Luke 10:30–37

The trouble with mercy is that eventually it has to become inconvenient.

It is easy enough to admire mercy.

We like stories about compassionate people. We share them. We are moved by them. We think, Isn’t that wonderful?

Jesus asks something more difficult.

Go and do likewise.

The story of the Good Samaritan begins with someone lying beside a road.

He’s been attacked, robbed and left there.

Then people start passing.

That’s where the story becomes uncomfortable.

Because surely someone will stop.

The priest sees him.

He passes by.

The Levite sees him.

He passes by too.

And then comes the Samaritan.

The person Jesus’ listeners might least expect to become the example of faithful living.

He sees the injured man.

But unlike the others, seeing becomes doing.

He goes to him.

He tends his wounds.

He gets him somewhere safe.

He pays for his care.

Mercy has become practical.

And costly.

And inconvenient.

Perhaps that’s important because we can sometimes reduce mercy to a feeling.

We feel sorry for somebody.

We shake our heads at their situation.

We say, “That’s awful.”

And sometimes genuine mercy begins with exactly that response. Our hearts are moved.

But Jesus doesn’t leave mercy there.

Mercy crosses the road.

That might be the question sitting underneath this whole story:

Will I cross the road?

Not necessarily literally.

Maybe crossing the road means making the phone call you’ve been putting off.

Maybe it means sitting beside somebody when you don’t know what to say.

Maybe it means listening without needing to fix them.

Perhaps it’s giving someone another chance.

Perhaps it’s choosing kindness when irritation would be much easier.

Perhaps it is noticing the person everybody else seems to walk past.

Mercy interrupts us.

That’s what makes it costly.

The Samaritan had somewhere to be. We aren’t told where, but travellers generally don’t set off down dangerous roads merely to see what might happen.

He had plans.

And mercy changed them.

That makes me wonder how often I miss opportunities for mercy simply because I am concentrating on the next thing.

The next appointment.

The next job.

The next message.

The next place I need to be.

And meanwhile somebody is lying beside my metaphorical road.

Jesus doesn’t ask the lawyer at the end of the story which character had the best theology.

He asks:

Which one was a neighbour?

The answer is simple.

“The one who showed him mercy.”

And then come those wonderfully challenging words:

“Go and do likewise.”

Yesterday we thought about receiving mercy.

Today Jesus turns us around.

The mercy that reaches us is meant eventually to travel through us.

Not because we’re trying to earn God’s favour.

We’ve already received it.

But because people who know what it is to need mercy begin to recognise that same need in others.

So perhaps today isn’t about attempting something heroic.

Maybe it is simply about noticing.

Who is beside my road?

Who needs patience?

Who needs kindness?

Who needs me to stop?

Because sometimes mercy begins with something very small.

We see.

We stop.

We cross the road.

A question to carry

Who might God be asking me to notice today?

A simple practice

Before the day ends, do one deliberately merciful thing for another person, preferably something they cannot repay.

Prayer

God of mercy,
thank you for the mercy you have shown me.

Open my eyes today.

Interrupt me if necessary.

Help me notice the person
I might otherwise pass by.

And give me the courage
not simply to feel compassion,
but to cross the road.

Amen.

For today: Show mercy.