During my final year of seminary, I remember walking into the grocery store, lost in my own thoughts—big assignments, theological puzzles, the weight of seminary life, and all the things I had to get done before graduating. Out of the corner of my eye I saw something odd at my feet: an elderly woman collapsing to the floor.

What did I do?

Nothing.

I just kept walking. Thinking my big theological thoughts.

Suddenly, someone else’s voice broke through: “Ma’am, are you alright?” That’s when it clicked—holy sh*t, there’s a woman on the ground. I finally bent down, helped her up. She whispered, embarrassed, that she had simply missed the stool she was trying to sit on. I told her the truth: “No, ma’am, I’m embarrassed. I nearly walked past you.”

Later, when I told the story online, one of my professors said: “Tom, your religious beliefs should never take you out of this world, but plant you more firmly within it.”

Those words hit me hard. Even to this day.

Jesus once told a story about this very thing. A man wanted to know how to inherit eternal life. The answer was simple: love God and love your neighbor. But instead of living it, the man wanted to debate definitions: “Who exactly is my neighbor?”

So Jesus told him a story. A man is beaten and left for dead. A priest and a temple assistant pass him by.

But the one who stops and notices? He was a mere Samaritan—the very person the man would’ve considered his enemy.

The point is painfully clear: neighbor isn’t about definitions. Neighbor is about action. It’s about noticing suffering and responding in mercy.

But here’s the kicker: you cannot do that unless you slow down long enough to notice what’s happening around you. Unless you make the intentional decision to be planted firmly within this life.

I once read a psychological study that tested this with :: ehem :: seminary students. A select group of the students were asked to prepare talks on the Good Samaritan passage. And others were asked to simply go about their day. But during the day, the testers placed a man slumped to the ground, coughing in the path of both groups. The question they wanted to ask is, Is priming the students with the Good Samaritan story enough to get them to stop and help? Would those who recently read and taught on the parable be more inclined to stop?

Well, it turns out the answer is no.

When interviewing both sets of students afterward, the single most important factor across both groups was whether they were in in a hurry. If they felt late, they stepped right over the coughing, slumped man. It didn’t matter whether they’re recently read the Good Samaritan or not.

Our busyness might be the greatest barrier to love. It’s not that we don’t care. It’s that we don’t have time to care. But when we’re too rushed to say yes to people, we’re really saying no to God.

Nobody gets to the end of life wishing they had checked one more thing off their to-do list. They wish they had slowed down, paid attention, and loved people well.

Don’t miss the Samaritan right in front of you. Don’t walk past the elderly woman on the floor. This world is crying out for help. All you have to do is stop and listen. The church should model slowness. It’s the only way to rehumanize the world and notice it’s God-saturated truths.