The Road to Jericho: Slowing Down to See God's Call

There's something powerful about being stopped in your tracks. Picture a teenager hiking through the Arizona wilderness, earbuds blasting music, determined to "find God" on the trail ahead. Then suddenly—an inexplicable halt. A gentle conviction to remove the headphones. And in that moment, the symphony of creation floods in: wind rustling through pines, birds calling to one another, the river's persistent song. In the stillness comes a question that changes everything: "Why are you in such a hurry to find me? Don't you know I'm already here?"

How often do we race through life—even in our pursuit of God—missing the very presence we're seeking? We fill our schedules, turn up the volume, and focus so intently on our destination that we miss the divine appointments along the way.

The Question That Reveals Our Hearts

In Luke 10, an expert in religious law approaches Jesus with what seems like a straightforward question: "What must I do to inherit eternal life?" He knows the answer before he asks. Every Jewish person learned the Shema from childhood: "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 love your neighbor as yourself."

Jesus affirms his answer. "Do this and you will live."

But then the lawyer makes a critical mistake. Luke tells us he wanted to "justify himself," so he asks a second question: "And who is my neighbor?"

This is the question we shouldn't ask. It's the question that reveals we're looking for boundaries rather than opportunities, limits rather than love. We want to know exactly who qualifies so we can know who doesn't. We want the minimum requirement, the acceptable standard, the line that says "this far and no further."

Jesus responds not with a definition but with a story that would have shocked his audience to their core.

The Scandal of the Good Samaritan

A man traveling from Jerusalem to Jericho is attacked by robbers, stripped, beaten, and left half-dead on the roadside. Along comes a priest—a religious leader, someone who knows the law inside and out. He sees the man and crosses to the other side of the road. Then a Levite, essentially an associate minister, does the same thing.

These weren't bad people. They were justified by the law. Touching a bloodied body would make them ritually unclean, preventing them from performing their temple duties. They had important work to do for God. Stopping would cost them time, purity, and perhaps their ability to fulfill their religious obligations.

So they passed by.

Then comes the Samaritan.

To understand the weight of this detail, we need to grasp the depth of Jewish-Samaritan hostility. These weren't strangers—they were family turned enemies. Samaritans descended from Israelites who had intermarried with other nations. They worshiped the same God but rejected the Jerusalem temple. Centuries of religious rivalry and political violence had created such animosity that Jewish travelers would literally go miles out of their way to avoid passing through Samaritan territory.

Yet it's the Samaritan—the enemy, the outsider, the "unclean" one—who stops. He sees the broken man and is moved with compassion. He binds his wounds, pours on oil and wine, places him on his own donkey, brings him to an inn, pays for his care, and promises to return to cover any additional expenses.

Who Was a Neighbor?

Jesus turns the lawyer's question on its head. Instead of asking "Who is my neighbor?" (who qualifies for my love?), Jesus asks, "Who acted neighborly?" (who demonstrated love?).

The shift is everything. One question seeks to limit obligation. The other challenges us to examine our own hearts and actions.

The lawyer can barely bring himself to say "the Samaritan." Instead, he replies, "The one who had mercy on him."

"Go and do likewise," Jesus tells him.

Grace, Not Performance

Here's the revolutionary truth embedded in this story: we cannot use the law to justify ourselves. No amount of rule-keeping, church attendance, Bible reading, or volunteer hours makes us righteous before God. As Paul wrote, "No one will be declared righteous in God's sight by the works of the law."

This doesn't mean the law is worthless. It shows us God's heart. It makes us conscious of our need. But righteousness comes only through faith in Jesus Christ.

We are not called to perform. We're called to have faith.

"For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God—not by works, so that no one can boast" (Ephesians 2:8-9).

Grace is God giving us love we didn't earn and cannot lose. Grace welcomes us before we have our lives together. Grace treats us as beloved based not on our record but on God's character.

This grace is a gift, not a paycheck.

Blessed to Be a Blessing

But here's where the story deepens: receiving grace calls us into mission. God told Abraham, "All peoples on earth will be blessed through you" (Genesis 12:3). We are blessed to be a blessing. We are set apart not for our own sake but to serve the world.

The Samaritan's actions mirror the gospel pattern: He sees. He has compassion. He draws near. He binds wounds. He pays the cost. He promises to return.

Doesn't this sound like Jesus? He saw us in our brokenness. He was moved with compassion. He came down to draw near. He bound our wounds. He paid the ultimate price. He promises to come again.

And now he says to us: "Go and do likewise."

Who Is on Your Jericho Road?

This isn't theoretical. There are people on your path right now—people you might be tempted to cross the street to avoid. Needs that inconvenience you. Groups you've labeled as "other." Emails you don't answer. Situations that would cost you time, comfort, reputation, or emotional energy.

Consider a seven-year-old boy at a school concert, surrounded by a hundred other first-graders. In the middle of the performance, he notices his friend breaking down, overstimulated and overwhelmed. Without hesitation, he swims through the crowd of children, retrieves noise-canceling headphones, and wraps his arms around his struggling friend.

No one taught him this response. Love isn't learned through instruction manuals—it flows from hearts transformed by grace, from eyes opened to see as God sees.

The Cruciform Life

We are called to live the shape of the cross—a cruciform life willing to meet people in their brokenness, willing to be embarrassed or inconvenienced, willing to pay costs and make promises.

This means slowing down. Taking out our metaphorical earbuds. Actually seeing the people around us. Having compassion. Drawing near instead of crossing to the other side.

It means asking not "Who qualifies as my neighbor?" but "How can I be a good neighbor today?"

The answer might disrupt your schedule. It might challenge your comfort. It might call you into spaces others avoid.

But this is what it means to love justice, show mercy, and walk humbly with God. This is what it means to participate in bringing about God's kingdom in real, tangible ways.

Jesus sees you in all your brokenness. He has drawn near with grace. Will you accept it?

And having received such love, will you go and do likewise?

The road to Jericho is before you. Someone is waiting there. Will you stop?