A Sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church
9th March 2025
Luke 10.25-42
Who Is My Neighbour?
There are some questions that shape
not only our personal faith
but also our response to the world around us.
And the question at the heart of our Gospel reading today
is one such question: Who is my neighbour?
This is not just an ancient query
from a first-century lawyer testing Jesus,
it’s a question that defines our moral and theological responsibility
in an age of global crisis.
Who is our neighbour
in a world where war devastates communities?
Who is our neighbour
when nations are torn apart by violence, displacement, and injustice?
Who is our neighbour
when the suffering of those far from us feels distant from our daily lives?
The thing is, as we gather for worship,
we bring with us the concerns of our world.
The war in Ukraine continues to cause immense human suffering,
displacing millions, tearing apart families,
and reshaping the geopolitical landscape.
Meanwhile, in Palestine, the ongoing occupation, military assaults,
and humanitarian crisis raise urgent ethical and theological questions
about justice, peace, and the value of human life.
In both these conflicts—and in so many other places around the world—
lives are being destroyed, people are being displaced,
and entire communities are crying out for justice and mercy.
In the face of such suffering,
it is easy to retreat into self-interest, to look away, to feel overwhelmed.
It is tempting for us to ask the question
that the lawyer in our passage asked Jesus:
Who is my neighbour?
And often, when we ask it,
we are really looking for an excuse to limit our responsibility.
We want Jesus to reply to us, that:
"Your neighbour is only the person who looks like you,
who speaks your language, shares your culture,
and lives within your borders."
But as we will see in today’s Gospel passage,
Jesus refuses to give an answer that allows for such exclusions.
Instead, he tells a story that turns the question on its head,
shifting the focus from "Who is my neighbour?"
to "How can I be a neighbour?"
And that is where we must begin today
—not by asking who is worthy of our care,
but by asking how we can respond with compassion
to those in need, regardless of their nationality, race, or creed.
The world does not need more boundaries between people;
what it needs is more Good Samaritans.
The world does not need more excuses for inaction;
it needs more of us to embody the radical, barrier-breaking love
that Jesus calls us to live out.
So as we turn to consider our reading today from Luke’s gospel,
let’s listen carefully to scripture,
for this passage has much to say to us
about how we respond to the crises of our world today.
It challenges us to see the humanity of those who suffer,
to extend compassion even when it is costly,
and to be the kind of neighbours
that the Kingdom of God demands.
The Lawyer's Inquiry and Jesus' Response
The passage begins with a lawyer—a religious expert—
coming to Jesus with a question:
"Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?"
At first, it seems like a sincere question,
one that any faithful person might ask.
But Luke tells us that the lawyer is not merely seeking wisdom
—he is testing Jesus.
Perhaps he wants to see if Jesus
will affirm his own theological assumptions.
Perhaps he wants Jesus to offer an answer
that reinforces his sense of moral superiority.
But Jesus, as he so often does, responds with a question of his own:
"What is written in the Law? What do you read there?"
The lawyer then gives a perfect lawyer’s answer,
quoting what Jesus himself elsewhere describes
as the greatest commandments:
"You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart,
and with all your soul, and with all your strength, and with all your mind;
and your neighbour as yourself."
Jesus affirms his response:
"You have answered correctly; do this, and you will live."
But the lawyer is still not satisfied.
Luke tells us that he wants to "justify himself."
And so he asks the question that will launch Jesus
into one of the most radical and disruptive parables in the entire Gospel:
"And who is my neighbour?"
It’s a question that echoes down through history,
especially in times of crisis.
The lawyer is looking for a boundary,
a limit to his obligation.
He is not asking, "How can I be a better neighbour?"
but "Whom am I required to love, and whom can I ignore?"
And this is a question that continues to shape
political and ethical debates today.
In recent years, we have seen the resurgence of nationalist ideologies
that define compassion in the narrowest possible terms.
The phrase "America First" became the guiding principle
of a U.S. administration that slashed the USAID budget,
reducing funds for humanitarian aid, disaster relief,
and development projects in some of the most vulnerable parts of the world.
The British government recently followed suit,
further cutting its international aid budget
from an original 0.7% to now 0.3% of national income,
despite the devastating impact this will have
on global hunger, health care, and education.
These policies, in effect, redefine the question:
Who is my neighbour?
The answer they give is clear:
Our own citizens. Our own people.
Those within our borders.
Everyone else must fend for themselves.
But Jesus refuses to allow
such a narrow definition of neighbourliness.
When the lawyer asks, "Who is my neighbour?"
he is hoping for a legalistic loophole
—a justification for limiting love.
Instead, Jesus tells a story that shatters all barriers,
a story that makes clear that our neighbour
is not just the person who shares our nationality, ethnicity, or faith,
but the person in need—the suffering stranger, the wounded traveller,
the one whom the world is all too willing to pass by.
As we hear Jesus’ response, we must ask ourselves:
Are we seeking to justify ourselves?
Are we looking for reasons to limit our compassion?
Or are we willing to let Jesus redefine what it means to be a neighbour
in a world that desperately needs mercy?
The Parable of the Good Samaritan
And so we come to the famous parable of the Good Samaritan.
In response to the lawyer’s question, “Who is my neighbour?”
Jesus doesn’t provide a direct answer.
Instead, he tells a story—a story that upends expectations,
exposes the limits of human compassion,
and calls us to something higher.
He says that a man was travelling from Jerusalem to Jericho,
a road notorious for its danger.
Some of us here today visited that road
when we went to Palestine a couple of years ago.
Whilst these days it’s a main road and an easy drive,
in the first century it was a rocky, winding path,
well known for ambushes by robbers
who hid in the caves along the way.
It was on this road that Jesus says a man fell among thieves.
He was stripped, beaten, and left for dead.
And then we meet the famous three characters of the parable.
First a priest came along
—one who was supposed to represent the very best of Israel’s faith.
Seeing the man, he passed by on the other side.
Perhaps he was afraid the man was already dead
and did not want to risk defilement.
Perhaps he was on his way to perform temple duties
and thought that stopping would make him unclean.
Perhaps he simply did not want to be bothered.
Then a Levite came
—a member of the priestly class,
one responsible for the upkeep of worship in the temple.
He too saw the man and walked past.
Two men who knew the Law, who understood the command
to love God and love neighbour, yet neither acted.
Then Jesus introduces the most unexpected character:
a Samaritan.
To Jesus’ audience, this was shocking.
Jews and Samaritans had a long history of mutual suspicion and hostility.
They worshipped differently. They interpreted Scripture differently.
They saw each other as outsiders, even enemies.
If anyone had an excuse to walk by, surely it was the Samaritan.
But Jesus says the Samaritan was moved with compassion.
He saw the man. He stopped.
He bandaged his wounds, pouring on oil and wine—a costly act of care.
He placed him on his own animal,
walked beside him, and took him to an inn to recover.
He even paid for his stay,
promising to cover any additional costs.
Mercy is the defining factor.
The Samaritan did not ask whether the wounded man was “one of his own.”
He did not question whether the man deserved his help.
He did not stop to calculate the cost.
He simply saw suffering and acted with compassion.
Mercy as Our Guiding Principle
When Jesus finishes the parable,
he turns the question back on the lawyer:
“Which of these three do you think was a neighbour
to the man who fell into the hands of robbers?”
The lawyer cannot even bring himself to say “the Samaritan”.
Instead, he answers:
“The one who showed him mercy.”
And Jesus says: “Go and do likewise.”
This is the challenge of the Gospel:
to let mercy shape our behaviour.
It’s not enough to believe the right things,
to hold the correct theology, or to pray the right prayers.
To reiterate the point, the question Jesus puts before us is not,
“Who is my neighbour?” but rather, “How can I be a neighbour?”
And here the answer is clear: by showing mercy.
This principle has profound implications
for how we respond to our global neighbours today.
When
we see refugees fleeing war,
do we pass by on the other side, or do we act with mercy?
When we hear of families starving in Gaza, Sudan, or Yemen,
do we let compassion move us to action?
When people are displaced by war—whether in Ukraine, Palestine, or Syria
do we allow fear, nationalism, or economic concerns to dictate our response,
or do we let mercy guide us?
Governments may cut international aid in the name of financial prudence.
Political leaders may build walls instead of bridges.
Nations may act out of self-interest rather than solidarity.
But as followers of Jesus,
we are called to something radically different.
Chistian mercy, you see, is not just a feeling—it is an action.
It is seeing suffering and refusing to look away.
It is crossing the barriers society has built
and offering costly love.
It is allowing compassion to disrupt our plans,
our resources, and our sense of security.
At the end of the parable, Jesus says to the lawyer —and to us—
“Go and do likewise.”
Not just think likewise. Not just pray likewise.
Go and do likewise.
Martha and Mary: A Lesson in Priorities
And then immediately following the parable of the Good Samaritan,
Luke presents us with another story
—this time, set in a home rather than on a dangerous road.
Jesus visits the house of two sisters, Martha and Mary,
and their interaction with him offers another layer
to the question of discipleship.
Martha does exactly what society expects of her.
She welcomes Jesus into her home,
busies herself with the practicalities of hospitality,
and ensures that everything is in order.
She is doing good, necessary work.
But while she is distracted by her preparations,
her sister Mary does something unexpected:
she sits before Jesus, listening to his teaching.
In frustration, Martha turns to Jesus and says,
“Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself?
Tell her to help me!”
Jesus responds gently but firmly:
“Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things;
but there is need of only one thing.
Mary has chosen the better part,
which will not be taken away from her.”
At first, this might seem like a rebuke of action
in favour of contemplation.
But that would be a misunderstanding.
Jesus is not criticising Martha’s service
—he is rather calling attention to her distraction.
The problem is not that Martha is busy,
but that she is anxious and preoccupied,
missing the opportunity to be present with Jesus.
Her work is important,
but she has lost sight of why she is doing it.
This passage is not about choosing between action and contemplation
—it is about recognising that both are essential,
but one must flow from the other.
Service without spiritual grounding can become empty busyness.
And contemplation without action can become passive religiosity.
The key is integration.
Integrating Action and Contemplation
Placed together, the stories of the Good Samaritan and Martha and Mary give us a full picture of discipleship.
The Good Samaritan teaches us
that faith must express itself in mercy and action
—in crossing boundaries, showing compassion,
and meeting the needs of our neighbour.
The story of Martha and Mary reminds us
that action must be rooted in deep attentiveness to Jesus.
Without that, we risk becoming so caught up in doing
that we lose sight of who we are doing it for.
As we consider our response to the needs of our world
—the wars, the injustices, the suffering—
we must resist the temptation to become
either Martha without Mary
(so consumed by activism that we lose spiritual depth)
or Mary without Martha
(so focused on prayer and study that we fail to act).
Instead, we are called to be both:
To sit before Jesus,
allowing our hearts to be shaped by divine compassion.
And then to go and do likewise,
pouring out that compassion in tangible acts of justice and mercy.
This is the rhythm of true discipleship:
firstly, being with Christ,
and then being Christ’s hands in the world.
So as we leave this place today,
let’s not ask, Who is my neighbour? as if love had limits.
Instead, let’s ask, How can I be a neighbour?
And may we, in all things, choose the better part,
allowing mercy, justice, and the presence of Christ to guide our every step.
Amen.
do we pass by on the other side, or do we act with mercy?
When we hear of families starving in Gaza, Sudan, or Yemen,
do we let compassion move us to action?
When people are displaced by war—whether in Ukraine, Palestine, or Syria
do we allow fear, nationalism, or economic concerns to dictate our response,
or do we let mercy guide us?
Governments may cut international aid in the name of financial prudence.
Political leaders may build walls instead of bridges.
Nations may act out of self-interest rather than solidarity.
But as followers of Jesus,
we are called to something radically different.
Chistian mercy, you see, is not just a feeling—it is an action.
It is seeing suffering and refusing to look away.
It is crossing the barriers society has built
and offering costly love.
It is allowing compassion to disrupt our plans,
our resources, and our sense of security.
At the end of the parable, Jesus says to the lawyer —and to us—
“Go and do likewise.”
Not just think likewise. Not just pray likewise.
Go and do likewise.
Martha and Mary: A Lesson in Priorities
And then immediately following the parable of the Good Samaritan,
Luke presents us with another story
—this time, set in a home rather than on a dangerous road.
Jesus visits the house of two sisters, Martha and Mary,
and their interaction with him offers another layer
to the question of discipleship.
Martha does exactly what society expects of her.
She welcomes Jesus into her home,
busies herself with the practicalities of hospitality,
and ensures that everything is in order.
She is doing good, necessary work.
But while she is distracted by her preparations,
her sister Mary does something unexpected:
she sits before Jesus, listening to his teaching.
In frustration, Martha turns to Jesus and says,
“Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself?
Tell her to help me!”
Jesus responds gently but firmly:
“Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things;
but there is need of only one thing.
Mary has chosen the better part,
which will not be taken away from her.”
At first, this might seem like a rebuke of action
in favour of contemplation.
But that would be a misunderstanding.
Jesus is not criticising Martha’s service
—he is rather calling attention to her distraction.
The problem is not that Martha is busy,
but that she is anxious and preoccupied,
missing the opportunity to be present with Jesus.
Her work is important,
but she has lost sight of why she is doing it.
This passage is not about choosing between action and contemplation
—it is about recognising that both are essential,
but one must flow from the other.
Service without spiritual grounding can become empty busyness.
And contemplation without action can become passive religiosity.
The key is integration.
Integrating Action and Contemplation
Placed together, the stories of the Good Samaritan and Martha and Mary give us a full picture of discipleship.
The Good Samaritan teaches us
that faith must express itself in mercy and action
—in crossing boundaries, showing compassion,
and meeting the needs of our neighbour.
The story of Martha and Mary reminds us
that action must be rooted in deep attentiveness to Jesus.
Without that, we risk becoming so caught up in doing
that we lose sight of who we are doing it for.
As we consider our response to the needs of our world
—the wars, the injustices, the suffering—
we must resist the temptation to become
either Martha without Mary
(so consumed by activism that we lose spiritual depth)
or Mary without Martha
(so focused on prayer and study that we fail to act).
Instead, we are called to be both:
To sit before Jesus,
allowing our hearts to be shaped by divine compassion.
And then to go and do likewise,
pouring out that compassion in tangible acts of justice and mercy.
This is the rhythm of true discipleship:
firstly, being with Christ,
and then being Christ’s hands in the world.
So as we leave this place today,
let’s not ask, Who is my neighbour? as if love had limits.
Instead, let’s ask, How can I be a neighbour?
And may we, in all things, choose the better part,
allowing mercy, justice, and the presence of Christ to guide our every step.
Amen.
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