tripped and fallen on a path of hard clay and stones. My head hurt, and my muddled brain knew I could have other injuries too. Very slowly I moved. No shooting pains. I knelt, and then stood. I was unsteady but okay except that my eyes wouldn’t focus. Everything was hazy. Then I realised my spectacles were gone; no wonder I couldn’t see clearly. I stumbled around, but searching for glasses without glasses is difficult. I found them, remarkably undamaged, and again I could see properly. I’d fallen because I’d tripped on a root from bushes I was squeezing between.

I still didn’t know how badly I was hurt. My knees and elbows were painful but probably just bruised. My head hurt the most. I was in hilly countryside near home, walking our two dogs, so, obviously, there were no mirrors to let me examine my injured head. Gently I touched where it was most tender. Blood on my fingers showed I’d damaged my forehead and the bridge of my nose. For a few minutes I rested. My body and head ached, but I felt I could see and think clearly enough. Perhaps my thinking wasn’t actually that clear, because I decided the dogs needed the rest of their walk, so off we went again.

I met two other people during that walk. One was a young lady who passed me going in the opposite direction, and we each said ‘Good morning’. I also met a middle aged man who glanced at me, said nothing, and walked on. Eventually I returned to my car, got the dogs inside, climbed into the driver’s seat and, using the rear view mirror, saw my face for the first time. My forehead and nose were bruised and cut, and blood had been trickling down my face. I looked dreadful. Both the people I passed would have seen I was streaked with blood and obviously hurt, yet neither asked if I needed help. They just kept going their own way.

Later, the fact that those folk did nothing to help reminded me of one of Jesus’ most famous parables, the one about the Good Samaritan. It’s best you read it for yourself – it’s in Luke’s gospel, chapter 10, verses 25-37. But here’s a quick summary. An expert in the Old Testament law quizzed Jesus about the command to ‘love your neighbour’. “Who is my neighbour?” he asked. Jesus answered by telling the story of a man travelling from Jerusalem to Jericho – journeying on a steeply downhill, twisty road notorious for robberies – who was attacked, and left half dead with nothing, not even his clothes. Two solo travellers came along. Both were religious leaders, one a priest and the other a Levite. Surely one of them would help. Neither did. Seeing the injured man, each crossed to the other side of the road and kept going. Perhaps they had pressing duties so no time to help. Perhaps the priest thought the man was dead, and touching him would defile him. Perhaps the Levite was afraid the man was a decoy and if he stopped to help, bandits would emerge and attack him. Whatever the explanation, both these men cared more for their personal agendas and safety than they did for the wounded man. But then along came a Samaritan. For the crowd listening to Jesus, a Samaritan would be the last person they’d expect to help. Jews considered Samaritans heretics because of their different beliefs, and because they did not fully observe ceremonial law. Jews and Samaritans did not get on with each other. But this third passer-by did not pass by. It was the Samaritan who took pity on the injured traveller, went to him, poured wine and oil on the his wounds and bandaged them, then, putting him on his donkey, took him to an inn and cared for him there. Next morning he gave the innkeeper a sum equal to two days’ wages to continue looking after the traveller, with a promise that when he returned he’d pay for any further treatment or accommodation the man had required. Such a level of care and generosity must have stunned Jesus’ audience. Then Jesus asked the legal expert: “Which of these three do you think was a neighbour to the man who fell into the hands of robbers?” The expert answered: “The one who had mercy on him”. It was the right answer. The priest and the Levite probably felt sorry for the man, but they did nothing. The Samaritan’s pity moved him to action which saved the man’s life. He did what a neighbour should.

So, where are the good Samaritans today?

Well, the obvious first thing to say is that in Jesus’ time someone stopping to help was exceptional, at least on the road from Jerusalem to Jericho. The Samaritan did what others would not do. Certainly Jesus was also highlighting that those you would expect to help didn’t, and someone unlikely to help did. But it wasn’t just one priest and one Levite who would have passed by. Most people would have kept going, perhaps muttering ‘Not my business’. The sad truth is that good people, willing to care for others, have always been rare.

But, these days, is human compassion not in a very sorry state if hardly anyone will help a person in dire need? My answer is ‘yes’. It’s tragic if few will set aside their own priorities and give time and money to help others.

Occasionally the media carry horror stories of failure to care. For example, neighbours of a reclusive man in County Cork in the south of Ireland didn’t see him out and about and assumed he had moved away to England. His house was derelict, so it was boarded up. Twenty years later council officers found the skeletal remains of a man in a bed inside that house. For two decades no-one had checked inside. In Lombardy, near Lake Como in Italy, people were concerned when an elderly neighbour’s tree fell and other trees in her garden seemed unsafe. They called the fire brigade and police who broke into the home. The homeowner was there, seated in a chair in her living room. But she had been dead for two years. Once again, no-one had checked on her wellbeing. Neighbours just assumed she’d moved away.

Why do we not take at least an interest in other people’s lives? Why don’t we help when there’s a clear need?

Of course there will be many reasons. I will list seven.

We’re too busy with our own lives  That was probably one of the problems for the priest and the Levite. With somewhere else to be and urgent business to do, they had no time for a dying wayfarer.

Now, if we were captaining an aircraft through a dangerous storm, it would be reasonable not to leave our controls to care for an airsick passenger. No-one would dispute that our duties at the controls should have priority.

The problem is that we think like that even when our priorities are not indisputably more important than someone else’s need. Our appointment is not more crucial than helping the person who has fallen in the street. Our daily affairs are not more urgent than checking on an elderly neighbour who has not been seen for days. Our favourite TV programme is not more vital than helping our child with his homework.

But we allow ourselves to believe our agenda always supersedes the needs of others. That’s selfish. It’s a mindset that elevates whatever we’re doing over what anyone else is doing, as if our needs matter and their needs do not. The Good Samaritan did not think like that. If he had, he’d have been the third passer-by to leave a wounded man to die.

We’re anxious about what getting involved might lead to  If we knew that nothing more was needed than lifting a fallen pedestrian back to their feet, of course we’d help. But suppose they’re hurt and need medical attention? Or lost, and they will have to be taken home? Or they’ll want you to call their daughter and wait with them until the daughter arrives? Even worse, what if that fallen pedestrian was mugged and going to their aid might mean giving evidence to the police, and perhaps being a witness in court?

Most of us think our lives are so full we’ve no time for anything other than a one-off moment or a one-time activity. So we’d certainly help someone back to their feet providing we’re sure that’s all that’s needed. But we’re not sure. Perhaps it’ll get more complicated. We can’t afford to get involved, so we do nothing. We pass by on the other side.

But we delude ourselves. Often the truth is that our lives are not as full as we imagine. Or they’re not full of things that matter more than helping that poor individual who’s collapsed. We like to believe everything we’re doing is important, and it’s vital we keep our focus. But everything is not vital. We could take time to help. But we use our imaginary full agenda as an excuse not to get involved at all.

We’re frightened that helping short-term will create an obligation long-term  My friend Gordon was moving away permanently to another part of the country. He explained to me that he’d been visiting two elderly sisters, Anne and Susan, who were residents of a council-owned care home. Since he was relocating, he asked if I’d pay them a visit. “Of course,” I said, thinking I had time on Sunday afternoon to make my one-time call on them. I’d no idea what to expect in a council care facility. I found wonderful staff who were genuinely warm-hearted towards their residents, but, staff aside, there was a scarcity of any other comfort for those who had been left to spend their final years there. I walked into a large hall filled with high-backed chairs, each occupied by an elderly lady, the vast majority of whom sat in that one place most of the day. In a corner was a TV tuned to channel that never got changed, watched by those nearby who stared blankly at the screen. Anne and Susan were side by side, nowhere near the TV. Susan nodded occasionally when I spoke directly to her, but otherwise had little ability to communicate. Anne was frail, but once she started speaking her delightfully lively personality emerged and she was a pleasure to talk to. They had only each other in the whole world. Gordon had been their only visitor. And now I’d come. My one-time visit became a nearly every Sunday afternoon visit. How could I not give them an hour or two of my time once a week? Besides, I grew to appreciate the wonderful people they were. Then Alison became a central part of my life, and the two of us went to see Anne and Susan on Sunday afternoons. On our wedding day, we left our guests after our wedding meal to visit Anne and Susan. Apparently every resident in the home had already toasted us during their lunch, and they clapped when we arrived. Some of our most special photos of that day are of us alongside Anne and Susan. Not long after, Anne died. There was no service of remembrance, just a council-organised funeral using a church minister next in line on a rota. Her burial took ten minutes. There were only two of us who attended.

It’s true that what we think of as a short-term action can become a long-term obligation. But why should that not happen? Why are we so afraid that we might have to care or support someone for weeks, months or years? Is that not what caring human beings do? Sadly, it’s what some human beings don’t want to do. Hence they choose never to get involved.

We don’t want our present activities disrupted  The previous section was about taking on a long-term commitment. The ‘fear’ I’m writing about here is more immediate. It concerns having to do something big right now. The Good Samaritan was faced with exactly that situation. If he delayed, the mugging victim would die. So the Samaritan didn’t wait. He treated him on the spot, then hoisted him onto his donkey, and took him to an inn where he could be cared for longer-term. None of that was simple or without effort and expense. But he didn’t hesitate to do what was needed right away to save the injured man.

But, dropping everything to help someone frightens many from helping at all. It’s easy to throw a few coins in a street beggar’s hat and walk on. But what if something more, something more demanding, is needed right now?

One evening – when I was about 18 – I went for an evening run. That was a rare event. By the time I’d jogged my way right round the parkland in Edinburgh called The Meadows, I was sweaty and exhausted. My flat was close by. I needed to get home, wash and rest. But just before I left my run, I saw a man hundreds of yards away stagger and fall. Maybe he was a drunk. But maybe he’d had a heart attack. I stopped, stared. The man didn’t get back to his feet. Should I go over and help? I really didn’t want to. I was tired and getting cold. But the man couldn’t just lie there. Yet, what was I going to do when I got to him? What would that mean for everything else I planned for that evening? Yet I couldn’t just walk away, so turned back in the fallen man’s direction. At exactly that moment I saw someone else hurry over to the stricken figure. Someone else was going to help. I went home. ‘Someone else’ would do the caring, which I’m sure he did. But, later, I couldn’t forget how unwilling I was to have my plans disturbed.

Nearly helping, or waiting for someone else to help, isn’t helping at all. The priest and Levite in Jesus’ parable could have claimed they got close to doing something, but in fact they did nothing. They were too concerned with moving on to other things. One time Jesus was on his way to save a dying girl when a woman with a serious medical condition interrupted him. Jesus stopped and dealt with her need. Only after she was healed, did Jesus return to and complete his previous mission. (It’s the story of a woman who had been bleeding for twelve years, who touched Jesus’ cloak while he was on the way to heal Jairus’ daughter – Mark’s gospel, chapter 5, verses 21-43.)

Nothing is more important than doing the right thing at the right time.

We shun getting involved with people we don’t know  I often hear people talk about ‘fear of the stranger’. They might be referring to immigrants, or people of a different colour, or simply those from another part of the country. For many, stopping to help someone who is a stranger to us is difficult. We know nothing about them: where they live; what they’ll want; whether they’ll be violent; even whether we’ll understand what they’re saying.

Recently, a friend told me of two young people who never hesitated. My friend’s nan (her grandmother) collapsed in the street. The only people who helped the old lady were two schoolboys. Mid-teens youngsters might be thought the least likely to assist an elderly person, but not these two. They helped the lady sit upright, then got her back onto her feet. She’d dropped her shopping bag, spilling its contents, but they gathered everything together. They offered to help her get home, and only left her when she insisted she was fine. That lady was a complete stranger to those boys, but she was a person in need, so they came to her aid.

Neglecting a stranger, just because they’re a stranger, is an unacceptable excuse for inaction.

We believe their problems are their own fault, so they don’t deserve help  Why should we support those we think have brought their troubles on themselves? Why is the person slumped in the shop doorway homeless? What kind of drugs has that young person been taking? Why is that malnourished lady begging for food? Our suspicions that they’ve brought their troubles on themselves allow us to walk away.

The Good Samaritan could have done that. The Jerusalem to Jericho road was infamous for solo travellers being robbed. That near-naked wounded man was a victim of his own folly by walking that road alone. He brought his problem on himself, so why help him now?

There are at least two reasons why that’s not an acceptable excuse for passing by. First, many experience troubles which might easily have been ours. Perhaps, during a recession, someone was laid off and could not get another job. That redundant person could have been us. Bad things can happen to anyone. Besides, the priest, the Levite, and the Good Samaritan, were also solo travellers. The wounded man was no more guilty of foolishness than they were. Second, it’ll be a sad day when assistance is dependent on deserving. Many of us bring troubles into our lives because of bad decisions, a poor lifestyle, or challenging relationships – and we’re grateful to those who help us no matter our level of blame. Loving our neighbours should never be conditional on how nice, good or wise they are.

We simply don’t care  I can’t prove it, but, sadly, I fear that not caring is the single biggest reason we don’t get involved with needy people. There could be several reasons for that. One might be compassion fatigue. We feel bombarded over and over with images of starving children and stories of innocents harmed by war. Our responsiveness to another cry for help diminishes because of that. Another reason could be our own sense of need. We experience cost of living hardships. We feel overwhelmed by work demands and family needs. We get sick. We have accidents. And so on. So we feel there’s no space for anything else that takes our time or money. A third reason could be simple self-centredness. We care for others, but not nearly as much as we care for ourselves. We don’t want our lives disrupted or diminished by getting involved with strangers. For these reasons and more, our care sensitivity is low. The result? We’re not open to helping, whether that’s our immediate neighbour, or starving or refugee families in far-off lands.

I believe not caring – doing nothing for the needy – is selfish. Apathy and inactivity  have terrible real life and death consequences. And how would we want others to respond if we were in trouble? Imagine you and your family have a terrible car crash on a lonely road. You skidded off the road, overturned in a ditch, and now you, your spouse and your children are trapped. One or two are unconscious. Others are screaming in pain. Your car is upside down and crushed; you can’t get out. But – wait – another car is coming along the road. It sees your skid marks, slows down and people look over. Help is here! No, it’s not. The car accelerates away. Its occupants don’t want to get involved. Another car comes, and drives away. And it’s the same with the next car that comes along, and the next, and the next.

Perhaps you find that last paragraph upsetting or offensive. But is it so different from what happens with people’s lives when no-one will stop and help them? Passing by on the other side is a luxury a suffering world cannot afford us to have.

One final story. Not more than a few months after my failure to help the man who collapsed in The Meadows (which I described earlier), I set off to save the ‘down and out’ rough sleepers of Edinburgh. I knew where to look for them. Back then many of those with nowhere to go would be in the Grassmarket, a wide street set below Edinburgh Castle. There was a hostel there where some got overnight beds. But not all the homeless could afford even its modest charge, and some were too drunk to be admitted. I set out to find those slumped at the side of the road or in doorways. It was 10.00 on a freezing November night when I walked the full length of the Grassmarket, then turned around and walked back on the other side of the road. No-one was lying in a gutter. No-one was sleeping in a doorway. All I noticed were students serving soup from a caravan. I did the circuit again. No-one in need. And again, and again. I almost felt cheated that here was I ready to save and no-one needed to be saved.

So, I abandoned my task, and started walking up the road away from the Grassmarket. That’s when I saw the body of a man lying on the cold, stone steps of a large church. I crouched down, not sure if he was alive or dead. There was faint breathing, accompanied by the strongest reek of alcohol. This man definitely came into the category of someone who had brought his trouble on himself. But that didn’t mean he deserved to die. Which he certainly would if left there.

I spoke to him. No reaction. I tried rocking him back and forth. Still nothing. I could never have picked him up to get him to safety, and everyone walking past kept walking past. They didn’t want any involvement. I had no idea what to do. Then, strolling up the same hill as I had ten minutes earlier, I saw two policemen. What a relief. They would take charge, and have the man transported to safety. When they were only 30 yards away, and clearly had seen me and the unconscious man, one officer whispered to the other, and they crossed to the other side of the road and walked on. I was so shocked I couldn’t speak. They’d seen a man lying still on stone steps and me bending over him, and decided they would do nothing. The man’s breathing had not improved. In fact his breath now sounded coarse. I did not know how I could save him. Then, at last, a passer-by did stop, and in the broadest of Edinburgh accents (which I cannot fully replicate!) said: “Are ye needin ony help, Jimmy?” (The name Jimmy could be given to any stranger.) The words were heavily slurred because the speaker was thoroughly drunk. He was so unsteady on his feet I feared he’d end up lying on the steps too. There was no way this man could help me lift the unconscious figure I knelt beside. But I replied: “There are students down the hill serving soup. Maybe you could get them to come.” “Ay, richt – I’ll see whit I can do” and off he staggered down towards the Grassmarket. ‘That’s the last I’ll see of him or his help,’ I thought.

I was wrong. Ten minutes later, two students appeared beside me. “We didn’t know whether to believe your drunk friend, but thought we should come and see,” they said. By now I had managed to stir the man on the steps. With the help of the students, we got him upright, and by putting his arms over our shoulders, we half-carried him down to the soup caravan. A little soup was drunk but the man was still hopelessly unable to tell us where he lived. Someone found a note in his pocket with an address, and off we set in one of the students’ cars with the drunk man propped up beside me. It was well after 11.00 when we rang the doorbell at the address on the note. A light went on, the door opened, and a woman peered out at three young men supporting an obviously drunk man. She clasped a hand to her shocked face, and stumbled out the words, “Bring him in”. We did, and she pointed to a bed to lay him on. Before we left, the lady said, “He’s my brother. He’s spent months in a drying-out unit, and today was his first day out on trust”. As we left she was full of tears. I have never forgotten that night, and especially two things. One is the look of complete horror and disappointment on that poor woman’s face. The other is that the fine citizens of Edinburgh, Scotland’s capital, would leave a man to die on the steps of a church rather than get involved and save him. We cannot, we must not, be those kind of people. There must be a new generation of Good Samaritans, people willing to give time, money, and compassion to save anyone who has fallen by the wayside.