Luke 10:25-37 / Good Samaritan

I invite you to turn to Luke chapter 10. We are going to continue in our series of parables that we have been working through this summer, and we are going to look at one that is very familiar to many of us.

I just got off an airplane a couple of days ago from Israel. I thought I was recovered from jet lag, and then I woke up at about two in the morning yesterday and realized, boy, I guess I am not! So I have been up for a while, but I am fully caffeinated and ready to go.

One of the profound things we got to do while we were in Israel was visit a place called Yad Vashem, the World Holocaust Remembrance Center. For any of you who have walked those halls and experienced that, you know there are few things more gut-wrenching in the world.

As shocking and staggering as the statistics of the Holocaust are, the thing that frightened me even more—the reality that stayed prevalent in my mind as we went through—was the breakdown of people in 1940s Europe regarding the Nazi regime. Only six to seven percent of the people in Europe actively supported what the Nazis were doing, agreeing with their philosophy and aiding them in extinguishing a population. On the other side, only 0.01% of the people in Europe took an active role in helping the Jews. At Yad Vashem, they have a memorial dedicated to people like Oskar Schindler and Corrie ten Boom, righteous individuals who aided and hid Jews knowing that if they didn’t step in, those people would certainly die.

Six to seven percent were on the side of the Nazis. Point zero one percent were actively helping. The question I asked was: what about the other ninety-plus percent? Where were they? If you had asked that 90%, “Hey, what do you think about the Nazis?” they would have said, “Well, I’m certainly not for them. I don’t agree with their philosophy. But what am I supposed to do? Should I get involved? I have a job. I have a family. Everything I love is at stake, and if I get involved, it could cost me everything.” So they chose to sit idly by and do nothing.

To a Jewish person, whether you were actively supporting the Nazis or sitting on the sidelines doing nothing, the result was the exact same. Ninety-nine percent of the population did not come to their aid. No help was offered.

Two fundamentally different questions were being asked by these groups. That 99% asked: “What will happen to me if I step in and help?” That was their philosophy—a “me-centered” universe. But that 0.01% asked a very different question: “What will happen to them if I don’t step in and do something?” That was a “them-centered” universe.

In the parable we are going to look at today, Jesus creates that exact same fork in the road. In the Parable of the Good Samaritan, Jesus sets up this exact situation.

The Setup: A Test of Honor

There are two important elements you need to know about the parables in Luke. First, Luke’s parables almost always have an element of shock. Somewhere in the story, if you were a first-century hearer, you would have heard something Jesus said or did that completely shocked you. That is part of why walking the land of Israel was so amazing for me. I am not a first-century Jew. I don’t inherently know all their ancient customs and habits. But when you understand the culture, the text that you read in black and white suddenly bursts into living color.

Second, in these parables, Jesus is always aiming to change something deep down. He points straight at people’s core belief systems with the goal of radically transforming how they think and live.

With that in mind, look at how this begins in verse 25.

Luke 10:25 (NASB)

And a lawyer stood up and put Him to the test, saying, ‘Teacher, what shall I do to inherit eternal life?’

A lawyer—a scribe and a Pharisee—stands up to put Jesus to the test, asking, “Teacher, what shall I do to inherit eternal life?” Fairly important question, right?

When you think of a scribe, understand that this man was a religious leader of the day. The Pharisees were a relatively small group—about 6,000 in number during Jesus’ day—but they were exceptionally influential. “Pharisee” wasn’t just a job title; it was a belief system. It was like identifying with a theological or political worldview. A Pharisee held a very high view of God, believed in angels and miracles, and believed Scripture should be applied directly to everyday life.

As a scribe, this man had the added responsibility of transcribing, preserving, and conserving the Torah, the Old Testament law. In his day, the Pharisees and scribes were the theological conservatives. In fact, of the major religious groups of that day, Jesus’ theology aligned most closely with the Pharisees, and our theology would as well.

You might ask, “Wait a minute, doesn’t Jesus rail on them in Matthew 23, calling them whitewashed tombs?” Jesus didn’t have a problem with their high view of Scripture; He had a problem with hypocrisy—with people saying one thing and doing another.

Now, enter Jesus. To a conservative scribe, Jesus had a habit that was deeply irritating. Jesus would take the Law of God and say things like, “You have heard that it was said, ‘You shall not commit adultery.’ But I say to you that everyone who looks at a woman with lustful intent has already committed adultery with her in his heart.” Jesus claimed ultimate authority over the Law. To a strict Pharisee, Jesus looked dangerously radical.

So in verse 25, the lawyer poses this question. He has two goals: first, to test Jesus and see what camp He falls into; and second, to engage in a formal, scripted debate. In a culture without modern entertainment, watching religious leaders debate the Law in public was a primary form of intellectual and cultural engagement. A crowd would gather around to watch. The host scribe would ask a general question, the visiting teacher would return a general answer, and they would volley back and forth until they established common ground. Finding that common ground allowed both parties to maintain honor and save face—which was paramount in that culture.

Once common ground was reached, the roles would switch: Jesus would ask questions, and the scribe would answer. So, having been asked a direct question about the Law in verse 25, Jesus is expected to answer.

Look at what He does in verse 26.

Luke 10:26 (NASB)

And He said to him, ‘What is written in the Law? How does it read to you?’

Jesus doesn’t give the expected answer; He throws a question right back. If you were in the crowd, you would think, This guy is not playing by the rules. But the scribe rolls with it and quotes the “CliffNotes” of the Old Testament.

Luke 10:27 (NASB)

And he answered, ‘YOU SHALL LOVE THE LORD YOUR GOD WITH ALL YOUR HEART, AND WITH ALL YOUR SOUL, AND WITH ALL YOUR STRENGTH, AND WITH ALL YOUR MIND; AND YOUR NEIGHBOR AS YOURSELF.’

He quotes the Shema from Deuteronomy 6:5 alongside Leviticus 19:18: Love God with all your heart, soul, mind, and strength, and love your neighbor as yourself. It is a brilliant, safe, orthodox answer. He is seeking common ground to maintain honor.

Deuteronomy 6:5 (NASB)

’You shall love the LORD your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your might.

Leviticus 19:18 (NASB)

’You shall not take vengeance, nor bear any grudge against the sons of your people, but you shall love your neighbor as yourself; I am the LORD.

Now it is Jesus’ turn to respond.

Luke 10:28 (NASB)

And He said to him, ‘You have answered correctly; DO THIS AND YOU WILL LIVE.’

Do you see what Jesus just did? With one sentence, Jesus backs the scribe completely into a corner. If the scribe says, “Oh yes, I have kept those commandments perfectly every single day of my life,” everyone watching would shout, “Liar! We know you!” But if he admits, “No, I haven’t done that,” then according to his own standard, he forfeits eternal life. He is utterly trapped.

Desperate to save face and preserve his honor, the scribe looks for a loophole.

Luke 10:29 (NASB)

But wishing to justify himself, he said to Jesus, ‘And who is my neighbor?’

He tosses himself a softball. “Who is my neighbor?” This question had been debated among Jewish scholars for centuries. To a first-century Jew, the answer was universally understood: My neighbor means other Jews. It did not mean Gentiles, pagans, or Samaritans. It meant people who looked like them, dressed like them, worshipped like them, and believed what they believed.

In our modern context, it would be like saying, “My neighbors are upper-class, churchgoing Christians who live in nice neighborhoods North of Herndon. I have no obligation to people who don’t love the Lord, and I certainly have no obligation to people living South of Shaw.” That was the scribe’s mindset. He assumed Jesus would validate his narrow, exclusive boundaries.

The Crime on the Jericho Road

Instead of playing along, Jesus launches into a vivid story.

Luke 10:30 (NASB)

Jesus replied and said, ’A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and fell among robbers, and they stripped him and beat him, and went away leaving him half dead.

Suddenly, the audience is hooked. Jesus isn’t just debating theology; He is narrating a crime scene.

Jerusalem to Jericho was a treacherous descent of roughly 3,300 feet along a narrow, winding dirt path tucked against rocky wadis and caves. It was notoriously dangerous. Bandits and robbers hid in the cliffs waiting to ambush travelers heading home from Jerusalem.

Jesus describes a man who is ambushed, stripped, beaten, and left half dead. In that honor-shame culture, stripping someone meant taking their valuable outer garments, leaving him in a basic undergarment. Luke, writing as a physician, specifically notes that the man was “half dead.” That means the victim was unconscious, unable to speak, and rapidly slipping away.

Notice the intentional ambiguity in Jesus’ description: the man has no outer clothes to indicate his social status, he is unconscious so you cannot hear his dialect or accent, and you cannot tell his heritage. The scribe listening to the story is left completely in the dark, wondering: Is this man my neighbor? Am I legally obligated to help him, or can I walk away?

Then Jesus introduces the next character.

Luke 10:31 (NASB)

’And by chance a priest was going down on that road, and when he saw him, he passed by on the other side.

If you were in that original Jewish audience, you would think, Wonderful! A priest! This is a respected leader, a man of God’s Word, the equivalent of one of our pastors or elders walking down the road. He was likely traveling home to Jericho after completing his scheduled temple duties in Jerusalem. He is ceremonially clean.

Yet, when he sees the dying man, he crosses over and passes by on the other side. Why? First, practical fear: if robbers just attacked this man, the attackers might still be lurking nearby. Second, ceremonial cleanliness: oral tradition held that a priest would become ritually defiled if he came within six feet of a dead body. To this priest, preserving his personal safety and religious cleanliness was more important than saving a human life. If you had asked him, “Do you feel bad for this guy?” he probably would have said, “Of course I do. But I can’t get involved. The personal cost is too high.”

Next comes another traveler.

Luke 10:32 (NASB)

’Likewise a Levite also, when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side.

A Levite was like an assistant to the priesthood. Traveling behind the priest, he arrives at the exact spot. The text says he “came to the place and saw him.” He gets right up close. The Levite wasn’t bound by the same strict six-foot rule, but he had another dilemma: if he stopped to help when his superior, the priest, had just walked by, he would publicly dishonor the priest. In an honor-driven society, he chose organizational loyalty and self-preservation over mercy. He crossed over and passed by as well.

The Scandal of Mercy

At this point in the story, the Jewish listeners are expecting the third character to be an ordinary Jewish layman—the everyday hero. But Jesus drops a bombshell.

Luke 10:33 (NASB)

’But a Samaritan, who was on a journey, came upon him; and when he saw him, he felt compassion,

Our modern ears miss the sheer scandal of that sentence. To a first-century Jew, the Samaritans were not just outsiders; they were despised enemies. Centuries earlier, Rabbi Ben Sirach wrote that his soul detested “the foolish people that dwell in Shechem”—the Samaritans. There was even a daily prayer offered in the temple asking that Samaritans would not receive eternal life. The hostility was bitter, deep-seated, and generational.

To capture the shock value today, imagine telling a story in the 1940s where an active Jewish man stops to rescue a wounded Nazi officer, or an African American stops along a rural road to save a member of the Ku Klux Klan. That is the level of visceral tension the audience felt. Jesus makes the hated enemy the hero of the story.

Look at how this Samaritan responds.

Luke 10:34-35 (NASB)

and came to him and bandaged up his wounds, pouring oil and wine on [them]; and he put him on his own beast, and brought him to an inn and took care of him. ’On the next day he took out two denarii and gave them to the innkeeper and said, ‘Take care of him; and whatever more you spend, when I return I will repay you.’

All three men saw the dying victim. Two looked and walked away. One was gripped by compassion. In the original Greek, that word for compassion refers to a deep, gut-level ache that inevitably moves someone to action. In the New Testament, true compassion is never passive. Actionless compassion is merely pity.

The Samaritan bandages the man’s wounds using his own costly wine and oil. He places the wounded man on his own animal, walks alongside him, and brings him to an inn. Inns in antiquity were rough, dangerous establishments reserved for the desperate. By bringing a beaten, possibly Jewish man into a town near Jericho, this Samaritan put his own physical safety on the line.

He gives the innkeeper two denarii—equivalent to two full days’ wages—and promises to return and cover any additional expenses incurred during the man’s recovery. He bears the full financial, emotional, and physical burden of a stranger’s restoration.

Pity Versus Compassion

Having finished the story, Jesus turns back to the expert in the Law.

Luke 10:36 (NASB)

‘Which of these three do you think proved to be a neighbor to the man who fell into the robbers’ [hands]?’

Look closely at the difference between the scribe’s original question in verse 29 and Jesus’ question here. The scribe asked, “Who is my neighbor?” That is an exclusive question designed to limit responsibility: How few people can I get away with loving?

Jesus flips the question entirely: “Which of these three proved to be a neighbor?” That is an inclusive question: To whom can I extend mercy?

Jesus redefines the entire concept. Being a neighbor is not defined by racial boundaries, religious affiliations, socioeconomic status, or geographic lines. A neighbor is anyone in need whose path crosses yours.

Luke 10:37 (NASB)

And he said, ‘The one who showed mercy toward him.’ Then Jesus said to him, ‘Go and do the same.’

The scribe cannot even bring himself to utter the word “Samaritan.” He simply replies, “The one who showed him mercy.” And Jesus gives him a direct command: “You go, and do likewise.”

Being a follower of God has never been about checking a religious box or maintaining an insular, comfortable life. If you squeeze an orange, you expect orange juice to come out. When life squeezes a Christian, love and active mercy should naturally pour out of our pores. Love is the undeniable litmus test of genuine faith.

That is why, as a church family, we reframed our Serve Day earlier this year. Serving our community cannot simply be a one-time event we check off our calendar once a year. Loving God and loving people must be our ongoing lifestyle. It has to be an everyday commitment to look at the people God places in our path and actively care for them.

If we claim to love God with all our heart, soul, mind, and strength, yet we routinely step over the broken and hurting people in our path, we must honestly question whether we truly understand the love of God at all. Pity feels bad from a distance. Compassion gets down in the ditch, binds up wounds, and pays the cost.

Which Question Will You Ask?

There is no middle ground. There is no neutral sideline where we can sit idly by, shake our heads at the brokenness of our city, and say, “I don’t like what is happening, but I have too much to lose to get involved.”

Jesus forces a fork in the road for every single one of us. As you walk out these doors into your neighborhood, your workplace, and your community, you will be confronted by people carrying deep wounds and immense needs.

Which question will you ask?

Will you ask: “What will happen to me—to my time, my comfort, my finances, my reputation—if I get involved in that person’s life?”

Or will you ask the question of Christ: “What will happen to them if I don’t?”

Let’s pray together.

Heavenly Father, it is so easy for us to gather in this room, sing songs of praise, and declare with our mouths that You are our God and Savior. But You have called us to a faith that moves our hands and feet. Forgive us for the times we have looked at the brokenness around us, felt a momentary twinge of pity, and still chosen to pass by on the other side. Give us hearts of genuine, active compassion. Teach us to love our city, our neighbors, and even those we consider our enemies with the radical, sacrificial love You have poured out on us. Work this truth deep into our souls, and make us a church that boldly reflects Your grace to the world. In Jesus’ name, Amen.