Some ideas don’t politely knock on the door of my mind. They crawl in, wiggle around, and refuse to leave. I call them “mind worms,” and recently one has been burrowing deep into me.
It started with a story I thought I knew—the Good Samaritan. I’ve heard it since childhood. I’ve taught it. I’ve quoted it. But familiarity can make me blind. I stop noticing the details. I stop noticing myself in the story.
As I sat with it again, the story lifted out of the ancient world and landed right in the middle of my neighborhood, my routines, my fears, and my excuses. Suddenly Jesus’ question wasn’t theoretical anymore.
It was personal.
Who is my neighbor? And even more unsettling: Who am I in this story?
The Six Characters I Didn’t Want to See Myself In
Jesus’ story has six characters, and none of them are simple. They’re insecure, afraid, busy, wounded, judgmental, overwhelmed, hopeful, complicated.
Just like me.
As I walked through each one, I realized I’ve been all of them.
1. The Scholar — The One Who Needs to Be Right
He wants to justify himself, to prove he’s doing okay. Underneath is fear—fear of not measuring up. I know that fear.
2. The Jewish Man — The One Who Gets Hurt
He walked into danger, maybe carelessly, maybe desperately. He ends up beaten and alone. I’ve been blindsided like that too.
3. The Bandits — The Ones Who Hurt Others
I’ve never beaten anyone physically, but I’ve sliced people apart with my tongue. I’ve wounded people out of my own fear or insecurity. I’ve been the bandit.
4. The Priest — The One Who Can’t Risk Getting Dirty
He crosses the road because helping would cost him something. I’ve crossed that road more times than I want to admit.
5. The Temple Servant — The One Who’s Too Busy
He has responsibilities. He doesn’t have time. I know that version of myself too.
6. The Samaritan — The One Who Should Have Walked Away
He’s the outsider, the one with every reason to keep going. But he stops. He chooses love over fear. And that changes everything.
The Question That Won’t Leave Me Alone
Jesus ends with a question: “Who was a neighbor to the man on the road?”
Not who deserved help. Not who was safe. Not who believed the right things. A neighbor isn’t someone who fits my comfort zone. A neighbor is someone I choose to love.
And then Jesus says, “Go and do likewise.” Not “think about it.” Not “pray about it.” Not “wait until you feel ready.” Go. Do. Likewise.
Fear Crosses the Road. Love Crosses Back
I’ve learned something about the brain: fear and love are on-off switches. When fear is on, love is off. It’s not just poetic—it’s biological. When fear is activated, the parts of my brain responsible for empathy and compassion shut down.
Every character in the story had fear. So do I.
Fear makes me cross the road. Love makes me cross back.
Who Do I Need to Make a Neighbor This Week?
This is the question that keeps landing like a stone in my chest: Who do I need to make a neighbor this week? Not someday. Not in theory. This week.
Who is lying on the side of my road? A family member? A coworker? Someone I’ve judged? Someone who scares me? Someone who believes differently than I do?
Or maybe… I’m the one lying on the road. And I need someone to make me a neighbor. Both are holy. Both matter to God.
The Samaritan’s Risk — and Mine
Helping wasn’t safe for the Samaritan. He risked being misunderstood, rejected, judged, attacked, inconvenienced.
Love always carries risk. Jesus risked everything for me. And He invites me to do the same.
The Kingdom Is Found on the Road
As I’ve sat with this story, one truth keeps rising: Jesus did almost all His ministry on the streets. Not in buildings. Not in safe places. Not in controlled environments. The kingdom shows up in the places I avoid, the people I overlook, the interruptions I resent, the wounds I’d rather not touch.
The kingdom is found on the road. And Jesus is still asking me: Who will you make a neighbor?
A Lunch, a Fishing Net, and the God Who Brings Stories Together
