Berry

Walking from Jerusalem to Jericho

This past weekend the Gospel reading was one of my favorites, the parable of The Good Samaritan. This is one of not just my, but a lot of people’s, favorite parables. You might call it one of Jesus’s greatest hits. It is so famous it has a hospital named after it in about every city in the country. And it is quoted by politicians, philosophers, and by that relative at every holiday dinner who manages to turn every conversation into a lecture for everyone at the dinner table.

But let’s look at it a little differently. We know the obvious point, right? ‘Help people in need.’ Yet if this parable were only about emergency roadside assistance, we would be done by now; grab a Band-Aid and a bottle of oil, and we are Saints. But Jesus never told a story just for the surface lesson. So if that’s the case, and we know it is, let’s dig deeper, with a smile, with honesty, and, I hope, with a spirit that finds real hope, not guilt, in his challenge to us to find his message.

The road from Jerusalem to Jericho, back in the day, was steep, twisty, and notorious for trouble. The star of the story, the Traveler, gets mugged and left half-dead. Enter three characters: first, the Priest, followed by the Levite. Both see the poor man but pull off the world’s earliest and most literal example of “ghosting.” Now, I do not know about you, but I think that if there were smartphones back then, I’m betting one of them was busy pretending to text while tiptoeing away. (“Sorry bro, can’t help, on an important call with my camel dealer!”)

And then comes The Samaritan, cue the dramatic gasp from Jesus’s original audience. Samaritans and Jews hated each other. Absolutely hated! If you were writing this as a modern sitcom, the soundtrack would add seriously ominous music. This Samaritan, who had every cultural excuse to pass by, stops, helps, pays, and promises to return.

But Jesus doesn’t end the story there with, “So, go and make better to-do lists for good deeds,” but instead, he flips the question the legal expert asks, “Who is my neighbor?” Jesus answers, in effect, “Go and be a neighbor.”

Fast-forward 2,025 years. The Jericho Road is now a six-lane highway, and our roadsides are crowded with not just one, but millions left battered by poverty, caught by cycles of injustice, overlooked by a world zooming past. We find “travelers” in every city and suburb, some homeless, others burdened by injustice, isolation, or the crushing weight of being unseen. And if we are honest, most of us have, at times, played every role in the story. Some days, we are rushing by, busy and tired. Other days, we stop and help. Some days, we are the one in the ditch, praying someone will notice.

But before any guilt creeps in, I believe that we should view the message of the parable not as Jesus’ way of condemning us to a life of exhausted do-goodery. But rather as a call to discover the joy, the promise, the adventure of becoming neighbors in a world allergic to neighborliness. There is no room for guilt here, only the possibility to wake up and be happy as we do.

You see, maybe Jesus told this story with a twinkle in his eye. He knew that if he gave us a hero from an unexpected place, (a Samaritan!) and a cast of respectable bystanders who miss their calling, it would rattle us out of self-righteousness. The story is not about racking up merit badges for kindness; it is about the delight of seeing with new eyes.

The gentle shock of self realization in this parable is the great equalizer. After all, who among us has not crossed the street to avoid an awkward situation, pretending suddenly to be engrossed by a shop window, or suddenly finding great interest in a can of beans at the grocery store to avoid someone? Jesus understood this. He uses the priest and Levite to show us: you are not alone in your discomfort. We all get squeamish. But don’t worry! Today is a new day, and mercy is always waiting for its cue.

There is an old saying: “Guilt can make good house guests, but they shouldn’t move in.” The Good Samaritan never helped because of guilt, he helped because he saw. Mercy only comes from seeing.

Jesus invites us not to be superheroes, but neighbors with open eyes. The point is not to solve every problem overnight or save the world alone. The Samaritan did not defeat the muggers, set up new road policies, or even stick around for years. He did what he could, with what he had, right in front of him, and he kept the compassion going.

What is more, the story upends the idea of “us and them.” The Samaritan helps not because of obligation, but because he knows what it is like to be on the margins himself. When you recognize your own wounds, it becomes easier to admit: “There but for the grace of God go I. Today I am the helper. Tomorrow, I need a hand.”

How, then, do we live out this parable in a noisy, divided, and complex world? How do we approach poverty and justice without falling into despair, or worse, numb indifference? Here are a few thoughts, think of them as “Samaritan Survival Tips” for the modern age:

Slow Down, Look Around, See

• Look – rushing past is easier when we don’t look at people. The gift of the parable is the reminder that compassion starts by seeing, not solutions, not strategies, but faces. This week, try this as an experiment: wherever you go, make eye contact with one extra person. Notice who usually goes unnoticed.
• See: If you are met with a smile, celebrate! If you’re met with a grumpy stare, congratulate yourself for finding a true neighbor-in-waiting.

Limitations Are not Lethal

• The Samaritan did not fix everything; he just did his part. You won’t eradicate global poverty on your lunch break. But can you buy a meal for one person, write a kind note, or support a group working for justice? Absolutely.
• And if you are an overachiever, remember, even the Samaritan took that guy to an inn. He didn’t build a hospital on the spot!

Break the Paradigms

• The Samaritan crossed social divides. Today, that might mean listening to someone with a different political viewpoint (OMG, really?!?), religious, or cultural background, or inviting them for coffee.
• When you are tempted to judge or turn away, remember: every act that builds a bridge makes the world a bit less lonely.

Make Justice Personal

• There is a temptation to think justice is for “the professionals” or for someday when you have more time. But real justice begins with small, personal changes; paying attention, advocating when you can, supporting policies that help the vulnerable.
• It is the little things: fair wages for workers, welcoming newcomers, not hoarding all the snacks in the office kitchen (a true act of mercy!).

Practice Joyful Generosity

• The Samaritan’s help was not grim or resentful – it was generous, practical, and promised a return. Let us find ways to give that bring us joy, not just obligation. The smallest gift, given with lightness, can change someone’s life, and yours too.

The parable of the Good Samaritan is not a burden; it’s an invitation to a bigger, bolder, and happier life. It is about discovering our ability for mercy every day, in ordinary places, for ordinary people; travelers and strangers who are, in the mystery of faith, our very selves.

So, let us each walk our own Jericho road with our eyes open and our spirits light, ready for the unexpected. You may find your call not just in grand gestures, but in a smile, a meal, a shared laugh, or the willingness to be present when no one else does.

Remember: the world doesn’t just need more “good Samaritans;” the world needs more neighbors. Let us be those people together, with a bit of holy hope, and a lot of joy.

Peace and God’s blessings,

John

Who do You Say that I Am?  The unbreakable bond between faith and service

In this past weekend’s Gospel reading we hear Jesus ask Peter and the other Apostles the question “Who do you say that I am?”  My Pastor, and I’m sure many of yours, used this Gospel reading, and this question in particular, in his homily last Sunday as an opportunity to encourage us to explore our personal relationship with Jesus and to ask ourselves who do we say that He is to us in our lives?

That question Jesus posed to his disciples has resonated across centuries, demanding a response not just from Peter but from all of us who claim to be followers of Christ. Today, this question is still the mirror that lets us reflect on our relationship with Jesus. For many of us, especially we Vincentians, that relationship finds its most powerful and meaningful expression not in abstract theological belief, but in tangible advocacy for, and solidarity with, the poor. We have come to understand (and thus to answer that question for ourselves) that to believe in Jesus as Lord while ignoring the marginalized is to offer an incomplete answer, a contradiction that severs faith from its purpose.

In the Gospel, Peter declares, “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God” (Matthew 16:16). That was a profound statement of faith and understanding, not merely for its words but for its implications. Jesus’ identity as the Messiah was inseparable from his mission: to “preach good news to the poor, freedom for the prisoners, recovery of sight for the blind” (Luke 4:18). The early Church understood this, that turning faith into action made us who we were! James minced no words: “Faith by itself, if it is not accompanied by action, is dead” (James 2:17). Everyone who has answered Jesus’ question throughout the ages has thus declare allegiance to a Savior who himself became poor and who judges nations by their treatment of the “least of these” (Matthew 25:40). Our faith is hollow if it does not propel us toward the margins.

Vincentians know and believe service to the poor is non-negotiable. Jesus’ ministry was a relentless confrontation with systems of exclusion. A battle against injustice and mistreatment of the marginalized.  Jesus embraced lepers, he dined with tax collectors, and he championed Samaritans, all acts that scandalized the social norms of the day! Let us be real folks, Jesus today would be considered a radical, a revolutionary, a socialist, a ‘left wing’ crazy. His teaching today would translate to dismantling structures that perpetuate poverty: they would mean a fight against unjust wages; they would be a cry of agony about the lack of adequate healthcare for the poor and the attempt to slash it even further to fund tax cuts for those who probably really don’t need them.  Jesus would cry about the fact that, just like his Mother at the time of his birth, people cannot find a place to live because of the housing crises in our nation. And Jesus would ask why we treat refugees who are trying to escape tyranny and terror in their native lands so poorly when God provided the model of compassion and care for the refugee when he saved Israel from the Egyptians in the Old Testament?

Jesus taught us advocacy and justice. He taught us that they are INSEPARABLE! We know and understand Advocacy is not charity; it is justice at work, echoing the prophets: “Learn to do right; seek justice. Defend the oppressed” (Isaiah 1:17). When we advocate for the poor, for legislation that protects the most vulnerable, for fair immigration policies, for ethical labor practices, or for climate justice, we embody the command to “loose the chains of injustice” (Isaiah 58:6).

Effective advocacy balances both global action with local action. Hence, our support for others across the globe through our Twinning and Global Relief efforts. Our support for a well project in Kenya, our relief programs in Lebanon and Palestine, succeed not by bringing material support but by partnering with local SVdP Councils and Conferences, allowing them to support the needs in their communities.

Our work with the poor is sacramental, our real and tangible encounter with Christ. Mother Teresa called the poorest of the poor she worked with “Christ in distressing disguise,” and Dorothy Day saw the soup kitchen as an altar. When we feed the hungry, we partake in the Eucharist’s deeper truth: Christ broken for the broken. This work transforms us. In the face of suffering, our tidy theological boxes collapse, revealing a God who dwells in scars. As we wash feet, we rediscover Jesus’ question: “Do you understand what I have done for you?” (John 13:12). Service is where faith sheds theory and puts on flesh.

A relationship with Jesus that avoids the poor is a half-truth. The theologian Bonhoeffer warned against “cheap grace,” grace without discipleship. To call Jesus “Lord” while ignoring Lazarus at our gate (Luke 16:19–31) is spiritual hypocrisy. The truth of our bond with Christ is known in the reality of compassion: “If anyone has material possessions and sees a brother or sister in need but has no pity on them, how can the love of God be in that person?” (1 John 3:17).

Today, as Jesus asks, “Who do you say that I am?” our answer must not be on our lips but in homes restored, stomachs filled, and chains broken. Only then does our confession become real, a lived gospel where faith and justice embrace.

The Prayer of St. Francis of Assisi opens with such perfect words, “Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.” But we can also add another line, “Lord, make me an instrument of your justice.”

Let us ask God’s help to continue to strengthen us as we understand and acknowledge those places and times where maybe we have reduced faith to words, and to reignite in us the fire that burns for the poor.

And thus, may our answer to “Who do you say that I am?” be in actions inspired by faith and of love.

Peace and God’s blessings,

John

Finding Hope in God’s Unexpected Gifts

Two weeks ago, in my Servant Leader column, I wrote about the temptation of doing too much and the need to avoid falling into the trap of trying to save the world, while only  hurting yourself.

That column received a lot of comments on the National website, and people expressed appreciation for what I said. I am extremely glad for that, because it is my prayer that the columns I write provide some value for those of you who read them.

But some people reached out to me privately (you can ALWAYS do that by sending me an email at jberry@svdpusa.org) and asked for more. How, they asked, can we become renewed. How do we face the daily challenges of life without just throwing up our hands and walking away?

Let’s face it. This is an incredibly stressful and challenging time for all of us. I do not care if you are a conservative or a liberal, a Democrat or a Republican, or someone who is just trying to get along, these are unsettling times. Wars, division, vitriolic discourse, violence in our streets. If you are not stressed, you are not awake.

But you know what? This is not the first time we’ve lived through contentious times, and it will not be the last. Life, in its unpredictable journey, often brings us to moments that feel unbearably heavy. There are times when everything seems to go wrong — relationships falter, dreams crumble, health fails, or loneliness creeps in. In these moments, the world can appear colorless, and hope can feel like a distant memory. Yet, for those who are willing to open their hearts, there is a profound truth: Even in the darkest times, God has a way of offering us hope, often in the most unexpected forms. It is in moments of despair that, if we are receptive, we can see the gentle, persistent ways in which God reaches out to us, reminding us that we are never truly alone.

Suffering is an inescapable part of being human. Whether it is the loss of a loved one, the pain of betrayal, or the weight of personal failure, everyone has times when life simply stinks. These periods can feel endless, and the temptation to give in to despair is real.

For many, faith is both a refuge and a challenge during suffering. It is easy to believe in God’s goodness when life is going great, but faith is truly tested when the storms come. The question arises: Where is God when everything falls apart? The answer, though not always immediate or obvious, often lies in the subtle ways God communicates with us — through people, moments, and even the quiet stirrings of our own hearts.

Gifts of Hope/Our Essential Elements

When life is at its lowest, hope can arrive in the most unexpected ways. Sometimes, it is a kind word from a stranger, a sunrise after a sleepless night, or a song that plays just when you need it most. Other times, it is the unwavering support of a friend, a passage of scripture that speaks directly to your pain, or a sudden sense of peace that defies explanation. These are not coincidences; they are reminders that God is present, working behind the scenes, orchestrating moments of grace.

Consider the story of Elijah. After a great victory, Elijah found himself running for his life, exhausted and ready to give up. He cried out to God, expressing his hopelessness and desire to die. Yet, in his lowest moment, God sent an angel to provide food and rest. Later, God spoke to Elijah not in the wind, earthquake, or fire, but in a gentle whisper. This story illustrates that God’s hope often comes quietly, requiring us to listen with open hearts.

Receiving hope from God is not a passive act; it requires openness and vulnerability. When we close ourselves off in bitterness or despair, we risk missing the subtle ways God is trying to reach us. Opening our hearts means being willing to see beyond our pain, to look for signs of grace even when circumstances seem bleak.

This openness is an act of faith. It is choosing to believe that, despite appearances, God is still at work. It is trusting that, as the Psalmist wrote, “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning” (Psalm 30:5). It is allowing ourselves to be surprised by joy, to find beauty in brokenness, and to accept that hope can coexist with sorrow.

Many of you, no doubt, can attest to moments when, just as they were about to give up, something shifted, providing an unmistakable sign of hope. For some, it is the birth of a child after years of longing. For others, it is a job opportunity that arrives at just the right time, or a reconciliation with a long-lost friend. And for many of us, it was a personal encounter with someone in need that we helped through our work as a Vincentian. These moments offer a reminder that life, even at its worst, is not devoid of meaning or purpose. Those moments of renewal remind us why our vocation as Vincentians is so powerful and can help remind us that our essential elements of Spiritual Growth and Friendship are deepened by the element of Service, thus forming a trinity of interrelated gifts that can strengthen and renew us.

These moments of clarity are so powerful because it aligns with a sense of God’s presence, providing reassurance and hope exactly when you need it most. They should anchor our trust in God, reinforce our belief that He hears and responds, and encourage us to move forward with confidence, even in uncertainty. This direct experience of God’s guidance transforms faith from an abstract belief into a lived reality, deepening our relationship with Him and empowering us to face future challenges with greater resilience and hope.

Often, and powerfully, God’s hope comes through the people around us. This is why Friendship is such a vital and important Essential Element of our Vincentian charism. A supportive community can be a lifeline in times of trouble. When we are open about our struggles, we invite others to share in our burdens and to offer comfort. In turn, we become vessels of hope for others, allowing God’s love to flow through us. Friendship does not just mean coffee and donuts at a Conference meeting! It means being there as a lifeline for our Vincentian sisters and brothers who are teetering on the edge, who need us to be the conduit to bring them to God.

So too, is our Essential Element of Service. Acts of kindness, no matter how small, can be powerful reminders of God’s presence. A meal delivered to a grieving family, a note of encouragement, or a listening ear can be the very thing that helps someone hold on. In giving and receiving compassion, we take part in the divine work of bringing hope to a hurting world.

Suffering is Not the End of the Story

In the end, hope is not the denial of suffering, but the assurance that suffering is not the end of the story. By opening our hearts to God’s gifts, we allow ourselves to be surprised by grace, to find light in the darkness, and to discover that, even when life is at its worst, we are never without hope.

Peace and God’s blessings,

John

“It is a ruse of the devil, by which he deceives good people, to induce them to do more than they are able, so that they end up not being able to do anything. The spirit of God urges one gently to do the good that can reasonably be done, so that it may be done perseveringly and for a long time.” – St. Vincent de Paul

As I visit with Councils or Conferences, or attend SVdP meetings across the country, I hear about the impact that stress and burnout is having on our Vincentians. Too many cases…not enough money…not enough caseworkers. People are doing too many Encounters in a week. Encounters are becoming transactional instead of spiritual experiences. These are leading to burnout and frustration, and more importantly, they prevent us from growing spiritually in our service to people in need.

Burnout often begins with a holy desire: “I want to help. I want to sacrifice. I want to make a difference.” But the evil one twists this virtue into vice. He whispers, “If you rest, you’re selfish. If you say ‘no,’ you’re failing God.” Before long, we’re like Martha in Luke 10:40, “anxious and troubled about many things,” resentful of our own service.

How many of you have felt the subtle voice that whispers, “You could do more”? How many have looked at the endless line of need before you and thought, “If I just work a little harder, stay a little later, sacrifice a little more of myself, perhaps I can make the difference”? This voice masquerades as the call of conscience, as the voice of love itself. But Vincent warns us, this is deception dressed in the clothes of virtue.

St. Vincent called this “the devil’s ruse,” and it’s particularly insidious because it appeals to what is best in us. He takes our love for the poor, our genuine desire to serve Christ in the least of our brothers and sisters, and he whispers, “More, always more.” He convinces us that our worth is measured by our exhaustion, that true love demands we burn ourselves out completely. He makes us believe that to set any boundary, to acknowledge any limitation, is to fail in our calling.

The devil doesn’t need us to stop serving; he simply needs us to serve in a way that drains our souls. He knows that a burned-out volunteer, however well-intentioned, cannot reflect the love of Christ. When we push beyond our limits, we risk becoming like the lamp in the Parable of the Ten Virgins (Matthew 25:1-13), burning brightly for a time, but eventually sputtering out, with no oil left to sustain the flame.

Rooted in the Love of Christ

The deepest spiritual truth Vincent reveals is this: God’s way preserves us for the long haul. The gentle spirit that allows us to do reasonable good ensures that we can do it “perseveringly and for a long time.” God is not interested in spectacular burnouts that flame bright and die quickly. God is interested in steady flames that burn consistently, giving light and warmth year after year, decade after decade.

The poor and marginalized we serve need us to be whole, not broken. They need us to serve from a place of strength, not depletion.

Why do we feel this relentless pressure to do more?

Some of it comes from the real needs around us. The poor are still hungry. The sick are still suffering. The injustices still cry out. But some of that pressure also comes from within, from pride, from perfectionism, from fear that we are not enough unless we are constantly producing, constantly giving, constantly saying “yes.”

But our identity is not rooted in our performance. It is rooted in the love of Christ.

We are not loved because we serve. We serve because we are loved.

The Lord does not ask us to save the world. That job is already taken. He asks only that you do your part, with love, and that you trust Him to fill in the rest.

Consider Jesus Himself. Did you ever notice how often Jesus rested? He withdrew to lonely places to pray. He got in a boat and went to the other side. He even slept through a storm. The Savior of the world, perfect love in the flesh, knew when to stop.

If even Jesus rested, how can we think ourselves holier for working ourselves to the bone?

St. Vincent gives us the answer: Do the good that can reasonably be done, so that it may be done perseveringly and for a long time.

A Different Type of Courage

This kind of goodness is not flashy. It doesn’t make headlines. But it is faithful. It is rooted in reality. It listens to the limitations of the body, the mind, and the heart. And it lasts. It reminds us that we are branches, not the vine. We cannot produce fruit unless we abide in the Vine, unless we rest in Christ.

So, I call you today to a different kind of courage, the courage to trust God’s gentle spirit rather than the harsh demands of false urgency. The courage to do reasonable good rather than impossible good. The courage to serve perseveringly rather than spectacularly.

It’s this courage that will allow you to trust that God’s work will continue even when you step back to breathe. Remember that the same God who calls you to serve also calls commands you to love yourself as you love your neighbor.

So, rest when you need to rest.

Say no when you need to say no.

Seek help when you need help.

If you are empty, be filled.

If you are questioning, bring your questions to the One who holds the answers.

Take time to pray, not out of duty, but out of hunger.

Take time to laugh, because joy is holy.

Take time to say no, because that too can be an act of faith.

In short, let yourself be human again.

And when you do serve, serve not as one who must fix everything, but as one who trusts God is already at work.

Remember what St. Vincent knew so well: it is better to do a little good with great love and do it for a long time, than to do too much and lose yourself (and lose the mission) in the process.

The poor will still be with us tomorrow. But so, thank God, will His mercies, new every morning.

May you be filled with that mercy today.

And may you serve from it.

Peace and God’s blessings,

John