0
0
A sermon preached at St. Thomas Episcopal Church on July 13, 2025.
Scriptures: Amos 7:7-17, Psalms 82, Colossians 1:1-14, Luke 10:25-37
When I studied the scripture this week, three truths emerged for me: First, we live in a world filled with danger. Second, the only way to stay safe is to care for each other. And third, when danger is present, we are the heroes we’ve been waiting for.
I could just end it there and we could all go home early. But I’ve been asked to elaborate. So, I will.
Our Gospel this morning is the Good Samaritan. Most of us know the story. It’s about person who helps another in a time of crisis. Charities, hospitals, roadside assistance are all named after the Good Samaritan. We even have Good Samaritan laws to protect Good Samaritans from getting sued should something go wrong.
It’s one of the first stories we learn in Sunday School. And, even if you’ve never been to church or if you were raised another faith, the Good Samaritan is so embedded in our culture, most of us know what it means to be one. Or at least we think we do.
The story starts with a lawyer testing Jesus knowledge of the law of Moses. The word for “test” here means he is putting Jesus on trial. However, lawyers in Jesus’ day were not the same as lawyers are today. He doesn’t litigate. So Jesus isn’t literally on trial. The lawyer is more a scholar and teacher of the Torah, the Law of Moses. Lawyers like him studied and argued and picked apart the law in order to understand what God wanted of us. And they’d been doing this for hundreds of years.
So, when this lawyer approaches Jesus, he’s checking him. Because this is the same Jesus who’s been preaching and healing and casting out demons – and growing very, very popular. Jesus seems to have the skills, but does he know the law?
So, the lawyer asks Jesus, “Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?” The lawyer is not asking about heaven. That wasn’t a central question in first-century Jewish theology. He’s asking about what he must do to be fulfilled in this life. What must I do to live life in all its abundance? This isn’t pie in the sky, when we all get to heaven. This is eternal life that’s experienced here and now.
Jesus tosses it back over to the lawyer by answering his question with a question: “What’s written in the law? How do you interpret it?” The lawyer answers by quoting Deuteronomy: “Love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul and strength.” Then he quotes Leviticus by saying “and love your neighbor as yourself.”
Jesus says, “Correct! You already know what to do. So do it.”
Now the lawyer looks a little like an idiot. He asked a question he already knew the answer to. So why ask it?
Because the crux of the matter is in the next question: “And who is my neighbor?”
You see, lawyer didn’t fully quote the Leviticus passage. It states, “You shall not take vengeance or bear a grudge against any of your people, but you shall love your neighbor as yourself: I am the Lord.” In fact, the command to “love your neighbor as yourself,” in Leviticus is always in the context of “your people” and “your kin.” So, the lawyer wants to know, “Who are my people? Who are my kin and how far does that bloodline go? Who are my neighbors so I can love them and receive eternal life, and just as importantly, who are not my neighbors, so I don’t have to?”
This time, Jesus answers with a story.
A man, presumably a Jewish man, goes down from Jerusalem to Jericho, traveling alone. Bandits jump him, beat him, strip him, and leave him for dead on the side of the road. This is not an unfamiliar story. Everyone listening would know that the road to Jericho was filled with twists and turns where robbers often hid. Muggings happened so often, they called it the Way of Blood.
A priest and a Levite, both Jewish like the man, both religious leaders, also happen to travel alone on the road to Jericho. When they see the man beaten and naked by the side of the road, they each cross to the other side. They don’t just avert their eyes. They make a point to walk to the opposite side of the road to avoid him.
That’s understandable. It’s a dangerous road and the world is a dangerous place. It could be a trick. They could get jumped and end up just like him. It would be foolish go over there and help him. We’ve heard it said they were concerned with becoming ritually unclean. But I doubt that was the case. They were leaving Jerusalem, leaving the temple, so they already performed their service there. They didn’t need to worry about being unclean for the temple.
The priest and the Levite knew the Law of Moses, just like the lawyer. And the law is very clear – if someone is in danger, you are required to help – unclean or not. And they chose not to.
Then the Samaritan comes along – our hero. But there’s more to tell than what Jesus says in the story. A Good Samaritan isn’t just someone who unselfishly helps another. In the story, the Samaritan is hated by the very person he helps. And everyone listening would know that.
In first century Palestine, Jews and Samaritans despise each other. Both come from the twelve tribes of Israel, but the nation split seven hundred years before. Even though they are of the same blood, even though they worship the same God and follow the same Law of Moses, and even though on a map they are physically neighbors, Samaritans and Jews isolated themselves from each other along political and religious differences. They hated each other so much, they took the long way around when they traveled, so they didn’t have to go through each other’s territories.
As an illustration, in the chapter before this, Jesus tries to visit a Samaritan village, but they refuse to receive him. They don’t want him there. And yet, Jesus still tells this story of a Samaritan who follows the law of Moses, while the priest and the Levite do not.
The Samaritan comes near to the man. It says that he is moved with compassion as if his heart were going to burst. He doesn’t cross to the other side. He goes to the man, bandages his wounds, gives him first aid, puts him on his animal, and takes him to an inn, where he cares for him all night. The next day, he continues his journey, but not before he gives the innkeeper two day’s wages and tells him to take care of the man. He promises to return and repay the innkeeper whatever he spends on him.
And so, Jesus asks the lawyer, who was the neighbor? Not who is my neighbor, as if an obligation. As if being a neighbor is in some way transactional so you get eternal life. He asks who behaved like a neighbor, who loved without looking for a loophole, who should we all be lucky enough to come across when the world is dangerous and we need to be safe?
Let me point out that the lawyer won’t even say the word “Samaritan.” He answers, “the one who showed him mercy.”
And Jesus tells him, “Go and do likewise.”
The world is a dangerous place. The man on the road to Jericho reached safety because an outsider cared, because someone who is hated and reviled realized that no one else was coming to save the day but him. To me, that’s the biggest miracle in this story – not that a man was saved, but that a Samaritan found the courage and the kindness to help someone who would not have done the same for him. He chose compassion over hate, with no obvious benefit for himself.
We don’t see a lot of compassion today. Traditional media and social media are filled with vitriol and images of bombed-out cities or people locked in cages. And when we do see compassion, it’s mocked as weak and foolish. Ironically, it’s even considered dangerous.
I think there’s a reason for that.
When we care, really care for others, we are strong – stronger than the racism and hatred and differences between us. We are strong enough to make each other safe.
But there are people in this world who profit from our hatred. They seek to divide us. They count on us being isolated in a dangerous world. They want us living in fear. They want us to believe that we can only count on ourselves. This is how they stay in power.
That kind of life is not eternal. It’s not even sustainable. It’s not how we, as humans, evolved. We came to thrive by relying on each other, sharing resources, joining forces – in spite our differences. And we became stronger because of those differences.
In a compassionless world, where we are all walking the same dangerous road, far apart from each other, crossing the divide is a radical act. Coming near is revolution. Because caring is our superpower. Caring turns us into the heroes we’ve been waiting for.
The prophet Amos, whom we read this morning, warns us that caring will cost us. We’ll make enemies of powerful people who grow their wealth on the backs of the poor, who pervert justice to their own ends, and who turn the truth into lies. They get away with it when we are too afraid to care, when we believe that life is transactional, and when we are too wrapped up in our own safety to worry about the safety of another.
Change starts with us by spreading truth, demanding justice, and healing our world – even if it’s inconvenient, even if it costs us, even if we have to stop what we’re doing and care for someone.
In a world where we are bombarded with pain and suffering, lies and injustice, with no end in sight, I realize we need to take care of our own headspace. I do what I can to take care of my own. But choosing to turn away is not the prescription to our problem – nor does it protect us in any way.
We need to ground ourselves in truth, surround ourselves with community, and feel all the feelings until our hearts are about to burst.
It’s a dangerous world, y’all. Stay safe. Care for one another. And may we all become the heroes we’ve been waiting for. Amen.
