The Good Samaritan

The Good Samaritan: True Mercy

Key Verse: Luke 10:37 – “Go and do likewise.” Text: Luke 10:25–37 Other Readings: Leviticus 19:9–18; James 2:14–17; Psalm 41

I. Introduction: The Question Behind the Question

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and from our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen.

It starts with a question. A question that sounds spiritual, noble even: “Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?” (Luke 10:25)

Ah the religious question, the question that plaques mankind since the fall. It’s not even that it’s a bad question on its face. After all, if there’s one question worth asking, that’s it. If eternal life is real—and it is—then nothing matters more than how one receives it.

But not all questions are asked with a sincere heart. Luke tells us from the outset that this man—a lawyer, a religious scholar—asked Jesus to test Him. He wasn’t hungry for the truth. He was playing games with it. This was a question not from faith, but from pride. He wanted to see how Jesus would respond. He was hoping to catch Him in a misstep, maybe draw Him into a theological snare. It was less of a question and more of a trap.

And Jesus, as He so often does, flips the question right back: “What is written in the Law? How do you read it?”

The man responds with precision—straight out of the Old Testament: “Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind” (Deut. 6:5) “and love your neighbor as yourself” (Lev. 19:18).

And Jesus says, “You have answered correctly. Do this, and you will live.”

Now, if you read that and feel a little tension—good. Because Jesus didn’t say “understand this” or “quote this.” He said, “Do this.” Love God—perfectly, constantly, with your whole being. Love your neighbor—not partially, not when it’s convenient, but as you love yourself.

Do this, and you will live.

But of course… no one has ever truly done this. Not like that. And that’s where the lawyer squirms.

He knows he’s been backed into a corner. He’s said the right words, but he can’t live up to them. So, Luke tells us, “he wanted to justify himself.” That’s a revealing phrase. It means he wanted to prove he was still in good standing. He wanted to make the Law manageable. Define the terms. Shrink the commandment down to something doable.

And so he asks: “Who is my neighbor?”

Do you see what he’s doing? He’s trying to draw a line. Narrow the field. If he can limit who qualifies as his neighbor, then maybe he can still get a passing grade.

But Jesus doesn’t answer his question with a list. He answers with a story.

And not just any story—one of His most familiar, most misunderstood parables.

Let me say this right up front: this is not just a story about being nice. It’s not a sentimental Sunday School lesson about helping people who are hurt.

This is a story that holds a mirror up to us—to our failure, to our self-justification, to our excuses.

And then… it turns the mirror into a window. A window into the heart of God. This parable is a call to repentance—and an invitation to receive true mercy. Mercy not as we define it, but as Jesus delivers it.

So don’t let its familiarity fool you. Because the man in the ditch isn’t just a character in a story. He’s you. And me.

And the One who comes near with mercy… is more than a good example. He’s our only hope.

Let’s take a closer look.

II. Law: We Fall Short of Loving Our Neighbor

(Luke 10:25–32; Leviticus 19:9–18; James 2:14–17)

Let’s walk into the parable that Jesus tells. It begins simply enough:

A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, when he fell into the hands of robbers. They stripped him of his clothes, beat him, and went away, leaving him half dead.

That road from Jerusalem to Jericho is real. Winding, rocky, and steep—it was notorious for danger. People knew to travel in groups, because thieves and ambushes were common. So the man’s fate here isn’t hypothetical—it’s a real danger. He’s been mugged, beaten, and left to die.

And now the test begins.

A priest—a religious leader—comes down the road. Surely, he of all people will stop.

But he sees the man… and passes by on the other side.

Then a Levite—a temple assistant, a man of God. He comes along. He sees… and walks on.

The crowd would have gasped here. But maybe not because they were shocked at what happened—maybe because they weren’t. They knew how religious people could be. Too busy. Too self-important. Too clean to get dirty. Afraid of being made unclean by touching a corpse. More concerned with ritual than mercy.

You and I aren’t priests or Levites. But we are religious people. And if we’re honest, we’ve all done the same.

We’ve all passed by.

We see a person in need and feel that uncomfortable tug in our gut. A neighbor who’s hurting. A friend who’s fallen on hard times. A relative we haven’t talked to because the last conversation didn’t go well. The person with the cardboard sign on the street corner.

We see them. But we pass by. Sometimes we justify it—“I don’t know if they’re telling the truth.” Sometimes we spiritualize it—“They should get help from church.” Sometimes we just plain ignore it.

It’s easy to condemn the priest and the Levite. But we’ve all walked in their sandals.

The Law of God is clear. Leviticus 19 doesn’t let us off easy:

“Do not be indifferent to your neighbor’s blood.” “Do not seek revenge or bear a grudge.” “Love your neighbor as yourself.”

Not as much as feels fair. Not as much as they deserve. As yourself. As if they were you.

James puts it even more bluntly:

“What good is it… if someone claims to have faith but has no deeds? Suppose a brother or sister is without clothes and daily food… and you say, ‘Go in peace; keep warm and well fed,’ but do nothing about their physical needs—what good is it?”

In other words, faith without mercy… is dead.

And if we think we’ve done well at this, the parable Jesus tells reveals otherwise.

You see, the lawyer in this passage thought he could check a box. He knew the Law. He could recite it. But he hadn’t let it break him.

And here’s the truth: the Law is not given to validate us. It’s given to expose us. Not to make us feel good, but to show us how far we fall short.

We don’t need tweaking. We need mercy.

We aren’t the Good Samaritan in this story. We’re the self-justifying lawyer. We’re the passers-by. And more than anything… we’re the half-dead man in the ditch.

If the sermon ended here, it would crush us. But it doesn’t.

Because Someone else walks down that road.

III. Gospel: Jesus Is the True Good Samaritan

(Luke 10:33–35; Psalm 41:1–3; Isaiah 53; Titus 3:4–7)

Just when the parable has left us feeling the weight of the Law… Just when we’re convicted of our indifference and inability to love as we should… A new character arrives on the scene.

A Samaritan.

Now, in our modern world, the word “Samaritan” conjures up kindness. We think of “Good Samaritan” laws, Samaritan’s Purse, Samaritan hospitals. But don’t let that modern halo sanitize the scandal.

In Jesus’ day, to call someone a Samaritan was an insult. They were ethnic and religious outsiders—viewed by Jews as half-breeds, heretics, unclean, untrustworthy. The hatred ran deep. Jews and Samaritans didn’t just ignore each other—they loathed each other. In fact, some Jewish rabbis taught that if a Samaritan was in distress, you were not obligated to help.

And so when Jesus introduces a Samaritan as the hero of the story… it would have shocked and offended His audience. This is the last person they would expect to be the neighbor.

But this Samaritan does something the priest and Levite wouldn’t.

He saw him—and had compassion.

He doesn’t cross the road. He crosses the boundary.

He went to him, and bound up his wounds, pouring on oil and wine. Then he set him on his own animal and brought him to an inn, and took care of him.

This is not a drive-by act of charity. This is costly, involved, up-close mercy.

He uses his time, his resources, his reputation, and risk to help a man who—by every cultural standard—should have been his enemy.

He pays the innkeeper and says, “Take care of him, and whatever more you spend, I will repay you when I come back.”

Now here’s the turn: Jesus isn’t just telling us to be nicer people. He’s not just laying out a model of neighborly ethics. He’s preaching Himself.

Jesus is the True Good Samaritan.

He saw us in our fallen condition—stripped, beaten, and left for dead by sin, Satan, and death.

He didn’t pass us by.

He came down that road. All the way from heaven to earth. And He saw us—in all our filth, fear, and failure—and had compassion.

He came to us in our helplessness—not with words of condemnation but with healing and hope.

“He took up our infirmities and carried our sorrows.” (Isaiah 53)

He stooped low to bind our wounds—not with oil and wine, but with blood and water from His pierced side.

He lifted us onto His own shoulders—bearing our sins in His own body on the cross.

He carried us to the inn—His Church—where He continues to care for us through Word and Sacrament.

And He paid for it all. Not with silver or gold, but with His holy, precious blood and His innocent suffering and death.

He has said to the innkeeper, to the Church: “Take care of them. Whatever it costs, I’ve already paid it—and I’m coming back.”

Jesus isn’t giving a lecture on charity. He’s giving grace to the undeserving.

This is not a parable about what you must do to be saved. It’s a parable about what Jesus has done to save you.

Psalm 41 says,

“Blessed is the one who considers the poor… The LORD sustains him on his sickbed; in his illness you restore him to full health.”

That’s not just a proverb. That’s a picture of Christ.

He doesn’t save the strong, the good, or the religious elite. He saves the broken—the ones lying in the ditch. He saves sinners—like you and me.

That’s mercy. Not earned. Not deserved. Not expected. But given—freely, fully, and forever.

IV. Sanctification: “Go and Do Likewise”

(Luke 10:36–37; James 2:18; Galatians 5:6; John 13:34–35)

Jesus finishes the story with a question. Not the one the lawyer asked—“Who is my neighbor?”—but the one that gets to the heart:

“Which of these three, do you think, proved to be a neighbor to the man who fell among the robbers?”

And the lawyer answers, almost grudgingly, “The one who showed him mercy.”

He can’t even bring himself to say “the Samaritan.” But he sees the point.

And Jesus says, “You go, and do likewise.”

Now, be careful here. This is not a pivot from Gospel back to Law. Jesus isn’t saying, “Do this to earn eternal life.” He already exposed that approach. That road is a dead end.

But now that the Gospel has been proclaimed—now that mercy has been received—Jesus sends us out to live as those who know mercy. Who’ve been rescued. Who remember what it was like to be in the ditch—and want to love others the way Christ first loved us.

This is the life of sanctification—not trying to earn anything from God, but living in joyful response to what He’s already done.

As James says,

“Show me your faith without deeds, and I will show you my faith by what I do.” (James 2:18)

Paul says in Galatians 5:6,

“The only thing that counts is faith working through love.”

Faith that receives Jesus’ mercy… now becomes the channel through which that mercy flows to others.

So, what does that look like?

It looks like stopping on the side of the road, literally or figuratively, when you’d rather pass by.

It looks like forgiving someone who doesn’t deserve it—because Christ forgave you when you didn’t deserve it.

It looks like crossing barriers, risking reputation, absorbing inconvenience—for the sake of someone who can’t pay you back.

It looks like loving your neighbor. Not in theory, but in practice.

Not asking, “Who is my neighbor?” But rather asking, “To whom can I be a neighbor today?”

Jesus has set you free—from the burden of self-justification. Now, in the freedom of the Gospel, you’re free to love.

Not perfectly. You’ll still fall short. But when you do, you don’t go back to the ditch alone. The same Jesus who rescued you once… will lift you up again.

Because your salvation does not depend on your perfect love for your neighbor. It rests entirely on Christ’s perfect mercy toward you.

And as that mercy works on your heart, you’ll begin to see the people around you not as interruptions, not as burdens, but as opportunities to reflect the love of Jesus.

As Jesus Himself said:

“By this all people will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.” (John 13:35)

V. True Mercy Is Christ’s Alone

So, how does Jesus answer the lawyer’s original question?

“What must I do to inherit eternal life?”

In the end, the answer is: You can’t do anything. You’re the man in the ditch.

Inheriting eternal life doesn’t come by performing good works, checking boxes, or parsing commandments down to their bare minimums.

Eternal life comes only when Jesus finds you, broken and helpless, and has mercy on you.

This parable isn’t a ladder you climb to get to heaven—it’s the stretcher Christ lays you on as He carries you there Himself.

He is the One who:

Sees you in your sin

Stops when no one else would

Stoops to bind your wounds

Sacrifices Himself to save you

Pays your debt in full

And promises to return for you

You don’t earn this mercy. You receive it. Freely. Undeserved. Abundantly.

That’s the Gospel.

It’s all Jesus. You don’t climb your way to heaven—He descends into the ditch to carry you out. You don’t earn God’s love—He gives it while you’re still bleeding and half-dead. You don’t justify yourself—He justifies the ungodly by His blood.

So when Jesus says, “Go and do likewise,” He’s not telling you to go save yourself. He’s saying, “Let My mercy flow through you. Because you know what it’s like to be rescued. You’ve lived in the ditch. And now you live by grace.”

And if you ever forget that—if guilt weighs you down, or pride blinds you again—remember this:

The Samaritan didn’t ask the man in the ditch, “Are you worth saving?” And Jesus didn’t ask that of you either.

He came. He saw. And He had compassion.

Thanks be to God. Amen.