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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Keywords:
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.
Finally, an old dented hatchback pulled over. A mechanic in greasy coveralls jumped out, wrapped his own flannel around Rick’s shoulders, and drove him to a clinic.
When the nurse asked who would pay, the man said, “Put it on me. Just fix him up.”
And with a wave, he disappeared into traffic.
That’s the gospel in blue jeans. That’s mercy in motion.
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Mercy Is Inconvenient
Compassion is never scheduled. It arrives in the middle of deadlines, detours, and danger. It interrupts. But mercy that doesn’t interrupt us will never transform us.
The priest and the Levite were respectable, but not reachable. They asked, “What will happen to me if I stop?”
The Samaritan asked, “What will happen to him if I don’t?”
That single question separates religion from redemption.
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From Insurance to Imitation
A few weeks ago, we talked about Heaven Farm Insurance — how God covers every loss with His promise. But the next clause in the contract is this: covered people become covering people.
Heaven’s policy is paid forward through compassion.
We stop calculating what’s required and start caring because love compels us.
The Spirit moves us from theory to practice, from sympathy to sacrifice.
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Batman, Turkey
Years ago, I was working in northern Iraq, just after the first Gulf War.
Thousands of Kurdish refugees had fled across the mountains into Turkey. I was tired, dust-covered, and heartsick from what I’d seen — children hungry, families torn apart, a whole people wandering.
One evening, in the border town of Batman, a boy ran up with a shoeshine box.
He was maybe twelve. His eyes danced. “ Mister! Mister! You Amriki?”
I nodded. He grinned. “I speaka Engwish berry best!”
Before I knew it, he was polishing my boots for free, declaring himself my translator and tour guide. By sunset he said, “You come my house — my family, they make you eat.”
Every instinct said it was awkward. I was a stranger, an outsider, a guest from the same world whose bombs had recently thundered over their heads. But how could I refuse that kind of hospitality?
Down a narrow lane we went, through a curtain into a small apartment. His mother set bread on the floor mats, his sisters poured tea into tulip glasses, his father offered a chair he probably needed more than I did.
They served lahmacun — crisp bread with minced lamb, onion, and lemon — simple, fragrant, generous.
We had almost no language in common, but plenty of grace.
Every time I tried to stop eating, another piece appeared on my plate.
We laughed, gestured, and somehow understood.
That night, surrounded by people who owed me nothing and yet gave me everything, I understood the parable of the Good Samaritan better than any commentary could teach.
Hospitality is mercy with sleeves rolled up. It is love that opens the door instead of crossing the street.
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The Gospel in the Kitchen
Those moments stay with you. Because the truth is, I wasn’t their rescuer — they were mine.
They healed something in me that day — my fatigue, my cynicism, my distance. They reminded me that grace often comes wrapped in the accent of someone we didn’t expect to speak our language.
That’s the rhythm of the kingdom: we are rescued so that we can rescue; we are hosted so that we can host; we are loved so that we can love.
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The Neighbor Within Reach
Who lies on the roadside near you today?
Maybe it’s the single mom at the edge of burnout.
Maybe it’s the coworker who jokes too loudly to hide loneliness.
Maybe it’s the refugee, the outcast, the difficult relative.
Being a neighbor isn’t about geography — it’s about availability.
You don’t need to cross an ocean to find someone bleeding by the road.
Sometimes you just need to cross the street, the office, or your own pride.
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Go and Do Likewise
When Jesus said, “Go and do likewise,” He wasn’t assigning homework; He was inviting participation.
He was saying, “Join Me on My rescue mission.”
Because He is the ultimate Samaritan — the One who found us beaten by sin, poured in the oil of grace, the wine of forgiveness, and carried us to safety on His own shoulders.
Once you realize you’ve been the one in the ditch, you’ll never pass another ditch the same way again.
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Closing Appeal
We live in a world of walls and warnings, but Jesus still whispers, “Go and do likewise.”
Love the stranger. Tend the wound. Feed the hungry.
The only Good Samaritan some people will ever meet may be the Christ who walks into their life wearing your face.
Heaven doesn’t just insure us — it involves us.
Mercy is our ministry. Grace is our language. And when we love like that, the world finally sees what God is like.
