Like A Good Neighbor

Heaven’s mercy rescues us so that we may rescue others—turning strangers into neighbors and ordinary moments into living parables of grace.

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Compassion Mercy Hospitality Grace Neighbor

We’ve all heard the slogan: “Like a good neighbor, State Farm is there.”

It’s clever, familiar, and comforting. But the more you think about it, the more it sounds like something the gospel already said first — except that heaven’s coverage isn’t for houses and cars; it’s for hearts.

The Good News of the kingdom is not only that God is there for us, but that He now calls us to be there for others. Heaven writes a policy of mercy, then hands us the pen to sign the same kind of grace toward a world still bleeding on the roadside.

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The Lawyer’s Question

One day an expert in the law stood up to test Jesus.

“Teacher,” he asked, “what must I do to inherit eternal life?”

Jesus, ever the master of turning questions around, asked him,

“What is written in the Law? How do you read it?”

The man answered quickly — he knew the textbook by heart:

“ ‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, strength, and mind; and love your neighbor as yourself.’ ”

Jesus nodded. “You’ve answered correctly. Do this and you will live.”

But the man wasn’t looking for truth; he was looking for a loophole.

Wanting to justify himself, he asked, “And who is my neighbor?”

That’s where every religion trembles — when compassion stops being theoretical and starts being personal. When love demands proximity.

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A Story Everyone Knew — Until It Turned

“A certain man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho,” Jesus began,

“and he fell among thieves.”

Everyone listening could picture that road — steep, twisting through dry hills, perfect for an ambush. They leaned in as Jesus described the beating, the robbery, the man left half-dead.

A priest came by — surely he would help. But no, he crossed to the other side.

Then a Levite — another religious man — saw, hesitated, and did the same.

Two men of faith, two detours of indifference.

Then came the twist.

“But a Samaritan, as he journeyed, came where he was; and when he saw him, he had compassion…”

The crowd stiffened. To first-century Jews, the words good and Samaritan didn’t belong in the same sentence. They were centuries-old enemies — theological, racial, political. The only “good Samaritan” was a dead one.

Yet Jesus made the outsider the hero. He bandaged the wounds, poured in oil and wine, lifted the man onto his donkey, paid for his lodging, and promised to return.

Then Jesus asked the lawyer,

“Which of these three proved to be a neighbor?”

The expert couldn’t even say the name. He mumbled, “The one who showed mercy.”

Jesus said, “Go and do likewise.”

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Why a Samaritan?

If Jesus merely wanted to teach charity, He could’ve made the hero another Jew.

But He chose a Samaritan to explode the boundaries of bias.

Grace always crosses the line we draw.

The Samaritan didn’t stop to ask who deserved help.

He simply saw need, felt compassion, and moved.

That movement — from seeing ? feeling ? acting — is the motion of the gospel itself.

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Seeing Ourselves in the Story

We all like to imagine we’d be the Samaritan.

But most days we’re closer to the man in the ditch — broken, dependent, grateful that someone else chose to stop.

Only people who have been rescued know how to rescue.

Only the healed know how to heal.

The gospel always begins with God stooping down to bind our wounds. And once we’ve felt that mercy, He says, “Now go and do likewise.”

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A Modern Roadside

Let me tell you a story that happened a long way from Jerusalem — a modern Jericho Road.

It was just after noon on a gray Thursday.

Rick, a young grocery worker, had finished his shift and was heading home when a customer named Ian asked for a favor. Could Rick drive to Toronto to pick up an auto part? He’d lend him his new car and pay him a hundred dollars.

Rick said yes. He couldn’t believe his luck.

Hours later, on the highway back, he saw a car on the shoulder, hazard lights flashing.

A man waved frantically. Another lay motionless in the snow.

Rick pulled over. He never saw the gun until it was too late.

They robbed him, beat him, took the car, his shoes, his coat.

When he came to, blood in his eyes, he tried flagging down traffic. Cars slowed, stared, and sped up again.

Then, to his relief, he recognized a silver sedan — his pastor’s car. He waved desperately. The pastor slowed, looked, then accelerated. Maybe he didn’t recognize him; maybe he did. Either way, he kept going.