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Called to Follow
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Connected by scripture or shared themes.
Welcome to our message this morning: "Love Your Neighbor." I have to be honest—if I could go back, I might have chosen a different title. Not because loving your neighbor isn't biblical; it absolutely is. God commanded it in the Old Testament, and it runs throughout Scripture. The issue is that in English, the word "love" is subjective. We use it to describe our feelings for pizza, sports teams, our families, and our Savior—hopefully not all in the same way!
That's why our church vision is more specific: we don't just say we want to love. We want to love well. Of all the people on this planet who are loving, we want to be among those who do it best.
However, I want to be honest with you: the passage before us might sting a bit. Here's why—our working definition of loving well and Jesus' definition can be different. In Luke chapter 10, the kind of love Jesus wants us to pursue is a costly one. Jesus is not primarily interested in helping us determine who qualifies as our neighbor. He's far more interested in determining whether we are loving people at all.
In verse 25, we meet a lawyer who stands up to test Jesus: "Teacher, what shall I do to inherit eternal life?"
Now, this lawyer was a teacher of God's law—very knowledgeable, very learned. On one hand, he shows respect by standing and addressing Jesus as "Teacher." But Luke tells us he's asking to test Jesus, which sounds a little sketchy.
His question was common in Jesus' day, but the way he phrases it reveals something important about his mindset. It's almost as though he's boiling it down to a transaction. Quid pro quo. Like, "What box do I have to check to get what I want?" You get the sense that he thinks he already knows the answer and is just testing whether Jesus has the correct one.
In verse 26, Jesus doesn't answer directly. Instead, He asks: "What is written in the law? How do you read it?"
Jesus isn't being evasive. This back-and-forth questioning was how people reasoned together in that culture. Notice what Jesus does: He doesn't want the lawyer to appeal to their oral traditions. He wants him to reference God's written law. "I don't want to talk about what you've written. I want you to answer based on what He's written."
It's a beautiful reminder that the answer to our deepest questions can already be found in the Scripture we possess.
The lawyer gives a really good answer. Verse 27: "You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your strength, and with all your mind, and your neighbor as yourself."
He's quoting Deuteronomy 6:5 and Leviticus 19:18. It's the same answer Jesus gave in Matthew 22 when asked about the greatest commandment. And Jesus responds positively: "You have answered correctly. Do this and you will live."
The Greek word for "correctly" is orthos—from which we get "orthodox." Jesus is saying, "That's theologically accurate. Spot-on."
But here's the crucial part: Jesus also says, "Do this and you will live." It's not enough to know the right thing or say the right thing. You have to live it.
Think about this from the lawyer's perspective. He asks how to inherit eternal life. Jesus asks how he would answer. He gives a perfect answer. Jesus says, "Two thumbs up. Do this and you will live."
He is so close. Yet so far.
In verse 29, the lawyer pushes back: "But he, desiring to justify himself, said to Jesus, 'And who is my neighbor?'"
With that one statement, we recognize this man has no concept of mercy. He doesn't think he needs it. What he's looking for is validation. He has no problem affirming his love for God—he doesn't even address that part. But on the horizontal plane, he wants boundaries. How many people do I actually have to love?
It's stunning when you think about it. He wants to justify himself, and he believes Jesus' answer is going to make him look good. But this attorney, so familiar with the Old Testament, has missed the point entirely.
The Apostle Paul saw it rightly in Romans 7. The law was meant to identify what sin is—to teach us what sin is. And the unfortunate byproduct is that once we recognize sin, we find it so tough not to do it. Paul says, "[The law] tells me not to covet, and I do it all the time."
None of us can rightly come before Jesus thinking we're doing Him a favor or have any right to be in His presence. The frightening thing about this passage is not that the lawyer knew too little. It's that he knew so much and still believed he was doing so good.
There is simply no way to have a sane estimation of yourself and think you can justify yourself before a holy God. Yet so many people try to do exactly that. They come to God's word, read it, study it, and walk away thinking they're doing great—instead of realizing, "Apart from the perfect work of Jesus Christ, I am lost. I am so messed up. His ideal is so much higher. Thank you, Jesus, for Your mercy."
Ironically, the moments when we finally realize how desperately short we fall are often when Jesus meets us most richly. He knows who we are. And when we recognize what He's known forever, He comes alongside us in ways we can scarcely imagine.
Jesus told us He came to heal the sick. How many of us this morning need to call upon our heavenly physician? That's why we share the good news of the gospel. Jesus didn't come to this earth because we were doing so awesome. He came because we were lost, hurting, without hope, and dead in our sin. We need to begin by confessing Him as Lord, believing He is who He says He is, and acknowledging that what He says about us is true—that He bled and died, was buried, and rose again to forgive us and give us new life.
Jesus recognizes that this lawyer thinks he's got it all together. He knows this attorney thinks Jesus will be impressed with his list of people he's willing to love. So Jesus addresses his hubris head-on—not by answering the question, but by telling a story.
"A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and he fell among robbers who stripped him and beat him and departed, leaving him half dead." (verse 30)
Listeners in Jesus' day could absolutely relate to this. Jerusalem sits about 2,700 feet above sea level. Jericho is just over 800 feet below. So whether you're going up or down, if you're on the road from Jerusalem to Jericho, it's notoriously dangerous—a desert wasteland, winding and snaking, with plenty of places for bandits and thieves to hide and ambush unsuspecting travelers.
That's exactly what happens to this man. He's stripped naked, beaten, and left for half dead. We don't have another use of that word in the entire Bible, but it clearly describes someone in rough shape—unable to move, unable to talk.
What happens next would have raised eyebrows: "Now, by chance, a priest was going down that road. And when he saw him, he passed by on the other side. So likewise, a Levite, when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side." (verses 31-32)
Throughout the gospels, the scribes and Pharisees are often mentioned as religious leaders. But in daily life, it was the priests and Levites who were on staff, so to speak. The priests oversaw the sacrificial system in the temple—they were the top dogs. The Levites worked in the temple and supported the priests' work.
In our context, you might say the priests are like our elders and pastors, and the Levites are like church staff. These are exactly the people you'd half expect would help someone who's hurting. But they don't.
Bible commentators have spent a lot of ink trying to explain why the priest and Levite did what they did. But here's the simple fact of the story: Jesus offers no legitimate excuse. Jesus simply says they continued on.
At this point, I suspect the lawyer and everyone listening started to grin because they thought they knew where this was going. In that day, people divided Israel into three groups: the priests, the Levites, and the people. Sometimes "the people" weren't fans of the priests or Levites. So the lawyer likely thought, "Oh, this is going to be sweet. The common person is going to come and help."
Yes. No.
"But a Samaritan, as he journeyed, came to where he was, and when he saw him, he had compassion. He went to him and bound up his wounds, pouring on oil and wine. Then he set him on his own animal and brought him to an inn and took care of him. And the next day he took out two denarii and gave them to the innkeeper, saying, 'Take care of him, and whatever you spend, I will repay you when I come back.'" (verse 33-35)
Nobody saw that coming.
The Jews hated the Samaritans. The Samaritans claimed to worship the same God, followed the same laws, celebrated the same festivals—they did so much the same, but they worshipped on a different mountain. As far as the Jews were concerned, they were a ethnically diluted people. The Assyrians had shipped out many Samaritans and brought in Assyrians; then Alexander the Great brought in Macedonians and sent out more Samaritans. The feeling of hostility was real—and it was mutual.
You would think if a Samaritan came upon a half-dead Jew, he would be more likely to help him go the other halfway. But he doesn't. He goes above and beyond, to great and costly lengths.
It started with compassion. He bound up the man's wounds. Commentators note he probably cut up his own clothes, his own blankets, to bandage him. He used his oil to soothe the wounds and wine to disinfect them. He put the man on his own animal—which means he's now traveling slower through the same dangerous region where this guy just got robbed.
Then he took him to an inn, nursed him for a day, and gave the innkeeper two denarii—two days' wages. He gave the innkeeper a blank check. "Whatever you need to spend to keep caring for this man, you do it, and I will repay you when I come back."
This is truly an example of loving well.
Now, what I'm about to say won't make a Valentine's Day card, but: there is no true love without cost involved. Love without cost is mere sentiment. It's not the thought that counts. This is repeated throughout Scripture, particularly in the New Testament.
John 3:16: "For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son."
John 15:13: "Greater love has no one than this, that someone lay down his life for his friends."
Ephesians 5:25: "Husbands, love your wives as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her."
Romans 5:8: "But God shows his love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us."
Even Peter—after he denied knowing Jesus—when Jesus restored him by the Sea of Galilee, He asked, "Peter, do you love me?" Peter said, "You know that I do." Did Jesus stop there? No. He said, "Feed my sheep." If you love me, there will be action. There will be response. It will cost you.
In verse 36, Jesus asks: "Which of these three do you think proved to be a neighbor to the man who fell among the robbers?"
The lawyer answers: "The one who showed him mercy."
Jesus says: "You go and do likewise."
Notice something important. The lawyer could not even bring himself to say the word "Samaritan." But he did at least recognize that the neighbor was the one who showed mercy—an orthodox answer. And Jesus says, "Go and do likewise."
Here's what Jesus has done brilliantly: The lawyer asked, "Who is my neighbor?" Jesus didn't answer it. Instead, Jesus asked him, "Which of these three proved to be a neighbor?"
The lawyer wanted to identify recipients of love. Jesus wanted to talk about the one who demonstrates it.
As far as Jesus is concerned, "neighbor" is a verb.
Now, obviously, there are natural limitations. You and I cannot care for every hurting person on the planet. But here's the reality: if you're like me, the issue is rarely that need is too far away. The issue is that the need is often too close. It's right there.
Husbands, you need to love your wife in this way. Wives, you need to love your husband in this way. You need to love your parents in this way. You need to love those on the opposite side of the political aisle in this way. You need to love the annoying, loud, disruptive guy in the apartment next door in this way. You need to love those you're going to see at work tomorrow morning in this way. You need to love your enemies in this way.
And in each and every one of those categories, if you want to love well, it will always cost you something.
The lawyer wanted a list. He wanted a target audience. He wanted boundaries. He wanted to know who was in—who he would love—and more importantly, who was out—who he didn't have to love.
And Jesus gave him a mirror instead.
If Jesus were to hand us that mirror, and if we looked at it in humility and saw the true condition of our hearts, I think we'd have to acknowledge that in some ways, on some days, we do not always love people in this way.
When we feel that conviction, the temptation in our heart will be to justify ourselves: "Well, I would, but if she hadn't done what she did. If he was more lovable, it would be easier."
Fight that temptation.
When that mirror reveals that you are not living the life of love He has called you to live, allow that to be a moment to throw yourself on His mercy. Because He lived the life we are to demonstrate, and He did it for you. He did it for me. He is perfect in this. He's really good at it. And He can help us.
I wonder if you need to apologize to somebody this week for not loving well. Maybe not a young man in Kenya. Maybe not an elderly woman in Vietnam. But maybe someone in your own house. A close friend. Someone in your community group. Someone at work.
And I'm not speaking of anything they have done. I'm talking about how we demonstrate love. Do you need to say, "I'm sorry. I haven't loved you well"?
The brilliance in Jesus' parable is not that it identifies who our neighbors are. It shines a very bright light on the kind of neighbor we are to be.
Many of us, I suspect, walked into these rooms this morning convinced that we are loving people. Jesus' question to us all is: Do your actions support that conclusion?
May God help us to love well.
Welcome to our message this morning: "Love Your Neighbor." I have to be honest—if I could go back, I might have chosen a different title. Not because loving your neighbor isn't biblical; it absolutely is. God commanded it in the Old Testament, and it runs throughout Scripture. The issue is that in English, the word "love" is subjective. We use it to describe our feelings for pizza, sports teams, our families, and our Savior—hopefully not all in the same way!
That's why our church vision is more specific: we don't just say we want to love. We want to love well. Of all the people on this planet who are loving, we want to be among those who do it best.
However, I want to be honest with you: the passage before us might sting a bit. Here's why—our working definition of loving well and Jesus' definition can be different. In Luke chapter 10, the kind of love Jesus wants us to pursue is a costly one. Jesus is not primarily interested in helping us determine who qualifies as our neighbor. He's far more interested in determining whether we are loving people at all.
In verse 25, we meet a lawyer who stands up to test Jesus: "Teacher, what shall I do to inherit eternal life?"
Now, this lawyer was a teacher of God's law—very knowledgeable, very learned. On one hand, he shows respect by standing and addressing Jesus as "Teacher." But Luke tells us he's asking to test Jesus, which sounds a little sketchy.
His question was common in Jesus' day, but the way he phrases it reveals something important about his mindset. It's almost as though he's boiling it down to a transaction. Quid pro quo. Like, "What box do I have to check to get what I want?" You get the sense that he thinks he already knows the answer and is just testing whether Jesus has the correct one.
In verse 26, Jesus doesn't answer directly. Instead, He asks: "What is written in the law? How do you read it?"
Jesus isn't being evasive. This back-and-forth questioning was how people reasoned together in that culture. Notice what Jesus does: He doesn't want the lawyer to appeal to their oral traditions. He wants him to reference God's written law. "I don't want to talk about what you've written. I want you to answer based on what He's written."
It's a beautiful reminder that the answer to our deepest questions can already be found in the Scripture we possess.
The lawyer gives a really good answer. Verse 27: "You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your strength, and with all your mind, and your neighbor as yourself."
He's quoting Deuteronomy 6:5 and Leviticus 19:18. It's the same answer Jesus gave in Matthew 22 when asked about the greatest commandment. And Jesus responds positively: "You have answered correctly. Do this and you will live."
The Greek word for "correctly" is orthos—from which we get "orthodox." Jesus is saying, "That's theologically accurate. Spot-on."
But here's the crucial part: Jesus also says, "Do this and you will live." It's not enough to know the right thing or say the right thing. You have to live it.
Think about this from the lawyer's perspective. He asks how to inherit eternal life. Jesus asks how he would answer. He gives a perfect answer. Jesus says, "Two thumbs up. Do this and you will live."
He is so close. Yet so far.
In verse 29, the lawyer pushes back: "But he, desiring to justify himself, said to Jesus, 'And who is my neighbor?'"
With that one statement, we recognize this man has no concept of mercy. He doesn't think he needs it. What he's looking for is validation. He has no problem affirming his love for God—he doesn't even address that part. But on the horizontal plane, he wants boundaries. How many people do I actually have to love?
It's stunning when you think about it. He wants to justify himself, and he believes Jesus' answer is going to make him look good. But this attorney, so familiar with the Old Testament, has missed the point entirely.
The Apostle Paul saw it rightly in Romans 7. The law was meant to identify what sin is—to teach us what sin is. And the unfortunate byproduct is that once we recognize sin, we find it so tough not to do it. Paul says, "[The law] tells me not to covet, and I do it all the time."
None of us can rightly come before Jesus thinking we're doing Him a favor or have any right to be in His presence. The frightening thing about this passage is not that the lawyer knew too little. It's that he knew so much and still believed he was doing so good.
There is simply no way to have a sane estimation of yourself and think you can justify yourself before a holy God. Yet so many people try to do exactly that. They come to God's word, read it, study it, and walk away thinking they're doing great—instead of realizing, "Apart from the perfect work of Jesus Christ, I am lost. I am so messed up. His ideal is so much higher. Thank you, Jesus, for Your mercy."
Ironically, the moments when we finally realize how desperately short we fall are often when Jesus meets us most richly. He knows who we are. And when we recognize what He's known forever, He comes alongside us in ways we can scarcely imagine.
Jesus told us He came to heal the sick. How many of us this morning need to call upon our heavenly physician? That's why we share the good news of the gospel. Jesus didn't come to this earth because we were doing so awesome. He came because we were lost, hurting, without hope, and dead in our sin. We need to begin by confessing Him as Lord, believing He is who He says He is, and acknowledging that what He says about us is true—that He bled and died, was buried, and rose again to forgive us and give us new life.
Jesus recognizes that this lawyer thinks he's got it all together. He knows this attorney thinks Jesus will be impressed with his list of people he's willing to love. So Jesus addresses his hubris head-on—not by answering the question, but by telling a story.
"A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and he fell among robbers who stripped him and beat him and departed, leaving him half dead." (verse 30)
Listeners in Jesus' day could absolutely relate to this. Jerusalem sits about 2,700 feet above sea level. Jericho is just over 800 feet below. So whether you're going up or down, if you're on the road from Jerusalem to Jericho, it's notoriously dangerous—a desert wasteland, winding and snaking, with plenty of places for bandits and thieves to hide and ambush unsuspecting travelers.
That's exactly what happens to this man. He's stripped naked, beaten, and left for half dead. We don't have another use of that word in the entire Bible, but it clearly describes someone in rough shape—unable to move, unable to talk.
What happens next would have raised eyebrows: "Now, by chance, a priest was going down that road. And when he saw him, he passed by on the other side. So likewise, a Levite, when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side." (verses 31-32)
Throughout the gospels, the scribes and Pharisees are often mentioned as religious leaders. But in daily life, it was the priests and Levites who were on staff, so to speak. The priests oversaw the sacrificial system in the temple—they were the top dogs. The Levites worked in the temple and supported the priests' work.
In our context, you might say the priests are like our elders and pastors, and the Levites are like church staff. These are exactly the people you'd half expect would help someone who's hurting. But they don't.
Bible commentators have spent a lot of ink trying to explain why the priest and Levite did what they did. But here's the simple fact of the story: Jesus offers no legitimate excuse. Jesus simply says they continued on.
At this point, I suspect the lawyer and everyone listening started to grin because they thought they knew where this was going. In that day, people divided Israel into three groups: the priests, the Levites, and the people. Sometimes "the people" weren't fans of the priests or Levites. So the lawyer likely thought, "Oh, this is going to be sweet. The common person is going to come and help."
Yes. No.
"But a Samaritan, as he journeyed, came to where he was, and when he saw him, he had compassion. He went to him and bound up his wounds, pouring on oil and wine. Then he set him on his own animal and brought him to an inn and took care of him. And the next day he took out two denarii and gave them to the innkeeper, saying, 'Take care of him, and whatever you spend, I will repay you when I come back.'" (verse 33-35)
Nobody saw that coming.
The Jews hated the Samaritans. The Samaritans claimed to worship the same God, followed the same laws, celebrated the same festivals—they did so much the same, but they worshipped on a different mountain. As far as the Jews were concerned, they were a ethnically diluted people. The Assyrians had shipped out many Samaritans and brought in Assyrians; then Alexander the Great brought in Macedonians and sent out more Samaritans. The feeling of hostility was real—and it was mutual.
You would think if a Samaritan came upon a half-dead Jew, he would be more likely to help him go the other halfway. But he doesn't. He goes above and beyond, to great and costly lengths.
It started with compassion. He bound up the man's wounds. Commentators note he probably cut up his own clothes, his own blankets, to bandage him. He used his oil to soothe the wounds and wine to disinfect them. He put the man on his own animal—which means he's now traveling slower through the same dangerous region where this guy just got robbed.
Then he took him to an inn, nursed him for a day, and gave the innkeeper two denarii—two days' wages. He gave the innkeeper a blank check. "Whatever you need to spend to keep caring for this man, you do it, and I will repay you when I come back."
This is truly an example of loving well.
Now, what I'm about to say won't make a Valentine's Day card, but: there is no true love without cost involved. Love without cost is mere sentiment. It's not the thought that counts. This is repeated throughout Scripture, particularly in the New Testament.
John 3:16: "For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son."
John 15:13: "Greater love has no one than this, that someone lay down his life for his friends."
Ephesians 5:25: "Husbands, love your wives as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her."
Romans 5:8: "But God shows his love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us."
Even Peter—after he denied knowing Jesus—when Jesus restored him by the Sea of Galilee, He asked, "Peter, do you love me?" Peter said, "You know that I do." Did Jesus stop there? No. He said, "Feed my sheep." If you love me, there will be action. There will be response. It will cost you.
In verse 36, Jesus asks: "Which of these three do you think proved to be a neighbor to the man who fell among the robbers?"
The lawyer answers: "The one who showed him mercy."
Jesus says: "You go and do likewise."
Notice something important. The lawyer could not even bring himself to say the word "Samaritan." But he did at least recognize that the neighbor was the one who showed mercy—an orthodox answer. And Jesus says, "Go and do likewise."
Here's what Jesus has done brilliantly: The lawyer asked, "Who is my neighbor?" Jesus didn't answer it. Instead, Jesus asked him, "Which of these three proved to be a neighbor?"
The lawyer wanted to identify recipients of love. Jesus wanted to talk about the one who demonstrates it.
As far as Jesus is concerned, "neighbor" is a verb.
Now, obviously, there are natural limitations. You and I cannot care for every hurting person on the planet. But here's the reality: if you're like me, the issue is rarely that need is too far away. The issue is that the need is often too close. It's right there.
Husbands, you need to love your wife in this way. Wives, you need to love your husband in this way. You need to love your parents in this way. You need to love those on the opposite side of the political aisle in this way. You need to love the annoying, loud, disruptive guy in the apartment next door in this way. You need to love those you're going to see at work tomorrow morning in this way. You need to love your enemies in this way.
And in each and every one of those categories, if you want to love well, it will always cost you something.
The lawyer wanted a list. He wanted a target audience. He wanted boundaries. He wanted to know who was in—who he would love—and more importantly, who was out—who he didn't have to love.
And Jesus gave him a mirror instead.
If Jesus were to hand us that mirror, and if we looked at it in humility and saw the true condition of our hearts, I think we'd have to acknowledge that in some ways, on some days, we do not always love people in this way.
When we feel that conviction, the temptation in our heart will be to justify ourselves: "Well, I would, but if she hadn't done what she did. If he was more lovable, it would be easier."
Fight that temptation.
When that mirror reveals that you are not living the life of love He has called you to live, allow that to be a moment to throw yourself on His mercy. Because He lived the life we are to demonstrate, and He did it for you. He did it for me. He is perfect in this. He's really good at it. And He can help us.
I wonder if you need to apologize to somebody this week for not loving well. Maybe not a young man in Kenya. Maybe not an elderly woman in Vietnam. But maybe someone in your own house. A close friend. Someone in your community group. Someone at work.
And I'm not speaking of anything they have done. I'm talking about how we demonstrate love. Do you need to say, "I'm sorry. I haven't loved you well"?
The brilliance in Jesus' parable is not that it identifies who our neighbors are. It shines a very bright light on the kind of neighbor we are to be.
Many of us, I suspect, walked into these rooms this morning convinced that we are loving people. Jesus' question to us all is: Do your actions support that conclusion?
May God help us to love well.
