The gospel of the gutter: where love goes beyond belief

Why treating people well may be the truest test of faith—on the Jericho roads of Trinidad and Tobago, in the pews, and in the gutters of life.

By Fr Robert Christo

Vicar for Communications

One hot Friday evening, I disguised myself as a vagrant and sat quietly at the foot of the church steps before ministering at an outdoor crusade. Sunset blazing, shirt torn, wig askew, hair matted—I waited.

Bible-toting parishioners passed me by, singing and chipping to praises with eyes intentionally fixed  away from me. One muttered, “(steups) Go get a wuk nah man. Move from dey!” Only one—a child—begged her mother to give me  a dollar. That was it.

Ten minutes later, I removed the disguise, gracefully moved through the aisle, mounted the pulpit, and yelled: “I was the man outside. The one you all passed.” Silence.

Real silence.

Shame.

I preached from Matthew 25:31–46: “Whatever you do to the least of these…”

A priest once told me something I’ve never been able to forget: “Treating people well could be, or even should be, as important as what and who you believe in.”

In our ritual-heavy Catholic life, that hits deep. But Jesus’ Parable of the Good Samaritan (Lk 10:25–37) confirms it. The priest and the Levite knew the law and the liturgy. Yet they too were descending from grace—leaving Jerusalem—and they passed by. Only the despised Samaritan stopped. And did.

‘Dougla’ Jesus and the call to do

Faith without action is dead (cf Jas 2:26). Bishop Robert Barron, preaching from Florence among marble and masterpieces, reminds us that the Samaritan’s compassion mirrors Jesus Himself—divine and human, oil and wine, Spirit and flesh. Christ is the ultimate Dougla, our half-breed Saviour—marginal and majestic, pouring sacramental balm into our wounds on the road to Jericho.

In the Caribbean, we feel stories in our bones. That downhill road from Jerusalem to Jericho isn’t just topography—it’s metaphor. It’s the path of those walking away from Mount Zion, from faith, purpose, and dignity.

As Lord Kitchener sang of Jericho, we know what it means to be half-dead at the roadside, robbed of truth, of will, of joy.

I’ve been there, too. Once, rushing to Mass, I saw a man with dreadlocks hitching a drop by the roadside. I judged, passed, and pressed on. At church, there he was—in the front pew. Ashamed, I had to pause mid-homily and apologise. Like the Samaritan, I should’ve crossed the road with compassion, not crossed him off in my mind.

Faith that touches wounds

Religion without empathy is a farce. Knowledge without love is noise. Treating someone well—whether you like them, agree with them, or even know their name or status —is what makes our faith real. That’s the scandal of the Samaritan story: love came from the ‘wrong’ one.

And it’s not just about pity; it’s about doing.

A girl praying during Adoration, deeply upset about caged birds, was once told: “Stop just praying! Get up and open the cage.” Mercy acts.

The Samaritan used all five senses: he saw, approached, touched, poured oil, lifted, spoke, walked, and returned to pay. The sacramental life of the Church begins when we get our hands dirty. Whether it’s a muddy wheel from a fallen cart or the scent of oil on a broken body, those are the things that tip the scale toward eternal life. Not titles. Not piety. Not intellectualism. Just raw, inconvenient love.

From the altar to the asphalt

In Trinidad and Tobago, we dance, we lime, we praise, but let’s not forget to pause. To see. To touch. To treat someone well, not because they deserve it, but because Jesus might be lying there, half-dead, hoping we don’t walk past.

If we truly believe in Christ, then we must become the Samaritan at every moment. Because the man in the gutter is Jesus. And the Church isn’t just on the altar. It’s on the asphalt.

So I ask again: who is your neighbour?

Go and do likewise. And you will be a saint.