Worship is at the heart of who we are.

Sermon for the 5th Sunday after Pentecost

Text: Luke 10:25–37

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

There’s a question that lingers at the center of this story—a question that many think about, even if we don’t say it out loud. A question we perhaps whisper to ourselves when compassion feels costly, when justice feels complicated, or when the road ahead looks a little too steep:

“Who is my neighbor?”

That’s the question the expert in the law asks Jesus today. But the thing is, he’s not asking so he can love his neighbor better. He’s asking so he can draw a boundary. So he can limit his responsibility. So he can remain comfortable in a world built to benefit him. It is a question, not of genuine curiosity, but one in order to “justify himself.”

And Jesus, as he often does, answers this expert in the law with a story.

But before we get to the story we have to think about the context - Jesus tells this parable in a specific place, at a specific time. His audience would have known immediately what kind of road he was talking about—the road from Jerusalem to Jericho was notoriously steep, winding, and dangerous. It descended nearly 3,000 feet over 17 miles. Bandits were known to hide in the rocks along this route, and travelers feared it. So when Jesus says a man was going down this road and “fell into the hands of robbers,” his audience wouldn’t have needed a lot of imagination.

But what makes this story truly radical is not the danger of the road. It’s who shows up on it—and who does not.

First, a priest passes by. This is someone who serves in the temple, someone who is supposed to represent holiness and righteousness. But when he sees the injured man, he crosses to the other side. Then a Levite—a temple assistant, someone who helps with the rituals and care of God’s people. He also sees the man and crosses over to the other side.

Now, scholars have long debated why these religious leaders didn’t stop. Were they afraid the man was dead and didn’t want to become ritually unclean? Were they hurrying to a religious obligation? Were they overwhelmed, unsure, or simply indifferent? The text doesn’t tell us. What it does tell us is that they saw the man. And still passed by.

But then comes a Samaritan.

Now, this would have shocked Jesus’ listeners. Samaritans were not simply outsiders—they were enemies. There was deep, long-standing religious and ethnic hostility between Jewish people and the Samaritans. To put it in modern terms: imagine Jesus telling this story to a divided community today and having the helper be the person they least expect, or least want, to be the hero. Imagine the victim being a person of privilege, and the one who shows mercy being someone society has labeled as “less than.” And that’s who Jesus centers.

The Samaritan, we are told, sees the man—just like the priest and the Levite. But instead of crossing over, he draws near. He is “moved with compassion,” a phrase that echoes the language used for Jesus himself throughout the Gospels.

He tends to the man’s wounds—using oil and wine, basic first-century medicine. He puts the man on his own animal, brings him to an inn, pays for his care, and promises to return. He doesn’t just show mercy. He steps into a relationship. Into risk. Into commitment.

Jesus ends the story by flipping the original question. The lawyer asked, “Who is my neighbor?”—as if the man in the ditch had to qualify to receive compassion.

But Jesus reframes the entire conversation: “Which of these three was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of robbers?” In other words, neighbor isn’t a category of person. It’s a way of being.

And the answer? “The one who showed him mercy.”

Now let’s talk about what this means today.

We live in a world that is really good at drawing boundaries around who “deserves” help. Who deserves rights. Who deserves dignity. The question, “Who is my neighbor?” still echoes in our policies, our institutions, our neighborhoods—even our churches.

And far too many people pass by—some literally, others by staying silent.

But then, there are those who stop. Those who draw near. Those who are moved by compassion.

I think of the folks in our congregation who show up week after week to support our refugee families. I think of our volunteers who sit with people and spend countless hours preparing and sorting and finding items for our Clothes Closet to give people dignity. I think of our UBFM volunteers that make hundreds of meals every single week for those experiencing food insufficiency. I think of our neighbors who bring food when one of our families is grieving, or who make quilts, or when our youth write cards to those who are homebound. I think of every person who steps into a hard moment and chooses to see another.

That is what it means to “go and do likewise.”

Because at its core, this parable is not just a moral lesson. It’s a vision of the kingdom of God—a kingdom where love breaks past barriers, where compassion overrides categories, and where mercy has no limits.

This isn’t about checking a box or earning eternal life through good deeds. Jesus already said: you’ve given the right answer—love God and love your neighbor. And then he says, do this, and you will live.

This is about a way of life that reflects the heart of God. A way of life that sees the wounded and draws near. A way of life that risks love even when it's inconvenient. A way of life that refuses to pass by.

So (coming back to the beginning of my sermon - there is a question that lingers at the center of this story) and perhaps the question isn’t “Who is my neighbor?”

Instead, perhaps the real question is: What kind of neighbor will I be?

Amen.

- Pastor Minna Bothwell