Sometimes we ask questions because we genuinely want an answer.
And sometimes we ask questions because we’re hoping the answer will let us off the hook.
A religious expert once stood up while Jesus was teaching and asked Him:
“Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?”
— Luke 10:25
This wasn’t a man unfamiliar with Scripture.
Quite the opposite.
He was an expert in the Law. He knew the commands. He knew the theology. He had probably spent years studying, memorizing, interpreting, and teaching Scripture.
So Jesus answered his question with another question.
“What is written in the Law? How do you read it?”
The man knew exactly what to say.
Love God with all your heart, soul, strength, and mind.
And love your neighbor as yourself.
Jesus tells him he’s answered correctly.
“Do this and you will live.”
And that’s where things get uncomfortable.
Because knowing what Scripture says and actually doing what Scripture says are two very different things.
So the man asks another question.
“And who is my neighbor?”
Luke tells us why he asked.
He wanted to justify himself.
In other words:
Okay, Jesus. But let’s define the boundaries here.
Who exactly am I required to love?
Who counts?
Surely there are limits.
Jesus doesn’t give him a list.
He tells him a story.
A Man in a Ditch
A man was traveling from Jerusalem to Jericho when robbers attacked him.
They stripped him, beat him, and left him half dead beside the road.
Then a priest came along.
If anyone should have helped, surely it would be him.
He saw the wounded man.
And passed by on the other side.
Then a Levite came.
Another religious man.
He saw him too.
And passed by.
We can spend a lot of time speculating about why they didn’t stop.
Maybe they were worried about their own safety.
Maybe they were in a hurry.
Maybe stopping would have complicated their plans.
Maybe they had a perfectly reasonable explanation in their own minds.
Jesus doesn’t tell us.
And I think that matters.
Because whatever their reasons were, the result was the same:
They saw a person who needed mercy and chose not to give it.
The man in the ditch was less important than whatever made them keep walking.
That’s uncomfortable too.
Because sometimes we can become very skilled at explaining why someone else’s need isn’t our responsibility.
We’re busy.
We’re tired.
Someone else is better equipped.
It’s inconvenient.
They got themselves into this mess.
We don’t know them.
We don’t agree with them.
We don’t particularly like them.
Maybe someone else will stop.
And we keep walking.
Then Came a Samaritan
Jesus’ audience probably knew where this story was going.
A priest.
A Levite.
And then…
Surely the third person would finally be the good Jewish layman who did what the religious leaders failed to do.
Except Jesus says:
“But a Samaritan, as he traveled, came where the man was…”
A Samaritan.
That word doesn’t hit us the way it hit Jesus’ original audience.
We hear “Good Samaritan” and think of a nice person who stops to change somebody’s tire.
They heard something very different.
The hostility between Jews and Samaritans had existed for centuries. Their history was tangled with religious disagreement, ethnic division, political conflict, and deep resentment.
They didn’t simply disagree.
They despised one another.
And Jesus just made the Samaritan the hero of the story.
He Came Where the Man Was
The Samaritan sees the wounded man too.
But his response is different.
He has compassion.
Then he moves toward him.
He bandages his wounds.
He uses his own supplies.
He puts the injured man on his own animal.
He takes him to an inn.
He stays and cares for him.
The next day, he pays the innkeeper and promises to cover any additional expenses when he returns.
This wasn’t a passing moment of sympathy.
The Samaritan’s compassion cost him something.
Time.
Money.
Supplies.
Convenience.
Probably comfort.
Possibly even safety.
He didn’t simply feel badly about what had happened.
Mercy moved him to action.
There’s that idea again.
What we actually believe eventually shows up in what we do.
Jesus Changes the Question
Remember what the lawyer asked:
“Who is my neighbor?”
But notice what Jesus asks at the end of the story:
“Which of these three do you think was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of robbers?”
Jesus changes the question.
The lawyer wanted to know:
Who qualifies to receive my love?
Jesus asks:
What kind of person are you going to be?
That’s a very different question.
The first lets me draw a circle.
These people are my neighbors.
Those people aren’t.
These people deserve my compassion.
Those people don’t.
These people are my responsibility.
Those people can be somebody else’s problem.
But Jesus doesn’t seem particularly interested in helping us construct those boundaries.
Instead, He shows us a man who sees suffering and crosses the boundaries anyway.
“The One Who Had Mercy”
Jesus asks the lawyer which man was the neighbor.
The answer is obvious.
And yet the lawyer can’t even bring himself to say Samaritan.
He answers:
“The one who had mercy on him.”
That’s how deep the hostility ran.
Even after hearing the story, he couldn’t say the word.
And Jesus responds:
“Go and do likewise.”
Not:
Go and agree with this.
Not:
Go and memorize this.
Not:
Go and have a really interesting theological discussion about this.
Go and do likewise.
The lawyer already knew the Scripture.
That wasn’t his problem.
The question was whether what he knew would actually change how he lived.
The People We’d Rather Not Love
It’s easy to love people who are easy to love.
People who think like us.
Vote like us.
Worship like us.
Look like us.
Live like us.
People who are grateful when we help.
People whose choices we approve of.
People who make us comfortable.
But that’s not much of a test of love.
Jesus deliberately put someone His audience despised at the center of this story.
So perhaps we shouldn’t rush past that part.
Who would you rather Jesus not make the Samaritan?
Who is the person—or the kind of person—you’d rather not be obligated to love?
Someone from a different political party?
Someone whose theology makes you crazy?
Someone whose lifestyle you strongly disagree with?
Someone who has hurt you?
Someone who has made terrible choices?
Someone you think should know better?
Someone who doesn’t deserve your help?
That last one is particularly dangerous.
Because if we’re going to start deciding who deserves mercy, Christians should probably remember how we received ours.
Mercy Doesn’t Ask Who Deserves It
The man lying beside the road doesn’t do anything to earn the Samaritan’s compassion.
He can’t.
He’s half dead.
The Samaritan doesn’t interrogate him first.
He doesn’t ask about his theology.
He doesn’t ask how he votes.
He doesn’t ask whether he made wise choices that morning.
He doesn’t determine whether this man’s situation is partially his own fault.
He sees someone in need.
And he shows mercy.
That’s not the same thing as approving of everything another person believes or does.
Love doesn’t require us to call wrong things right.
Jesus certainly didn’t.
But disagreement doesn’t release us from the command to love.
Neither does inconvenience.
Neither does difference.
And neither does dislike.
Who Is My Neighbor?
Maybe the lawyer’s question is still our question.
Who exactly do I have to love?
We’d like a boundary.
Jesus gives us a Samaritan.
We’d like a definition.
Jesus gives us a wounded man.
We’d like to know the minimum requirement.
Jesus shows us costly mercy.
And then He turns the whole question around.
Maybe instead of asking:
“Who is my neighbor?”
we should ask:
“Am I being one?”
Because sometimes the person who knows Scripture best can still walk right past the person lying in the ditch.
Jesus doesn’t call us merely to know what love requires.
He says:
“Go and do likewise.”
The Table 