Welcome back to the Semi -Seminary Podcast, friends.
Tonight, we're walking the road you thought you
knew. It's dusty, dangerous, and it runs 17 miles
downhill from Jerusalem to Jericho. They call
it the Way of Blood and for good reason. Bandits
hid in the gullies. Travelers kept their belongings
close. Every step felt like a gamble. But Jesus
takes that road and he turns it into a story
so sharp it still cuts 2 ,000 years later. We
think of the Good Samaritan like a children's
church story. Softened edges, gentle smiles,
maybe a donkey clip -clopping along. But the
first crowd didn't smile. They gagged. They bristled.
To them, Samaritan wasn't sweet. It was scandal.
It was as if Jesus had said, your enemy, the
one who desecrated your temple, the one you swore
never to trust. That is the neighbor who saves
you. This is the parable that exposes the gap
between our economy of religion and God's economy
of mercy. It's a story that asks not who is my
neighbor, but will I cross the road when mercy
calls my name? So lean in. Dust is still on the
sandals. The flies still buzz over the wounded
man. And the spirit still crackles through the
static. We're not here for polished answers.
We're building a porch. The light on that porch
is meant to shine into the dark. So pull up a
chair, share this space, pass it along. You never
know who's still tuning in. Hoping Grace is still
on the dial. I'll see you on the other side.
Well, I'll tell you what. The time has come.
Wayne is giving me the double thumbs. So let's
pick up where we last left off. Tonight, this
is parable number three. So we start, we're going
to look at all the parables. We started with
the vineyard owner. Then we looked last week
at the parable of the talents. And then tonight
we're going to look at the parable of the Good
Samaritan. And again, I think context is key
to understanding what's really being said in
the parable. So we're going to try. diligently
to put ourselves in the crowd listening to Jesus
talk and suppose what the listener in the crowd
might think as they hear Jesus speaking. So picture
it with me. The sun hangs high above Jerusalem,
pouring down heat like a hammer. The stones of
the city shimmer in the air. carries the smell
of dust and sweat and roasting bread from market
stalls. Merchants call out their prices, children
laugh and dart through the legs of pilgrims,
and Roman soldiers keep their watchful eyes on
the crowd, their armor glinting in the sunlight.
The hum of life surrounds you, but in the middle
of it all, there's a hush where Jesus is standing.
You found a place. Among the people gathered
close around him, your sandals pressed into the
dirt. Feel the rough edge of stone at your feet.
Farmers with calloused hands lean in. Mothers
hush their children. Even the skeptical scribes
crane their necks to hear what he has to say.
There's a charged stillness as though creation
itself is leaning forward. And then it happens.
A lawyer. An expert in the Torah steps out of
the crowd. His robe sways as he moves, his chin
lifted with confidence, his eyes narrow with
calculation. He's not here to learn, he's here
to test. You sense the ripple through the crowd
like a sudden gust of wind. The stage is set,
not for an argument alone. but for a story that
will change forever the way you see your neighbor.
Beloved, lean your hearts towards the crackle
of the Spirit. The Word is about to speak. It
comes not as ink on paper, but as breath in your
lungs. Still yourself, but your ears be tuned
to the reading of Holy Scripture. Gospel account,
according to John. Just then a lawyer stood up
to test us. Teacher, he said, what must I do
to inherit eternal life? He said to him, what
is written in the law? What do you read there?
He answered, you shall love the Lord your God
with all of your heart and with all of your soul
and with all of your strength and with all of
your mind and your neighbor as yourself. And
he said to him, you've given the right answer.
Do this and you will live. Wanting to justify
himself, he asked Jesus, And who is my neighbor?
Jesus replied, A man was going down from Jerusalem
to Jericho and fell into the hands of robbers,
stripped him, beat him, and went away, leaving
him half dead. 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 them, passed
by on the other side but a samaritan while traveling
came near him and when he saw him he was moved
with pity he went to him and bandaged his wounds
having poured oil and wine on them then he put
him on his own animal brought him to an inn and
took care of him the next day he took out two
denarii gave them to the innkeeper and said take
care of him and when i come back I will repay
you whatever more you spend. Which of these three
do you think was a neighbor to the man who fell
into the hands of robbers? He said, the one who
showed him mercy. Jesus said, go and do likewise.
Friends, we just walked the dusty road where
mercy meets flesh. These are not yesterday's
words, but the living word. Sharp as lightning
and soft as grace. Let all who have ears to hear
say, thanks be to God. You're in that crowd that
day. The air smells of sweat and dust. Jesus
has been teaching his voice steady, his parables
sharp and strange, each one cutting to the heart.
Then a lawyer stands, not a courthouse lawyer
like we might know, but a man who lives. and
breathes the Torah. He has the scroll memorized,
the verses cross -stitched in his mind, commandments
tucked in his robe. He is sharp, trained, and
precise. And he is here not for hunger, but for
testing. Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal
life? The crowd stills. Some... Nod at the boldness.
Others smirk, waiting for Jesus to stumble. It's
bait, a trap in question form, a courtroom trick
disguised as theology. But Jesus refuses to be
pinned down. He tosses the question back. What's
written in the law? How do you read it? And you
know the answer. Because every child in the crowd
could sing it from memory. Love the Lord your
God with all of your heart, soul, strength, and
mind, and love your neighbor as yourself. The
Shema and Leviticus stitched together like two
cords of the same rope. Jesus nods, his eyes
steady. Do this and you will live. But the lawyer
isn't finished. He wants precision. He wants
limits. He wants to know just how small the circle
of love can be still past the test. And who is
my neighbor? It's a loophole in the form of a
question. And Jesus, with a smile that holds
both kindness and fire, says, let me tell you
a story. You're walking now, sandals on the stone.
The road drops steeply out of Jerusalem, 17 miles
through twisting, rocky wilderness towards Jericho.
Locals at the time called it the Way of Blood.
It's narrow. It's hemmed in by cliffs and gullies,
full of caves where bandits would hide. You feel
the heat press heavy on your shoulder. Your water
skin sloshes light. You wish you had brought
more. The stones bite into your sandals. Dust
clings to your ankles. And then you see him.
A man sprawled in the ditch. Robbers got him.
His cloak ripped. His skin slashed. His body
crumpled. He's half dead. The sound of flies
buzz at his wounds. coppery smell of blood rises
in the air your stomach tightens it could have
been you just as easy but wait help is coming
a priest flowing head lifted surely surely this
man of god will stop you watch relief loosening
your chest he slows he sees and then no He crosses
to the other side, his sandals quick, his eyes
diverted. Then a Levite, another temple man,
keeper of holy things. He sees, you think, surely
this time, but again the same. He veers, avoids,
disappears down the road. And you're left. With
the groaning man, your pulse beating in your
ears, wondering if it were you, would you stop?
Or would you pass by too? To us today, it sounds
cold. But to a first century Jewish listener,
the priest's and the Levite's actions make a
bitter kind of sense. Holiness codes were strict.
Blood could defile. A corpse could make you ritually
unclean for a week. If that man in the ditch
is already dead, one touch could mean forfeiting
temple duty. Imagine walking all the way from
Jerusalem on your rotation and then being barred
from religious service because you touched a
dead body. And to that danger, what if the robbers
were still nearby waiting to spring upon anyone
who might have stopped to try to help to a practical
cautious mind that made sense it felt perfectly
reasonable they're not monsters they're religious
devout doing what the system had trained them
to do. And yet, in their carefulness, mercy is
lost. Their holiness becomes a shield against
compassion. And the crowd listening to Jesus
that day, and you too, you're in that crowd,
would have nodded in agreement. Yes, of course,
the priest avoided. Yes, of course, the Levite
crossed over. they would have thought, that's
how the world works. Protect yourself. Protect
your purity. Protect your role. But here's where
Jesus' parable slices deep. The people in the
crowd would not have condemned the priest or
the Levite. They would have understood, maybe
even agreed. Their avoidance. made sense, the
world in which they knew. And this is exactly
why Jesus teaches in parables, to challenge the
familiar patterns, to upend what feels natural,
to rewrite the map of holiness. He shows that
in God's economy, mercy triumphs ritual. Compassion
can outrun caution. And love always outweighs
law. Think about it. The empire, whether Roman
or religious, teaches you to stay in line, keep
your place, guard your role, obey the rules,
and preserve the status quo. And the priest and
the Levite are doing exactly that. They're functioning
inside an empire of law and order, one that maintains
control through rules and fear. But God's kingdom
is different. Jesus dares to say, in God's economy,
mercy is not just a side dish, it's the main
meal. Compassion is not optional, it is the heart
of the law itself. And that's why Jesus' parables
sting. They force you to see what passes for
wisdom in the world. Self -protection, ritual
correctness, empire -approved obedience. And
they see that that often leaves the bleeding
man in the ditch. And what looks foolish, crossing
over, kneeling down, touching blood, is actually
the kingdom of God. Now, here it comes, right?
The crowd now expects a third man. Pattern is
obvious. Priest, Levite, surely this time it'll
be a regular Israelite, a farmer, a merchant,
and they will show compassion. But Jesus shatters
the pattern. But a Samaritan. The word self is
a hiss. It curdles the air. Samaritans are not
neutral. They're the enemy. They're traitors.
They're outsiders who claim to worship the same
God, but in the wrong place, with the wrong people,
and in the wrong way. And you can hear the crowd
bristle. You in the crowd would remember the
history. Centuries ago, after the Assyrian conquest,
Samaritans intermarried with foreigners. The
Samaritans were Jewish people that weren't taken
in exile. They actually remained. Not everybody
was removed in the exile. Some people stayed
behind. And those people who once were the people
of God waltzed. The captivity was happening intermarried.
So the Israelites look at their now former cousins
and say, you guys have messed it up. You are
no longer a part of our group. They built their
temple on Mount Gerizim and declared it their
holy place. To Jewish people, they were half
-breeds, idolaters, imposters. But, listening
in the crowd, it's not just ancient history with
these guys. In living memory, as this Jewish
historian, Josephus, you may or may not have
heard of him, he has a book called Antiquities.
And in the book, Josephus records an event that
took place when the Samaritans desecrated the
Jewish temple itself. On the eve of Passover,
this is believed to be in 6 AD, okay? So Jesus
is born in zero and we're hearing this story
in the crowd in say 30? We would have remembered
the year that these Samaritan terrorists on the
eve of Passover snuck into the temple and scattered
dead bones all over the temple. It defiled the
temple so much that they had to cancel Passover
for that year. So what do you think? Best buddies?
No way. Imagine pilgrims arriving with lambs,
children rehearsing the story of the Exodus,
only to find God's house polluted. Passover ruined.
Worship defiled their covenant with God mocked.
That wound would have still been raw in Jesus'
day. For the people listening in the crowd, Samaritan
wasn't just some theological category. It was
a curse, a scar, a desecration. So, when Jesus
said, But a Samaritan came near. It hits you
like a slap across your face. It's nauseating.
It's like him telling us, but Osama bin Laden
stopped to help. That's what I'm talking about.
The name alone makes you want to gag. You want
to spit it out of your mouth. And yet Jesus.
presses forward, forcing you to hear this. Now
the Samaritan comes close. He doesn't skirt the
body. He doesn't pretend he didn't see. He draws
near. And watch what he does. He sees not an
enemy, not a Jew, not a category, just a human,
broken and bleeding. Pity. wells up in him he
kneels down he pours oil and wine into the wounds
you can smell the sharp tang in the air he tears
his own cloth to bind the gashes his hands are
stained with another man's blood then he lifts
the body heavy limp awkward on to his own animal
his muscles tremble under the strain And he takes
the long walk to Jericho, step after dusty step,
while the wounded man rides where he should have
been. And at the inn, he tends him through the
night. In the morning, he gives him two denarii,
two full day's wages. He puts it into the innkeeper's
hand, and if that wasn't enough, he promises
more. When I return... I'll cover whatever more
you spend. Mercy has a cost. And the Samaritan
pays it in sweat, in coin, in risk, and in time.
Notice the reversal. The empire trades you to
see cost as a loss. God's economy... Sees cost
as an investment in eternity. The Samaritan doesn't
lose two denarii. He plants them in the soil
of mercy. He doesn't waste his night. He spends
it in God's kingdom. Now, Jesus looks back at
the lawyer. The story is finished, but the test
isn't. Which of these three was a neighbor to
the man? And the lawyer solos hard. The trap
he had set has now clamped on his own leg. He
knows the answer. Everybody does. But he can't
bring himself to say that name. He cannot let
Samaritan pass his lips. His throat tightens.
So he mutters instead, the one who showed mercy.
And Jesus says, go and do likewise. And it's
not a suggestion. It's not a theological point
for you to ponder over a cup of coffee. It is,
in fact, a command. And here's the hinge, the
holy scandal. Grace doesn't come from where you
want it to. It doesn't trickle down channels
you've built for it. It doesn't stay tidy or
safe or predictable. It bursts through the hands
you hate most. It comes from Samaria. It comes
from the face of your enemy. And eternal life?
It's not found nailing down the right definitions.
It isn't locked up in ritual purity or religious
roles. It's found in whether you can recognize
mercy when it comes from the hands of someone
you despise. Whether you would cross the road
yourself. Friends, this is the scandal of the
gospel. God's mercy breaks in through the ones
you would have never chosen. Through a foreigner,
through an enemy, through a crucified carpenter
on a Roman cross. Grace comes from outside of
our categories. And if you can't stomach it yet,
you probably don't understand it yet. Jesus uses
parables because they sneak past our defenses.
They break the world that we know and replace
it with the world as God dreams it. They shake
the empire's economy of fear and control, and
they replace it with God's economy of mercy and
grace. They remind us that God's kingdom is in
fact upside down. Because the last are first,
the meek inherit the earth, and your enemy becomes
the teacher of love. So let's bring it to a close.
Who is your Samaritan? Who's the one whose very
name makes your stomach churn? Who's the last
person you'd ever want Jesus to hold up as your
teacher in love? Maybe it's a politician you
despise whose face on the screen makes your blood
boil. Maybe it's a neighbor who has betrayed
your trust. Another church denomination you mock.
Maybe that family member you think is just beyond
reach. And the harder question, whose ditch have
you walked past? Whose suffering have you avoided
with a holy excuse? Maybe it was someone poor,
dirty, unwashed, begging on a corner. Maybe it
was someone in your own pew, carrying grief you
didn't want to touch. Maybe it was someone from
another race, another creed, another side of
the tracks. You crossed over, clutching your
Bible, whispering your prayers, keeping your
hands clean while mercy bled out in the ditch.
Friends, the gospel doesn't give you permission
to ignore the wounded. It does not allow you
to outsource compassion to someone else or explain
it all away with religious rules. The gospel
says, plainly, if you follow Jesus, you cross
the road. If you love God, you love the broken
one in front of you. If you are alive in Christ,
you are neighbor to even the ones who hate you.
So here we are. The man is still in the ditch.
The road is still dangerous. Your sandals still
crunch on the gravel. The sun is still beating
down. And the question still hangs in the air.
Not who is my neighbor, but will you cross the
road? Will you let mercy cost your safety, your
money, your time, your pride? Will you receive
grace when it comes in a wrong accent, with the
wrong passport, through the wrong hands? Will
you see the face of Christ and the one that you'd
rather condemn? Because Jesus doesn't have loopholes.
And he ends with a command. Go and do likewise.
So friends, go. Walk the road. Cross over to
the wounded. Cross over to the despised. Cross
over to the scandal of grace. Because that, friends,
is where eternal life truly begins. Amen? Amen.
Thanks, guys. The man is still in the ditch,
beloved. That's the truth you can't unhear. He's
there in every neighbor you'd rather ignore,
in every face you've labeled enemy, in every
body you step around because religion or pride
whispered, keep walking. And Jesus' words haven't
softened with time. They're as sharp today as
they were when they first dropped in that Jerusalem
crowd. Go and do likewise. Not think about it.
Not pray over it. Not file it away in your theology
notes. Go. Cross the road. Get your hands dirty.
Pay the cost. Become mercy in the flesh. The
empire will cheer you for self -protection. Religion
will excuse you with rules. But God's kingdom
lights a different path. It's a porch light in
the night, shining not for the polished, but
for the broken in the ditch. Light doesn't wait
for them to deserve it, it just shines. So, as
you step away from this episode, ask yourself,
where is the road pulling you? Who's lying wounded
just out of sight? What would it mean? Not to
debate the question, but to simply kneel down
and bind their wounds. And friends, if this porch
has become a light for you, pass it on. Share
it. Let it glow in someone else's dark night.
Because grace multiplies when we open the porch
to more weary travelers. That's the work we're
all about. Building a place where mercy takes
flesh. The road is waiting. The command is clear.
Will you cross? I'll see you next time. Let us
go on.