Luke 10:25-37

“Who Is My Neighbor?” Vulnerable Love in the Way of Jesus

Few passages of Scripture are as widely known or as frequently cited as the so-called “Parable of the Good Samaritan.” Its reach extends well beyond the church. Charities, hospitals, and humanitarian organizations bear the Samaritan’s name. In civil law, a “Good Samaritan” is someone who renders aid without concern for reward or recognition. The phrase itself has become a cultural shorthand for acts of compassion, especially toward strangers. It is no wonder that pastors and teachers alike have long drawn on this parable to encourage kindness, generosity, and social concern. And yet, while those themes are surely present, they may not be the main point of the passage—not if we pay attention to the way the story begins.

Luke 10:25 tells us that a lawyer—a professional interpreter of Jewish law—approaches Jesus not simply to learn but to test him. “Teacher,” he asks, “what must I do to inherit eternal life?” Jesus, as he often does, responds with a question of his own. “What is written in the law? What do you read there?” (10:26, NRSV). The man replies by quoting two commandments that summarize the whole of the Torah: “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 love your neighbor as yourself” (10:27, NRSV). Jesus affirms his answer: “You have given the right answer; do this and you will live” (10:28). No criticism. No condemnation for some legalistic attempts to live rightly. So far, it appears to be a model conversation.

But then comes the twist. Luke tells us the lawyer, “wanting to justify himself,” presses further: “And who is my neighbor?” (Luke 10:29). This is the hinge upon which the whole encounter turns. The lawyer does not ask what love looks like or how best to fulfill the command. He asks Jesus for his definition of neighbor. He wants a clear boundary. He wants clarity about whom he must love … and, by implication, whom he is allowed not to love. The instinct to limit love is as ancient as it is modern. We still ask questions like these: How far does my responsibility go? Must I love those I disagree with? Those who offend me? Those outside my circle, my faith, my values?

Notice also how Jesus responds. He answers, as he often does, not with a definition but with a story. A man, likely Jewish, is traveling from Jerusalem to Jericho—a notoriously dangerous road—when he is attacked, stripped, beaten, and left for dead (Luke 10:30). A priest soon comes by and sees the wounded man. However, rather than responding with compassion, he surprisingly passes on the other side (10:31). A Levite later comes down the same road and takes the same avoidance strategy (10:32). Both men, who were religious leaders, might have had good reasons for their actions. Perhaps they feared ritual defilement (although the direction of their travel suggests that any involvement in sacred rituals had already been completed in Jerusalem). Or maybe they assumed the man was already dead. But their startling actions—or inaction—stand in stark contrast to the next character: a Samaritan.

To Jesus’ audience, the introduction of a Samaritan into the story would have been shocking. Samaritans were despised by the Jewish people of that time for their intermarriage with foreign nations and their competing temple on Mount Gerizim in the time between the Babylonian Exile and Jesus’ day. They were considered ethnically impure and religiously unfaithful. And yet, it is this figure—someone who was seen as the “enemy” on many levels—who had compassion and stops, tends to the man’s wounds, places him on his own animal, pays for his care, and promises to return (Luke 10:33-35). The Samaritan becomes the unlikely hero of the story, not because of who he is but because of what he does.

But Jesus is doing more than holding up an example of compassion. He reframes the lawyer’s original question. The issue is no longer, “Who counts as my neighbor?” but rather, “What kind of person acts like a neighbor?” The lawyer had asked whom he must love; Jesus asks whether he himself is willing to become the kind of person who shows love—even across the boundaries of enmity and exclusion. “Go and do likewise,” Jesus concludes. And with that, the story turns into a mirror.

For those of us in the Wesleyan and Holiness traditions, this story resonates deeply with our emphasis on the sanctifying work of love. Wesley himself insisted that holiness is not mere moral uprightness but “perfect love” for God and for neighbor. And that love is not selective, guarded, or theoretical. It breaks down barriers. It reaches across lines of prejudice, fear, and self-interest. The parable calls us to that kind of love—a love that is not simply generous but vulnerable.

Because here lies the deeper truth: not only are we called to love those we might naturally avoid, we are also called to receive love from them. The parable invites us to imagine not only being the Samaritan but also being the wounded man—helpless, broken, unable to save ourselves. And in that condition, the one who rescues us is someone we might have once scorned, distrusted, or dismissed. The neighbor we are called to love might also be the neighbor we least expected to need. To walk in the way of Christ means accepting that we cannot control the channels through which grace comes. And that kind of love—love that both gives and receives—is a sanctifying love, a love that humbles and heals.

So who are our Samaritans today? That question must be asked freshly in every generation and every community. Perhaps they are the migrants or refugees we have been taught to fear or maybe even those whom we have learned to tolerate. Perhaps they are those across political, racial, or theological lines. Perhaps they are the mentally ill, the formerly incarcerated, the unhoused, the addicted. Or perhaps they are simply those whose way of life makes us uncomfortable. Whoever they are, they are the ones at the center of this story in Luke’s Gospel—not only as those to love but as those who reveal to us the very meaning of love. For in such a way, we discover that there are two distinct sides to love: one side of love that is all about what we give, but another side of love that is all about how we receive the grace extended by others.

The parable of the Good Samaritan is not a simple moral lesson. It is a radical call to see and be seen, to love and be loved, to give and to receive across lines of difference. It invites pastors and laypersons alike—all who follow Jesus—to practice a vulnerable love, a holy love, a neighborly love that reflects the very heart of God.