Proper 10C (Pentecost 5 2025)

Text: Luke 10:25–37

I. The Lawyer’s Question: “Who is my neighbor?”

The man who stood up to question Jesus was not a skeptic or an atheist. He was a lawyer—an expert in the Law of God. He believed in the Scriptures. He likely took his religious obligations seriously.

And yet, he wanted to know: “Who is my neighbor?”

That might strike us as a silly question, a childish one— perhaps you hear Mr. Rogers singing, “Won’t you be my neighbor…." In reality, it is a profoundly human question.

Because when the lawyer asked, “Who is my neighbor?” it was not a request for guidance. It was a search for limits.

Luke tells us plainly: the man asked it because he wanted to justify himself. He wanted to know when he could say that he had done enough. He wanted to know whom he did and did not need to love to still remain righteous. He wanted to know who counted—and who did not.

But Jesus does not let the lawyer hide behind those kinds of artificial categories. And He will not let you either. Jesus told this parable to unmask the lawyer’s sinful self-justification. And, this morning, it should do the same for you.

We tend to think of it as nice story about teaching you to be more compassionate. It is that, but before you can understand what compassion truly requires, Jesus needs to show you something else first. He needs to unmask your sinful self-justification by teaching you the parable’s real lesson: the compassion He has shown to you.

II. The Mirror: The Parable Exposes You

When Jesus answers the lawyer's question, He does not give him a definition. Jesus answers him with a story.

“A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and he fell among robbers…” This is not an abstract scenario. It is a real road that people actually traveled. He is describing a danger they understood.

And Jesus fills it with characters that sound familiar: A priest. A Levite. A Samaritan.

The priest and the Levite are not monsters. They are not wicked in obvious ways. They had nothing to do with beating and robbing the man. They are, in many respects, honorable people—faithful, devoted, busy with important things.

But they see the man in need—and keep walking.

You can almost hear the inner voice: “I do not know him.” “He is not part of my community.” “I have enough to manage already.”

That is the very pattern we saw in the lawyer's question.

Not hatred. Not hard-heartedness. Just the slow drift toward insulation.

Just the quiet assumption that these are my people… and those people are not.

Does that sound at all familiar? We are still debating this lawyer’s question today.

Just a couple of months ago, U.S. Vice President J.D. Vance made headlines when he said: “There is a Christian concept that you love your family and then you love your neighbor and then you love your community, and then you love your fellow citizens in your own country, and then, after that, you can focus and prioritize the rest of the world.”

Some people heard that and said, “Exactly. That is common sense. We cannot be responsible for everyone.” Others heard it and said, “That is exactly the problem. That kind of thinking has kept the Church drawing lines between ‘us’ and ’them’ and ignoring ‘their' suffering.”

So who is right?

Both.

Scripture teaches that caring for your own household is a basic Christian responsibility. St. Paul wrote to Timothy, “8 But if anyone does not provide for his relatives, and especially for members of his household, he has denied the faith and is worse than an unbeliever (1 Timothy 5:8). God does place you in a home, a neighborhood, a church. Your responsibilities to the people in your home are different from the people in your neighborhood which are different from your responsibilities to people at church, etc. Not every relationship is the same. Not every need is equally within your reach.

At the same time, Jesus’ parable warns you about where this thinking can go. You do not say it aloud, of course. But the impulse is there: “How much do I have to care?” “Am I really responsible for them?” “Are those people really my problem?”

Those dividing lines between who you care about and who you don’t have to care about can be very subtle, can’t they? At the same time, they are very clear.

Whether we are talking about public policy or the way we interact with the people around us in our own community, they are subtle because you rarely, if ever, show open hostility or hardened hearts—it is simply a question of familiarity.

You tell yourself it is not about hate. It is not about hard hearts. You are simply looking after your own. You have enough to manage already. The lines are very subtle.

And yet, at the same time, those dividing lines are very clear. You gravitate toward the people you have always known. You trust those who share your background or your name. And slowly, almost imperceptibly, you begin to see others as nearby but not truly yours—present in the community, but not part of your concern.

So when someone struggles… when someone shows up whom you do not recognize… when someone does not quite fit… You do not lash out. You do not curse them.

You just keep walking.

You pass by on the other side—not with cruelty, but with distance.

But in Jesus’ story, that distance is enough to condemn.

Because in the kingdom of God, being a neighbor is not about bloodlines or proximity. It is not about familiarity or comfort. Being a neighbor is something you become—when mercy moves you across the road.

That is the real reversal of the story.

The lawyer asked, “Who is my neighbor?”—as if being a neighbor were about drawing lines between different categories of people.

But listen again to what Jesus asks in reply: “Who became a neighbor to the man?” Being a neighbor is not about geography, familiarity, or shared background. It is not defined by property lines or categories. It is defined by mercy—by drawing near to the one in need.

So consider carefully: Who is your neighbor?

You have drawn lines where Jesus calls you to show mercy.

You have passed by those whom Christ died for.

You have failed—not in loud, visible ways—but in quiet, familiar, habitual ones.

Can you really justify the distance you put between yourself and them? Can you justify the artificial categories you create?

Jesus does not let the lawyer hide behind categories. And He will not let you either.

III. The Gospel Turn: “But a Samaritan, as he journeyed, came to where he was…”

Thankfully the story does not end after the priest and the Levite pass by.

Jesus introduces someone unexpected—someone despised by the lawyer and his peers. Jesus chooses a Samaritan— the one the lawyer would least expect. That is where the mercy the man so desperately needs comes from. Just as it does for you.

The Samaritan draws near. He sees him. He has compassion. He binds his wounds. He lifts him up and bears his weight. He pays the cost. And he promises to return.

Does that sound like someone you know?

The Samaritan is a picture—almost a parable within the parable—of your Lord Jesus Christ.

Despised by men. Yet full of mercy.

He did not walk past you. He crossed the road. He crossed the boundary between heaven and earth. He found you—not just wounded, not just weak, but dead in trespasses and sins. And He had compassion.

He came for the broken, yes. But also for the ones who walked by. For the priest. For the Levite. For the lawyer. For all those who knew what they should do—and did nothing.

For you.

You were not just wounded. You were far worse. You were the one who passed by the wounded. You were the one who drew lines around your compassion. And still, He stepped over every barrier to come to you.

He did not wait for you to become compassionate. He came while you were still justifying yourself. He found you in your failure. And He laid you across His own shoulders. He bore your burden— not only your weakness, but your sin. He carried you all the way to the cross.

There, He was stripped, wounded, and left for dead— not by accident, but by design. That was the price of your healing.

And, in due time, He came to you personally, bandaged up the wounds of your sin with the oil of His grace, and brought you into the safety of His Church— where you are watched over, nourished, and healed.

He has poured water over your wounds in Holy Baptism. He feeds you with His own body and blood— the medicine of immortality. And He has promised to return.

You cannot justify yourself. But He has justified you. By His wounds, you are healed. By His mercy, you are made righteous.

IV. The Sending: “You go, and do likewise.”

As we heard last Sunday, discipleship—serving others, caring for others—is not optional for Christians. Jesus does not ask for volunteers; He sends disciples.

This reading clarifies something else: discipleship is not a solo journey.

It is not a private spiritual project. It is not just about you making better decisions or doing more good. The Samaritan may act alone in the parable, but you do not walk alone in reality. Christ gathers His people into a body—a community formed by mercy.

The mercy Christ gives you does not just forgive your sins; it re-forms your life. And it does so in the company of others. You are shaped by the Word, fed at the altar, strengthened by your brothers and sisters, and then sent out—together—to show the world what that mercy looks like.

Let me put it this way: You can feel compassion as an individual. But you become a neighbor in community.

It is only as we togetherstop drawing lines between “us” and “them”…

…only as we togethersee people in need not as interruptions or threats, but as those Christ died for…

…only as we togetherbind wounds, carry burdens, and open our lives to strangers… that the Church begins to look like what it truly is: the inn where the wounded are brought, the table where the broken are fed, the house where the dying are made alive.

That is what your Good Samaritan has done for you.

You go and do likewise.