The parable of the Good Samaritan, found in Luke 10:25–37, is a narrative of compassion, but it is also, in the hands of the Fathers of the Church—particularly St. Augustine—a profound allegory of salvation history. More than an ethical exhortation to love one’s neighbour, it becomes, through Augustine’s eyes, a miniature Gospel, a story that hides within it the drama of the Fall and the grandeur of Redemption.
According to St. Augustine, the man who journeyed from Jerusalem to Jericho is Adam—humanity itself. Jerusalem, the city of peace, represents man’s original state of justice and communion with God. Jericho, a city lying below sea level, is a symbol of descent, of sin, of the earthly and the carnal. Thus, the journey from Jerusalem to Jericho is the tragic trajectory of the Fall: man turning away from God toward the seduction of the world.
The robbers who strip, beat, and leave the man half-dead are the powers of sin and the demons, who, in robbing man, take from him the robe of grace and leave him wounded—alive, but only just. He lies on the roadside, a symbol of fallen man: spiritually dead, yet physically alive, incapable of saving himself.
The priest and the Levite who pass by represent the Law and the Prophets. They see the man, yet they pass on. Not because they are heartless, but because the Law, while it can reveal sin, cannot heal the wound. The Old Covenant prepares the way but cannot effect the cure. In this light, the parable is not primarily a condemnation of individual indifference, but a theological comment on the limits of the old dispensation.
Then comes the Samaritan, one whom the Jews would have despised, and here lies the heart of Augustine’s interpretation: the Samaritan is Christ Himself. Though rejected, He alone has compassion. He binds the wounds—signifying the healing of sin through grace—pouring on oil and wine, symbols of the sacraments, especially Baptism and the Eucharist. He places the man on His own beast, that is, He assumes our humanity, bearing our burdens. He brings him to the inn, the Church, where the man can heal.
And the innkeeper? He is the figure of the pastors, the ministers of the Church, to whom Christ entrusts the ongoing care of the redeemed, giving them two denarii—perhaps signifying the twin precepts of love of God and neighbour, or the twin Testaments, Old and New—and promising to return, a clear reference to the Second Coming.
Thus, under Augustine’s gaze, this parable is not merely a moral tale but a theological icon. It reveals not only what we are called to do—to go and do likewise—but first and foremost what has been done for us. Christ is the Good Samaritan who comes not when we are strong and righteous, but when we are half-dead and helpless. He binds up our wounds with mercy, heals our souls with the sacraments, and places us within the bosom of the Church to recover, promising to return in glory.
What emerges, then, is a vision of grace. The parable, read Augustinianly, is not only a story about love—it is a story of love. It is the Gospel in miniature. And in receiving this divine mercy, we are transformed into imitators of the Samaritan, called now not only to admire Christ’s compassion but to extend it, in Him and through Him, to all whom we meet along the way.