Fifth Sunday after Pentecost
July 13, 2025
Luke 10:25-37

It was a dangerous road, from Jerusalem to Jericho. Only twenty miles but a drop of three thousand feet, through narrow rocky passes out toward the desert wilderness. A dangerous road, perfect for thieves and bandits. That road, the road from Jerusalem to Jericho was known as the “Red Way,” for it was soaked in blood. A dangerous road. Like all those old western movies – out there on the high plains, beyond the city, with stagecoach robberies and train holdups. There’s danger out there.

Indeed, it was a dangerous road. The man in the parable, as Jesus tells it, is stripped, beaten, robbed, and left for dead. The priest passes by. The Levite passes by. They don’t stop. They keep going. The beaten man could have been a decoy for all they know. Perhaps the priest and the Levite think that it’s actually a robber, part of a gang, playing possum, luring them into an easy trap. Rightfully concerned, fully aware of the danger they were in, the priest and the Levite know that they could have just as easily ended up like that man – stripped, beaten, robbed. So they do the rational thing, and hurry on their way. They want to get off that dangerous road, they want to get to town, just as soon as they can.

And then along comes a Samaritan. Now, we know that Jews and Samaritans did not get along. It’s an old grudge. But we also know that the word “Samaritan” was used as a slur, for people who were actually Samaritans, and for people criticized for being like Samaritans. The man who stopped, the man who helped, he might have been an ethnic Samaritan, far away from home. Or, he could just have been someone that they called a Samaritan for any of the reasons people use slurs today – to humiliate, to bully, to mock. It’s a thing that happened then, and happens now. And I dare not sully this pulpit and utter those words, but you know them. Lord, have mercy upon us.

And it’s that person. The butt of the joke. The name that shall not be used. He’s the one that bothers to stop. To care for the man. And it’s not even so much that the Samaritan takes the time and spends the money to help the man. It’s that the Samaritan is willing to risk his own life to stop, knowing that the road is dangerous, full of thieves and bandits.

We did not know it, but those camps, those idyllic little places along the Guadalupe River; well, they were dangerous, too. And so many, so many, were taken, swept away, and left by the torrent of water. For me, over these last ten days, I cannot shake those images from my mind. The unspeakable horror of it all. The danger of a place they knew as safe. And as I have spoken with those families, and with those survivors, I admit, I have no words. No words to describe the calamity, the terror, the anguish, the sorrow. No words to alleviate the pain or to make it go away. And perhaps it is good that we have no words, for if we could describe, it would become too normal, too routine. We would become too familiar, too numb to the danger of this dangerous world. All I can do is to drop to the knees of my heart and pray, “Lord, have mercy upon us.”

This is a broken and hurting world. And that brokenness and that hurt continues to break and to hurt us. Like the thieves, like the bandits that stalked the road from Jerusalem to Jericho; danger lurks even in the places we thought were safe. And so we all drop to our knees and cry out to God. In full recognition of our frailty, our brokenness, our hurt; our dependence on God alone; our trust in the Savior who also suffered; in our sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life. For those people washed away, for little girls like Blakely, for all who are robbed and beaten and left in this cruel and dangerous world. And we weep, not only for those girls; but for all the children of this world who suffer, who are victims on this dangerous road from Jerusalem to Jericho, on this dangerous road we call “life.” We lament for the children who are bombed while sleeping in their beds. We lament for the children who have to pick their way through minefields. We lament for the children who run from drug gangs and traffickers, the children who are used as pawns in the geopolitical games we play. We weep for the children lost in every fire, every earthquake, every famine, every flood. We drop to our knees in times like this because the pain is so fresh and so real and so in front us and so personal. Knowing full well that there are millions of people in this world who face that pain every single day. We weep with, and for, all of them. Lord, have mercy upon them.

And yet, that is not all. On this day, we also have kids here for Vacation Bible School. As we mourn, we also celebrate the goodness of children and their presence among us. This weekend we’ve all laughed, and joked, and talked about God, and it’s been so good. And now, more than ever, it is so important, critical, that the children entrusted to our care know that they are loved. 

And we have also seen this parable, we have seen the Good Samaritan play out, right before our eyes. Just as we read the stories of horror, we know the other stories. Of the counselors who risked their own lives for the sake of their campers. For the camp owners who also perished. For the pilots and the swimmers and the rescuers who, knowing the dangers, were willing to stop and help. Risking it all for people they did not even know. They were neighbors, because they showed mercy.

Because the one who showed mercy, was the neighbor. That’s the real double meaning that Jesus is trying to get across in this parable. Yes, there is the ethical imperative, that we also ought to show mercy, to be good neighbors. And also, it is the Lord God who has mercy. The Lord God has shown mercy for a thousand generations. The Lord God knows that we, too, have been beaten, stripped, robbed, left for dead by this cruel and harsh world. And it is the Lord God who stoops to us in Jesus Christ to bandage our wounds and carry us to safety. It is the Lord Jesus who was willing to risk himself for our sakes; and even he could not escape the thieves and the bandits, as he, too, was stripped, beaten, robbed, and left for the dead on the cross. Think of it, Jesus is the Good Samaritan. The butt of the joke. His name is a byword as he hangs upon the cross. And yet, he rises to life again so that we would all have newness of life – in this world and in the world to come. More than anything, it is the Lord God who is our neighbor, because it is the Lord God shows us mercy. And that, that is what gives me hope as I make my way on this dangerous road from Jerusalem to Jericho, on this dangerous road called life. That the Lord God sees me, sees my suffering. The Lord God sees how I’m soul-sick and sin-sick; emotionally and spiritually beaten down and left for the dead on this road of life. The Lord God knows your pain, your nightmares, your dreads, your heartbreak. And the Lord God is willing to stoop down, and wash our wounds, and carry us away, and drop us with the innkeeper. The Lord has mercy upon us.

And that’s where I’d like to end. With the innkeeper. The way I read the parable, the inn, the innkeeper, well, that’s the Church. The way I see it, you and I are brought here every Sunday; we don’t make it on our own. The Lord God picks us up and carries us here so that someone would take care of us. And so we would take care of each other. The Good Samaritan entrusted the innkeeper with two denarii to look after the man’s wounds; the Lord God entrusts the Church with this grace, this life of compassion, this message of love, and we are to take care of each other’s wounds. As we will do in prayer for those who lost their lives, for those who lost their families; as we will do in prayer and in deed and in money for all those in every corner of this world who face such torment and distress. And as we will do for each other as we reel from the pain of the last ten days. We, the Church, are the innkeepers entrusted by the Lord God to care for all those whom the Lord brings into our midst. Even as we are caring for each other, who’ve been beaten, stripped, robbed, and left for dead in this dangerous world. I have no words to explain why these things happen. I have no words to make things better. But this I do know, and this I can say. The Lord has mercy. And so we all pray once again, “Lord, have mercy upon us.” 

See also

Barclay, William. The Parables of Jesus. Westminster John Knox Press, 1999.