Introduction
And wanting to justify himself… the lawyer (the expert in the law) asked, “Who is my neighbor?”
The parable of the Good Samaritan is one of the most recognized stories in the whole Bible. Even if folks don’t know the details, most people have heard and used the phrase “Good Samaritan.”
It’s attached to hospitals, laws, and even episodes of Seinfeld. It’s shorthand for “kind person.” It gets tossed around to describe things like holding the door for someone, giving a few dollars to a person experiencing homelessness, or picking up a piece of trash.
In some ways, it’s incredible that this biblical story became so widespread, so embedded in our cultural vocabulary.
I grew up Lutheran, but I went to a Catholic elementary school until fourth grade. Every year, I remember reading the Good Samaritan parable in class. Afterward, the teacher would always ask, “So how can we be like the Good Samaritan?”
And we would go around and give examples of kindness or courtesy:
- Holding the door.
- Sharing our toys.
- Picking up trash.
- Not punching someone.
You know the answers. Those small, tangible ways to be kind to others.
And what amazes me is how those answers, those relatively simple ways of understanding this story, have stuck with me most of my life. With other scripture texts, I’ve been quicker to question, interpret, challenge, and rethink. But when the Good Samaritan rolls around in the lectionary, I tend to fall back into that elementary school mindset.
Be kind. Be considerate. Do good things.
But to read this story only at that level does a disservice to the brilliance of what Luke is doing here. The lawyer’s question, the one that sets this whole encounter in motion, should give us pause.
Narrative Context
This lawyer is an expert in the law of the Torah—the written law and the oral tradition, all the ongoing debates of the time. He knows the scriptures backwards and forwards. And he comes to Jesus with a question: “What must I do to inherit eternal life?”
Jesus, knowing full well who this man is and what he does, tosses the question back to him: “Well, what does the law say?” And the lawyer responds with the right Sunday School answer: “Love God, and love your neighbor as yourself.” And Jesus says, “Yep. Do that, and you’ll live.”
But the lawyer pushes back, wanting to justify himself.
That phrase is everything.
Wanting to justify himself, he asks: “And who is my neighbor?”
This parable (the one we think we know so well) only exists because of that question. Because this expert in the law wanted to know the boundaries. The limits. The exceptions. He wanted to know: Who is not my neighbor?
The lawyer is looking for permission. For the list of people he doesn’t have to love, help, or care for. Maybe even the people he’s not allowed to love—so he doesn’t have to think about it at all.
The Question Still Persists Today
That same question, “Who is really my neighbor?”, still echoes through the church today.
Churches across denominations (Catholics, Baptists, Presbyterians, Lutherans) have asked and answered this question in ways that have pushed people away. Sometimes with quiet rules. Sometimes with full-throated pronouncements.
- Preventing someone from taking communion because they’re divorced.
- Refusing to marry a couple in a same-sex relationship.
- Declining to help someone financially because it might encourage “dependency.”
- Shunning someone with a criminal background.
- Condemning someone for being an addict.
- Disregarding someone’s basic dignity because they lack documentation.
These aren’t abstract hypotheticals. They’re real stories. And they’re rooted in the same question: Who do we not have to love?
Historical vs. Narrative Context
In response to this loaded question from the lawyer, Jesus tells this parable about a Samaritan helping another human being on the road.
Now, here’s where we have to do some nuancing.
Historically, there is tension among the Samaritans and the Jews. But it was not full-blown hostility. There was some dialogue. There was some trading. There was traveling back and forth. Obviously, Jesus and the disciples just went into a Samaritan village hoping to find some hospitality.
But many early commentaries want to intensify this exchange. They want to describe the Samaritans as enemies. But that’s not historically accurate. So, is Luke adding fuel to a fire (60 years after Jesus)? Or is Luke doing something a little more nuanced?
If we follow Luke’s narrative, the Samaritans are always just on the outside. Jesus goes to them to receive hospitality but his face is set on Jerusalem and so they don’t receive him. In Acts 8, Philip baptizes “all of Samaria.” Even though this is a significant moment in Acts, it’s not the critical breaking open moment. They don’t quite count as gentiles because that is reflected on more fully with Cornelius the Roman Centurian in Acts 10. And so even in Acts, the Samaritans fall in this in-between. Just on the outside. Not Jewish but also not gentile. Not friend, but not enemy.
Who is my neighbor?
The Samaritan, in Luke’s narrative imagination, is always just outside the center, but close enough to be uncomfortable. The Samaritan becomes a mirror. He is not the expected hero, not the chosen insider. But he is the one who sees the injured man and is moved with pity.
And Jesus lifts up this Samaritan, this outsider, this in-between figure, not as an example of someone who received mercy, but as the one who gives it.
And with that move, Jesus flips the lawyer’s question.
The lawyer asks, “Who is my neighbor?” Jesus responds with, “What does it mean to be a neighbor?” That’s the pivot of the parable. Not who fits in your circle, but how will you respond when someone is hurting or is in need?
Neighborliness is not defined by proximity, religion, ethnicity, or status. It’s defined by mercy. Not doctrinal purity. Not legal correctness. Not denominational alignment. Mercy.
Preaching Possibilities
And what does that mean for us today?
It means that we, like the lawyer, are often trying to justify ourselves. We’re looking for the categories that make us feel faithful without having to be uncomfortable. But mercy demands discomfort. It breaks open our carefully curated categories.
The truth is, when this parable comes around, most of us revert to a simplistic takeaway: Be kind. Help people. Do good.
But Jesus isn’t calling us to decency. He’s calling us to mercy. And mercy is risky. It requires proximity. It costs us something. It’s not always rational or neat or safe.
Mercy challenges us to see the people in the ditch, those our society (or our institutions, or even our own hearts) have left for dead.
The transgender teen just trying to survive middle school.
The asylum seeker detained at a border.
The undocumented immigrant quietly taken to an unknown detention center.
The person struggling with addiction who’s already been written off.
The family evicted from their home and unable to find stable housing.
The sex offender who’s served time and is still seen as irredeemable.
The person from the other political party who has so hostilely interacted with you on social media.
This is not about agreeing with people’s life choices if we think they’ve done wrong. It’s about seeing their humanity first.
That’s what the Samaritan does. He sees the man. He’s moved with compassion. He acts. No theology debate. No purity codes. No asking if he deserves it. Just mercy.
Who was the neighbor? Go, and do likewise.
Jesus asks: Who was the neighbor? And the lawyer can’t even say “The Samaritan.” He simply says, “The one who showed him mercy.”
Jesus says, “Go and do likewise.” But before we rush off to do, let’s pause and ask whether we are even seeing. Whether our eyes are open, or whether we are still trying to justify why we walked past.
Because if we take this parable seriously, then there’s no one outside the scope of our compassion. No list of people we’re exempt from loving. No theological excuse that can justify neglect.
This is not about random acts of kindness. It’s about radical acts of inclusion.
And if the Samaritan is a neighbor…
If mercy is the command…
If the one we’ve been taught to distrust becomes the model for faithfulness…
Then we don’t get to draw lines anymore. We just get to love.
And that’s the good news (and the hard news) of this Gospel.
Micah Krey 
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