And Jesus replying said, A certain man descended from Jerusalem to Jericho and fell into [the hands of] robbers, who also, having stripped him and inflicted wounds, went away leaving him in a half-dead state.
A lawyer asked Jesus who his neighbour was, and Jesus answered with a story about a man robbed and left dying on a lonely road. Commentators see that wounded traveller as a picture of the lawyer himself, and of every reader.
The two cities in the story are not chosen at random. Their names mean something, and the road between them runs downhill.
A man left Jerusalem, which means "the foundation of peace" — that is, a city of righteousness. He went down toward Jericho, which means "fragrant." Jericho was attractive to the natural senses, but it was a city under the curse of God (Josh. 6:26). The descent is very steep: 3,624 feet (1,100 metres) over 13 miles (21 km). Man has gone down in the same way ever since he first left the place of obedience to God. Satanic power attacked him, robbed him of everything, and left him helpless, destitute, dead in sins. Perhaps the lawyer was too self-righteous to see that this was his own spiritual condition. But it was as true of him as of all mankind.
The traveller's direction matters as much as what happened to him.
The traveller turned his back on the city crowned with the glory of the Lord's presence, and set his face toward the city of curse. On this road he was stopped, plundered, wounded, and thrown aside without remedy, to die. It is the spiritual history of many.
The robbers strip him and wound him. Each act says something about the state of a sinner.
The stripping off of clothing is the loss of everything we use to cover our nakedness from ourselves. From God we cannot hide it. There is a wounded conscience. There is the awareness of being powerless — "ungodly and without strength." And the shadow of that death steals over the soul, a terrible banishment from the Life of life. This picture is true in every part of its tale of misery. It is the faithful representation of a convicted man.
He is not dead. Something is still alive in him.
Leaving him half dead: there is our condition. He was ruined, but his life was still in him — and it is well for us that our life was in us when we met Jesus.
That flicker of life lets him feel his own state. It is also where the danger lies.
This poor man was not dead. He had enough life left to feel his sufferings and his powerlessness. He was so powerless that he could not refuse the favour offered. Help comes to man, but he resists it. He is not aware enough of his own powerlessness to lie still and do nothing. Souls stay unsaved because they are resisting Christ in some way. ... If you admit your helplessness — make no secret of it — then comes the blessing.
The story is about one man, not about the human race. Writers press the reader not to hide inside the word "mankind."
Do not lose the beauty of that description by turning it into a general picture of man's condition. Its individuality is meant to catch the eye of someone who knows he is ruined and desperate. The Lord's words are not cold theological statements, but fresh from the heart for the heart. Are you on this Jericho road, stripped, to your shame, and wounded, to your hurt — a convicted and perishing sinner? Then it applies to you.
The lawyer had asked what he must do to inherit eternal life. The story shows a man who can do nothing.
Who does not see in this sketch man's condition as a sinner? And what folly it would be for someone in that condition to ask, What shall I do to inherit eternal life? The question is rather, What can be done to save him? This is what our Lord would teach the lawyer. It is folly for a sinner to ask what he can do. If he is saved, it must be by the grace and by the doing of another.
Help came from the one everyone despised, not from those with religious position.
Earthly priesthood and earthly ministry failed completely. Only the despised One was of any use. No one was more despised or hated than a Samaritan — unless it were the One who is beyond all comparison.
- Down. The road runs from the city of God to the city under a curse, and it drops over a thousand metres. The traveller's direction tells the whole story of a life turned away from God.
- Stripped. The robbers take the covering he used to hide his nakedness from himself. What God always saw is now plain to see.
- Half dead. He keeps just enough life to feel his own helplessness. He also keeps just enough strength to resist the help that comes.
- Personal. The story is about one man, not about mankind in general. It is aimed at the reader who knows he is ruined.
- Answered. A man dying in a ditch cannot answer, What must I do? The question becomes what can be done for him. The answer comes in the despised Samaritan.
And a certain priest happened to go down that way, and seeing him, passed on on the opposite side;
Robbers have stripped a man, wounded him and left him half dead on the road from Jerusalem down to Jericho. The first person to come along is a priest. Two small details carry the weight of the verse. It happened "by chance." And the priest saw the man, then crossed to the far side of the road.
One writer points to the rare word behind that opening phrase:
The word translated "chance" in Luke 10 means a coincidence, and this is the only place this particular word occurs in the New Testament. It just happened that at that time the priest came along. He did not go there by any design to help the man, but just happened to be passing and left the man as he found him.
Another writer takes that word as a verdict on who sent him:
The priest is the first example. But one fatal phrase disqualifies him from the start: "Now by chance a priest was going down that road." It is plain what such a word means here, on the lips of the speaker. It means that the Jewish priest was not the minister God provided for this condition. The message of the law is, "do this, and you will live." That is no gospel for the kind of person this helpless, dying man pictures.
Out of all the people the Lord could have put on that road, He chose a priest and a Levite. One writer sees that choice as deliberate:
Two men passed by as the wounded traveller lay in his blood: a priest and a Levite. Neither offered a helping hand. Yet the law taught that you should help even an enemy's donkey if you saw it groaning under its burden (Ex. 23:5). So why did the Saviour choose the priest and the Levite, out of all the classes and ranks of men, as the ones who did nothing for the dying man? Surely to teach us that the system these men represented could do nothing at all to meet the need of ruined man.
Another writer asks what the priest's training had to offer here:
By chance a priest came down that way. He knew the ritual of the law well, with its sacrifices and ceremonies. His work was to have compassion on the ignorant and on those who had gone astray. Just seeing the poor man was enough for him; he passed by on the other side. What can the law's rituals do for someone who is completely destitute and helpless?
You would expect a priest, of all people, to stop:
"Now by chance a priest was going down that road." By chance — notice that. "Ah," you say, "here is just the right man. Here is a man with a tender heart, a man who can help." But "he passed by on the other side." "I cannot touch him," he says. Why? Because touching him would have disqualified him and made him unclean.
His leaving measures how far gone the man is:
The very fact that the priest passed by on the other side only intensified the hopelessness of this man's position. There was nothing the priest could do to help a man in this condition. It was far beyond anything Judaism could provide… The priest can do nothing for a man who has turned his back on God.
And that emptiness clears the road for the One who follows:
The priest and the Levite were the wounded man's "nearest relatives." They were connected to him by nation and by religion, but they cannot help him. The law cannot help; it can only condemn those who are under it. But then the Samaritan came down, a picture of the Lord Jesus. He was not bound to touch the wounded man, who had no claim on him. Still he came to where the man was… The law could not help the sinner, so by passing by it made the way clear for the Saviour.
The parable also turns into a warning for the reader:
We are not to pass by someone who has been caught in a fault, as the priest and the Levite in the gospel passed by on the other side of the road. Instead we are to feel heartfelt sorrow for their condition. In the power of a holy compassion through the Spirit, we are to go down before God under the heavy burden that lies on the hearts of our brothers and sisters.
- Chance. The rare word used here means coincidence — the priest was not the messenger God sent to this man.
- Ritual. He knew sacrifices and ceremonies. But ritual had nothing to offer a man stripped and half dead.
- Distance. He saw and crossed over; touching the man would have made him unclean and disqualified him.
- Helplessness. His departure does not end the story — it proves the case is beyond anything the law could supply.
- Clearance. By passing by, the priest empties the road, and the Samaritan comes to where the man lies.
and in like manner also a Levite, being at the spot, came and looked [at him] and passed on on the opposite side.
A second man reaches the wounded traveller. He is a Levite, one of the men whose work tied him to the temple and the law of God. He gets closer than the priest did, and still walks away. Why did the Lord choose this figure? And why is a man who stops and looks no more use than one who does not?
The Lord could have put anyone on that road. He chose two men from Israel's religious system. Writers see the choice as deliberate, and as a warning still worth heeding:
Two people passed by as the wounded traveller lay in his blood: one a priest, the other a Levite. Neither offered a helping hand. Yet the law taught that you must help even an enemy's donkey when you see it groaning under its load (Ex. 23:5). But out of all the classes and ranks of men, why did the Saviour pick the priest and the Levite as those who did nothing for the dying man? Surely to teach us that the system they represented had no power to meet the need of ruined man. The priest's work was religious forms and ceremonies, and the Levite's work was to teach the people the law of God. Yet God's own picture shows both of them doing nothing for a man in deadly danger. People have paid so little attention to this that crowds searching for salvation still throw themselves on priests, or on moralists, to meet their deep need.
The Levite does not just pass at a distance. He reaches the place, looks at the man, and then moves on.
A Levite, arriving at the place, at least came and looked at him, but also passed by (v.32). He was the priests' helper, doing the manual work their service required. If mere formal ritual is worth nothing in this sad case, then neither can man save himself by good works. He was too far gone for the Levite. Instruction in worship and service is useless to a dying sinner: he needs a Saviour!
Read the scene from the wounded man's side. Someone stops, looks him over, and leaves.
Think of the hope in his heart when those human forms met his fading sight, and human eyes looked into his! But there was no help for him there. The men of law were not the ministers of the mercy he needed. And they have no more help or hope now than they had then for someone who is simply lost. The law says "Do" — and what can such a person do? You may as well talk about work to the half-dead man on the roadside in the picture. Talking about it to the completely dead sinner he stands for is even more useless.
There is a second charge here, beyond the weakness of the system. It falls on the men themselves.
We may take this up in two ways. It is a striking picture of the law's inability to deal with our condition. But the Lord also shows here that the representatives of the law did not keep what they taught. I learn here that the teachers of the law, the priests and the Levites have never kept what they set out. That is their everlasting shame. Were they authorised to pass by on the other side? The law will never do anything for me, a sinner, nor make its defenders and advocates into what it wants them to be.
Commentators point to another reason neither man acted. The wounded traveller was in a state they could not touch.
Can the "priest" do anything for him? Nothing! He has no sacrifice and no ability to get up and fetch one. Can the "Levite" not help him? No! He is so defiled by his wounds and bruises that neither Levite nor priest could touch him. In a word, neither law nor ordinances can meet his case. He is utterly ruined... He has only to cry out from the deep and awful depths of his moral ruin, "Wretched man that I am! Who will deliver me from this body of death?"
The Levite's exit is not the end of the story. It clears the road for someone with no duty to stop at all.
Then a Levite comes, the second official of the law, but he passes by too; he cannot touch him or help him. The priest and the Levite were the wounded man's nearest relatives. They shared his nation and his religion. But they cannot help him. The law cannot help; it can only condemn those who are under it. But when the Samaritan came down, he was not bound to touch the wounded man, who had no claim on him. He came where he was, went right down to the spot where he lay, picked him up, and set him in a place of perfect safety. The law could not help the sinner, so by passing by it made the way clear for the Saviour.
- Looked — the Levite goes further than the priest: he reaches the place, comes and looks, and still passes by.
- Left — a closer look saves nobody. The wounded man's hope rises when human eyes look into his, and then dies.
- Law — priest and Levite stand for ritual and for instruction in God's law, and neither can meet the need of a ruined man.
- Lawbreakers — the men who represented the law broke it. They never kept what they set out for others.
- Left open — the law can only condemn. Its passing by clears the road for the Samaritan, who comes to where the man lies and lifts him to safety.
But a certain Samaritan journeying came to him, and seeing [him], was moved with compassion,
A priest and a Levite have already seen the wounded man and crossed to the other side. Now a third traveller comes down the same road. The parable turns on three things: what this man is called, how near he comes, and what he feels when he sees him.
His enemies had thrown one name at Him. The Lord chose that name for Himself.
So the priest and the Levite pass by and give place to another. "But a Samaritan, as he journeyed, came to where he was." Why a Samaritan? It was the insult they had thrown at Him — "Are we not right in saying that You are a Samaritan?" It was meant to suggest a man who walked outside the path the law laid down, and whom the law condemned. If the Lord takes that name, we may be sure there is meaning in it. And how did He come where we were, except by being "made in the likeness of sinful flesh" and "a curse for us"? And how could His mercy reach us, except by His taking a path outside the law?
That choice is more striking when you look back one chapter.
There is a wonderful touch of grace in the Lord taking up the thought of a Samaritan. In the ninth chapter we read that a Samaritan village had refused Him. It is one of those precious incidents we have in Luke of the amazing grace and humility of the Lord Jesus.
The word "but" sets this traveller against the two who came before. The difference is not in the man on the ground. It is in what the newcomer brought with him.
That is the point to keep before us — not the law's inability to help, nor the poverty of the man, but the resources that came in with the Samaritan. He brought everything that was necessary, and in compassion took full charge of the situation. The priest was on the line of demand, but the man had nothing to give — he had lost all he had. The Levite was on the line of works. His duty was to teach Israel God's law — but the man is half dead, and there was nothing he could do. He could not have been in a worse state, and it was this that drew out the compassion of the Samaritan.
Three short phrases carry the verse: he came, he saw, he had compassion.
"He came to where he was" — not half-way or nine-tenths of the way, but all the way. "And when he saw him," what then? Did he turn away in disgust at his appearance and despair of his condition? Ah! no; "He had compassion on him." His tender heart yearned over him. He cared not what he was or who he was. Jew or Gentile, it mattered not... Was this "compassion" only a passing sentiment — a brief feeling that speaks empty words and then fades? No; it was real, living and active, and it showed itself in the plainest way.
The wounded man never speaks in the story. One writer makes that silence part of the point.
Now, why is the blessed Lord of glory called a Samaritan? Because He was a stranger. A stranger from heaven has come down to show neighbourly love on earth... "And when he saw him, he had compassion." What is the source of all the salvation found in Him? Was there anything in you to draw it out or provoke it? No. Something in Him suggested it. The poor waylaid man was silent from first to last... There is no more blessed answer to the grace of God than the stillness of faith... The Lord acts from Himself — at the suggestion of His own compassion.
The Samaritan makes three distinct moves across verses 33 and 34. One writer gives each move a meaning.
There are three movements to note in the Samaritan. First, he was on a journey. Second, he "came to where he was". Third, in verse 34, he "went to him". The "journey" may suggest the Lord stooping down into Manhood in this world. Coming to "where he was" may point to the different scenes along His path, where He showed the grace of God moving out in blessing towards man. But when he "went to him", to bind up his wounds and bring him to full recovery, that may involve the cross itself.
- Name. The Lord takes for Himself the insult thrown at Him — the outsider who walks outside the path the law laid down.
- Journey. He was already on the way. The rescue starts with Him stooping down, not with a cry from the road.
- Nearness. He came where the man was — all the way, not most of the way, and without asking who or what he was.
- Compassion. The source is in Him alone. The wounded man is silent from beginning to end and offers nothing that could provoke it.
- Action. The compassion is not a feeling that fades. It is alive, and it moves to the man himself — a step one writer connects with the cross.
and came up [to him] and bound up his wounds, pouring in oil and wine; and having put him on his own beast, took him to [the] inn and took care of him.
On the road down from Jerusalem to Jericho, a priest and a Levite have already walked past a robbed and half-dead man. Now a Samaritan stops, and every move he makes costs him something.
Commentators see the Lord Himself in the Samaritan. The choice of that figure is deliberate.
Why a Samaritan? It was the name of reproach they had hurled at Him — "Say we not well that You are a Samaritan?" It was meant to suggest a man who walked outside the path the law laid down, and whom the law condemned. If the Lord takes that name, there is meaning in it we may be sure. And, indeed, how did He come where we were, but by being "made in the likeness of sinful flesh," and "a curse for us"? And how could His mercy reach us except by His taking a path outside of law?
Nothing about the man in the road made him worth the trouble.
"He came where he was" — not half-way or nine-tenths of the way, but all the way. "And when he saw him," what then? Did he turn away in disgust at his appearance and despair of his condition? Ah! no; "He had compassion on him." His tender heart yearned over him. He cared not what he was or who he was.
One writer sees more here than first aid.
The words "he went to him and bound up his wounds" may be connected with the cross. The human nature the Lord took was untainted by sin. Yet in those three hours of darkness God made Him "who knew no sin" to be sin for us. There He fully identified Himself with our state, and God dealt with Him in our place.
These were the ordinary medicines a traveller carried. Each one did a different job.
Pouring the oil in, or over, was for massage, as it still is among the Arabs. The wine was to stop the bleeding.
Commentators also find a picture in the two liquids.
The oil speaks of the Spirit of God, given to us by pure grace. The wine speaks of the blood of Christ, which cleanses from all sin and brings joy in place of misery, for wine speaks of joy too.
Notice both what the rescuer had with him and what he gave up.
He happened to have with him the very wealth that suited the man lying in the road. The Lord Jesus came loaded with the very fullness that fitted your condition. "And set him on his own beast." He exchanged places with us. He was rich, and we were poor. He became poor that we might be rich.
The rescue does not end at the roadside. Someone else takes over the care, and someone else pays for it.
He also brings him to an inn; that is, makes a stranger of him down here. Then he commits him to the host, pays for his keep until the time of his return. Nothing is expected from the subject of grace, nor does he do anything. He ruined himself. That was the sum total of all that he did. The Samaritan took on the whole responsibility for saving him and keeping him, in every way.
One word in this verse comes back later as a job description for those who lead a church.
The word translated "take care of" is found only once elsewhere in the New Testament. It occurs in the Parable of the Good Samaritan. There the Lord shows him going to the wounded, half-dead man who had been attacked by thieves. He pours oil and wine into his wounds, at his own cost, of course. He sets him on his beast and walks himself. Then he brings him to an inn. What a model to those who have been called to eldership! This is the manner in which they are to "take care of the church of God." It will cost them something. It will certainly mean self-denial.
- Came — the rescuer crossed the whole distance, not most of it. He came under a name of contempt, outside the law's respectability.
- Cured — wounds bound, oil and wine poured in. Real medicine on the road, and a picture of the cross and its healing.
- Carried — the man rides while the rescuer walks. They swap places, poverty for riches.
- Cared for — an inn, a host, and a bill paid by someone else. The rescued man brings nothing but the ruin he arrived in.
- Costly — the same word for this care sets the standard for caring for God's people. It means self-denial, paid from your own pocket.
And on the morrow [as he left], taking out two denarii he gave them to the innkeeper, and said to him, Take care of him, and whatsoever thou shalt expend more, *I* will render to thee on my coming back.
The Samaritan's work does not end when he rides away the next morning. He leaves money, instructions, and a promise. His plan covers the whole time he will be away, and gives the rescued man someone to wait for.
The Samaritan pays for tonight and promises to settle whatever tomorrow costs.
His love is not satisfied with thoughtful kindness for the present. He takes charge of the future as well. The terms are all the more striking because the picture is such an everyday one. How full and boundless is this love! It is not limited by family ties or by earthly duty. It flows from a divine and eternal spring within, and looks outside itself only for needy people to act on. No person is too repulsive, no need is beyond the resources of grace... Yes, His provision while He is absent is enough, whatever unbelief may think of it, or of Him. And when He returns, what repayment where He is trusted! What loss, where He is scorned!
Verse 34 says the Samaritan took care of the man himself; verse 35 tells the innkeeper to do it. Commentators read that handover as a picture of what Jesus did when He went back to the Father. The same rare word for "care" ties the task to caring for God's people.
The inn where the man was brought may stand for "God's house, which is the assembly of the living God" (1 Tim. 3:15)... When the time came for the Samaritan to leave, he entrusted the care of the man to the innkeeper. When the Lord Jesus was about to depart out of this world and go back to the Father, He spoke to the disciples of "another Comforter". This Comforter is the Holy Spirit. Of course, the Lord in glory still cares for His own. But in view of His departing He committed their care to One who could care for them as He had done — another divine Person... The word for care in verses 34 and 35 occurs only once elsewhere in the New Testament. That third use helps here: "For if a man does not know how to manage his own household, how will he care for God's church?" (1 Tim. 3:5).
Why two coins? An older answer made them stand for two sacraments. The writer below sets that reading aside and still finds meaning in the sum: wages for care given, with more to come.
We may, like Van Oosterzee, refuse the thought of two sacraments as trifling, and yet believe that there is meaning here as elsewhere. The two pence are clearly payment for care given... it should be easy to see that the reward goes to those through whom the Spirit works in caring for Christ's people. There is a present reward, for "the one who waters will himself be watered." There is a future one too, when the departed Saviour returns. So the two coins may carry the number of testimony. What is paid now bears witness to a gracious remembrance of all that is done here for Him. The future will show it in full.
The sum left behind is small. One commentator takes that as a sign of a short absence.
This inn has a "Host," and the Spirit of God tells us His name: His name is "Pan-docheus" — the Person who receives all. The Samaritan only stayed a short time, for He went away the next day. But before He left, He promised to come back. In the meantime He left orders with the "Host" to take care of this poor man. Since He left only two pence, the poor man knew that his good Friend meant to come again soon. I am sure he kept watching down the road to see if He was coming.
The rescued man arranges nothing for himself. His safety rests on the Samaritan's plan, and his daily care passes to others who were given gifts for the job.
The security of the healed man was this: the Samaritan had lifted him from the roadside to his own seat — "set him on his own beast" — and undertook to care for him. He made provision for the whole time he would be away. The bright prospect before the man was the hope of his coming again... The Samaritan's care shows not only in the words "took care of him," but also in his handing the man over to the service of others. He had given those others gifts for that service, saying, "Take care of him."
- Paid for — the rescue is not a loan. Someone else covers the cost of the man's recovery before he is asked for anything.
- Placed — the Samaritan leaves him in an inn, a picture of God's house, in the hands of another carer.
- Provided for — the two denarii cover the absence, and reward those through whom the Spirit cares for Christ's people.
- Promised more — the Samaritan will repay whatever the care costs beyond that sum when He returns, so no carer runs at a loss.
- Waiting — the small sum hints at a short absence. It turns the man's face toward the road, watching for the One who is coming back.
Which [now] of these three seems to thee to have been neighbour of him who fell into [the hands of] the robbers?
The lawyer had asked Jesus to define his neighbour. Jesus tells a story, then hands the question back: which of the three men became a neighbour to the wounded traveller? That switch puts the whole discussion on new ground.
The lawyer wanted a boundary line drawn around his duty. As one writer puts it, love never needs such a line, because need itself supplies the answer.
If I may speak this way of Him as a man, He had the single eye and the heart that perfectly understood what God was, and enjoyed it. So He never had difficulty in finding out who was his neighbour. For, in truth, grace finds a neighbour in everyone who needs love. My neighbour is the man who needs human sympathy, and who needs divine goodness and its clear testimony, even when it comes through a man on earth. Now, Jesus was the only man walking in the whole power of divine love... As such, therefore, He found no riddle to solve in the question, Who is my neighbour?
The same principle wipes out the categories the lawyer was relying on.
After the essence of the statement of the law, the Lord shows to the man who would justify himself by quibbling over the terms, that grace, the new and blessed principle of God's dealings, makes us by its very nature the neighbour of everyone who has need, and wipes out, by its divine nature, the divisions formed by religious rules that produce no grace, but rather, with the heart being what it is, tend to feed pride by marking out the man they belong to.
Left to himself, the lawyer would have answered his own question in a way that cost him nothing.
If the lawyer had answered his own question, he would no doubt have limited neighbour to one of his own nation. In effect he would have confused neighbour with brother. For the law counted all Israelites as brothers. But a neighbour is a broader term. This is what the Samaritan's act brings out... The teacher of the law passed by. The doer of the law — the Samaritan — personally cared for the injured man, and fully provided for him.
Jesus does more than settle a point of interpretation. The story shows that the question itself came out of a heart that had already failed the test.
How it exposes the narrow selfishness that can raise such a question! Need meets us in countless shapes, right before our eyes. This is what the legal spirit breeds: the cold calculation of duty by a self-occupied mind, which is sure to spare itself as much as it can. Love is the opposite — unreckoning self-sacrifice, taken up with its object. The priest and the Levite are examples of the first, the Samaritan of the second. A little heart would have decided the lawyer's question for him. It was his shame to ask it.
The verdict was obvious, but naming the winner cost the lawyer something.
The Lord knew the lawyer would not grasp the meaning of all this. But the simple story itself was enough to have a serious effect on him. The Lord's question was pointed: which of these three was really a neighbour to the man who fell among thieves? There could be no argument about it. But the lawyer did not answer, "the Samaritan," since he hated that name; instead he said, "The one who showed him mercy."
The despised figure in the story is not chosen at random. One writer reads the Samaritan as a picture of Christ Himself, wearing the insult His enemies threw at Him.
Why a Samaritan? It was the name of reproach they had hurled at Him: "Are we not right in saying that you are a Samaritan?" The name was meant to mark out a man who walked outside the set path of the law, a man the law condemned. If the Lord takes that name, we may be sure there is meaning in it. And indeed, how did He come to where we were, except by being "made in the likeness of sinful flesh" and "a curse for us"? And how could His mercy reach us except by His taking a path outside of law? "And when he saw him, he had compassion on him."
If Christ is the Samaritan, the order of the story matters for anyone who wants to copy Him.
Next, he had taken charge of the man, and he would look after him. That is the gospel, and that is neighbourly love. Again I say, the question "Who is my neighbour?" drew the blessed Lord into a picture of Himself. And now, how are we to act the part of the Samaritan? We must begin as debtors to Jesus before we can follow Him in neighbourly love. We must be the waylaid man before we can be the Samaritan.
- Question — the lawyer asks who qualifies as his neighbour; Jesus asks who proved to be one. Love does not need the boundary line the legal mind keeps asking for.
- Mercy — the lawyer cannot bring himself to say the hated word "Samaritan." He answers, "The one who showed him mercy." Mercy, not nationality, marks out the neighbour.
- Reproach — the helper carries the insult flung at Christ Himself. He walked outside the law, and only so could His mercy reach us.
- Received — you must be the waylaid man before you can be the Samaritan. Debt to Jesus comes before imitation of Him.
- Go — the teacher of the law passed by; the doer of the law stopped and cared for the man. The story asks the reader the same question it asked the lawyer.
And he said, He that shewed him mercy. And Jesus said to him, Go, and do *thou* likewise.
The lawyer had asked Jesus to define his neighbour, and now he must answer his own question himself — with an act, not a class of people. Jesus turns that answer into a command, and that raises the real question: is this a rule we can keep, or a mirror that shows us we cannot?
The lawyer replies with a description, not a name. One writer notes what he leaves out.
If the lawyer had answered his own question, he would surely have limited the word neighbour to someone of his own nation. He would have made neighbour mean the same as brother, since the law counted all Israelites as brothers. But neighbour is a wider word, and the Samaritan's act shows it... The teacher of the law passed by. The doer of the law — the Samaritan — served the injured man himself and cared for him fully. Who was that poor man's neighbour? Forced to answer, the lawyer described him in a way typical of himself. But he seems to have avoided naming his nationality: "The one who showed him mercy," were the words.
The question Jesus asks at the end is not the question the lawyer asked at the start. He reverses the direction.
Some read the parable of the good Samaritan and quickly conclude this: the Lord answered the question "Who is my neighbour?" by showing that we should do our duty to our neighbour wherever there is need. But notice something. The man who fell among robbers is not described as a neighbour that the other man acts towards. The Samaritan was neighbour to him... the lawyer only wanted to justify himself. He wanted a clear list of those who had a claim on him, so that he would owe nothing more... Where love is at work, it does not ask "Who?" It delights to act without asking who deserves it.
If an unchanged heart cannot obey this command, why give it? The same writer answers that Jesus fits His words to the person in front of Him.
The Lord then says, "You go, and do likewise." He says it so that the man might know his own deceitful heart. Acting in that way — that is, acting in mercy — was completely foreign to his nature, so that he might learn his need. We find that the Lord always deals with souls according to their state. To a soul that feels its need He would never say, "You go, and do likewise."
Another writer places the lawyer not in the Samaritan's role but in the victim's.
Where all men had failed the Lord goes back to divine love, to the touching story of one who, after priest and Levite had walked past, came to the place of need... if the lawyer, as all others, had failed in this then he, as all others, needed to recognise himself as fallen among thieves and in need of (not "doing something" but) the grace and mercy of the Samaritan.
Commentators differ here. Some read the story as a portrait of Christ Himself, and make that the starting point for obedience.
Again I say, when He was asked, "Who is my neighbour?" the blessed Lord was forced to draw a picture of Himself. So how are we to act the part of the Samaritan? We must first be debtors to Jesus before we can follow Him in love for our neighbour. We must be the man left by the roadside before we can be the Samaritan.
Others hold that this final command rules the reading out.
The point being taught is loving your neighbour as yourself. How could we apply that to the Lord who made atonement for us?... And this settles the matter: the moral of the story is, "You go, and do likewise." No one of us could carry that out if the good Samaritan stood for our Saviour.
The lawyer goes away with a new pattern, taken from the one person he expected nothing good from.
He is no longer to display the law, but grace. He has learned who his neighbour is. That knowledge must not sit in his soul like a dried-up weed that bears no fruit. His life is to take its character from the gracious ways of one from whom he had until now expected nothing good.
This does not set the law aside. It is the one road where the law's demand is met.
What a mercy that through us, in Jesus, there is active goodness here on earth! After all, it is the only thing that ever fulfils the law... The lawyer was walking after the flesh. He saw nothing of grace, and so there was no truth in him.
- Mercy names it. Forced to answer his own question, the lawyer can only point to an act. He names the one who showed mercy, not a class of people with a claim on him.
- Mercy reverses it. The question is no longer who counts as my neighbour, but to whom I will become one; love does not ask who deserves it.
- Mercy exposes. The command targets a self-justifying heart. The man is to discover two things: mercy is foreign to his nature, and he is the one lying wounded.
- Mercy is received first. Commentators differ on whether the Samaritan pictures Christ. Those who see Him there insist we must be the rescued man before we can be the rescuer.
- Mercy is then lived. The doer of grace, not the teacher of law, is the one who fulfils what the law asked.