Deut. 30:10-14; Psalm 69:14, 17, 30-31, 33-34, 36, 37; Colo 1:15-20, Luke 10:25-37.
But the conversation didn’t end there. Wanting to justify himself, the man pressed further: “And who is my neighbor?” (v. 29). This was no simple curiosity. It was a calculated attempt to define the limits of love. Surely “neighbor” didn’t include everyone. Maybe just family? Fellow Jews? Those who shared his worldview? The man wanted boundaries; Jesus offered a story—a story that shattered every barrier.
Jesus begins by setting the scene: a man was traveling from Jerusalem to Jericho, a notoriously dangerous road, steep and winding, often haunted by robbers. Predictably, this man was attacked—stripped, beaten, and left half-dead. Jesus gives the victim no name, no background. He is not a Jew or Gentile, not rich or poor. He is simply “a man”—a human being in desperate need. And here begins the moral test of the story.
First comes a priest—holy, respected, versed in the law. He sees the man but crosses to the other side. Then comes a Levite—another religious official, possibly even a temple servant. He, too, sees and passes by. Why did they avoid the dying man? Perhaps they feared becoming ritually unclean. Maybe they were afraid of being ambushed themselves. Perhaps they had duties to perform, sacrifices to offer, or simply didn’t want to get involved. Whatever their reasons, they represent the failure of religion without compassion. They remind us that spiritual status does not guarantee moral integrity.
This echoes God’s rebuke in Isaiah 58, where He says, “Is not this the kind of fasting I have chosen—to loose the chains of injustice, to share your food with the hungry, and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter?” God does not want hollow rituals or performance-based religion. He wants a heart that sees and serves. The priest and Levite embody what it means to “do religion” while forgetting love. They had theology but no mercy, holiness but no humanity.
Then Jesus introduces a third character: “But a Samaritan…” For Jews of that time, Samaritans were heretics, foreigners, enemies. Their centuries-old religious and ethnic feud had created walls of hatred and mistrust. So when Jesus made the Samaritan the hero of the story, it was scandalous. Yet this outsider does what the insiders won’t. He sees the man, is moved with compassion, and goes to him. He binds his wounds, pours oil and wine—a symbol of healing—and places him on his own donkey. He takes him to an inn, pays for his care, and even pledges to return and cover any extra expenses.
The Samaritan does not ask if the man is Jewish or Samaritan. He does not question whether the man deserves help. He simply sees a wounded human being and responds. His compassion is practical, costly, and inconvenient. And in that, he becomes a reflection of true love—the kind Jesus both models and demands.
The Hebrew Scriptures also offer parallels. In the book of Ruth, Boaz goes out of his way to care for Ruth, a Moabite foreigner and widow. He ensures her safety, provides for her needs, and eventually redeems her, marrying her despite social stigma. Like the Samaritan, Boaz breaks through cultural boundaries to show kindness. Or consider Joseph in Genesis. Betrayed by his brothers, he rises to power in Egypt and later forgives and rescues the very ones who tried to destroy him. Compassion, at its core, is redemptive.
Throughout history, we find individuals who, like the Samaritan, stepped into the suffering of others—often at great personal cost. Oskar Schindler, a member of the Nazi party, risked everything to save over 1,200 Jews during the Holocaust. Despite his flaws—he was a heavy drinker and morally compromised in many ways—he was moved by the sight of innocent people being brutalized. He acted, not out of perfection, but out of conscience. His compassion rewrote lives.
Another example is Harriet Tubman, who escaped slavery in the United States and returned—again and again—to rescue others. Nicknamed “Moses,” she led dozens to freedom through the Underground Railroad. She did not have wealth, power, or formal education. What she had was courage and conviction. Like the Samaritan, she risked her own safety to lift others from danger.
In Pakistan, Abdul Sattar Edhi founded one of the largest volunteer ambulance networks in the world. He also opened orphanages, clinics, and shelters for the mentally ill. When asked about his religion, he simply said, “My religion is humanitarianism.” He served Christians, Muslims, Hindus—anyone in need. His life, like that of the Good Samaritan, reminds us that love has no passport.
In more recent times, we saw modern-day Samaritans in the form of healthcare workers during the COVID-19 pandemic. Doctors, nurses, janitors, and paramedics walked into overcrowded hospitals and worked tirelessly—often without adequate protection. Some died caring for patients they had never met. Their sacrifice mirrored the Samaritan’s willingness to stop, serve, and pay a price for the healing of another.
We also see Good Samaritans among volunteers at refugee camps across the world—from Greece to Sudan, from Lebanon to the U.S. border. People who feed, clothe, and shelter strangers, often motivated not by ideology, but by a simple sense of human dignity. These people answer the question “Who is my neighbor?” with their hands and feet.
After telling the parable, Jesus asks the lawyer, “Which of these three do you think was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of robbers?” The lawyer replies, “The one who showed him mercy.” Jesus responds with a command, not a suggestion: “Go and do likewise.” That is the heartbeat of Christian discipleship—not only to believe in mercy, but to embody it.
This parable forces us to reflect: how often do we cross to the other side? How many times have we seen suffering and moved on? There’s a true story about a pastor who disguised himself as a homeless man and sat outside his church before service. Most people ignored him, some looked away, a few offered coins. Then, at the start of the sermon, he walked up the aisle, removed the disguise, and read from Luke 10. The congregation was stunned. That morning, they had passed by the man in the ditch.
But let’s be honest: it’s not easy. What keeps us from being Good Samaritans? Sometimes it’s fear—we worry about our safety or reputation. Sometimes it’s prejudice—we think, “They’re not my kind.” Sometimes it’s busyness—we say, “I don’t have time.” And sometimes it’s despair—we feel, “I can’t fix everything.” But we’re not called to fix everything. We are called to love the one in front of us. The Samaritan didn’t reform the Jericho road. He helped the man lying on it.
And if we look deeper, this parable is not just about what we must do—it’s about what God has done. In truth, we are the ones lying in the ditch—stripped, wounded, left for dead by sin. The Law and religion saw us and passed by. But Jesus—despised, rejected, like a Samaritan—came to us. He bound our wounds, carried our burdens, and paid for our healing with His own blood. Jesus is the ultimate Good Samaritan. And He now says to us, “As I have loved you, so you must love one another.”
So what does “go and do likewise” look like today? It means interrupting your schedule to help someone in need. It means loving across racial, political, and cultural lines. It means choosing mercy over judgment, presence over indifference, action over apathy.
The road to Jericho still runs through our neighborhoods, offices, schools, and cities. People still lie wounded—physically, emotionally, spiritually. The world does not need more Levites and priests who pass by. It needs Samaritans. It needs people like you and me to stop, see, and serve.
Let us not merely admire the story. Let us live it. The question is not “Who is my neighbor?” The real question is: Will you be one?
Satish