Modern Jericho Road

It was just after noon on a gray Thursday.

Rick, a young grocery worker, had finished his shift and was heading home when a customer named Ian asked for a favor. Could Rick drive to Toronto to pick up an auto part? He’d lend him his new car and pay him a hundred dollars.

Rick said yes. He couldn’t believe his luck.

Hours later, on the highway back, he saw a car on the shoulder, hazard lights flashing.

A man waved frantically. Another lay motionless in the snow.

Rick pulled over. He never saw the gun until it was too late.

They robbed him, beat him, took the car, his shoes, his coat.

When he came to, blood in his eyes, he tried flagging down traffic. Cars slowed, stared, and sped up again.

Then, to his relief, he recognized a silver sedan — his pastor’s car. He waved desperately. The pastor slowed, looked, then accelerated. Maybe he didn’t recognize him; maybe he did. Either way, he kept going.

Finally, an old dented hatchback pulled over. A mechanic in greasy coveralls jumped out, wrapped his own flannel around Rick’s shoulders, and drove him to a clinic.

When the nurse asked who would pay, the man said, “Put it on me. Just fix him up.”

And with a wave, he disappeared into traffic.

That’s the gospel in blue jeans. That’s mercy in motion.