Deuteronomy 30:9-14; Psalm 25:1-9; Colossians 1:1-14; Luke 10:25-37
The Rev. Candice B. Frazer
Jesus has been pretty busy since his Ascension. Over the past few weeks, we’ve been retracing his early ministry—through Galilee and even into Samaria. Though his efforts in Samaria weren’t especially fruitful, it’s important to understand the fraught relationship between Samaria and Judea in order to grasp the full weight of today’s parable.
About 250 years after the Israelites were liberated from Egypt and entered the Promised Land, the kingdom of Israel split in two—around 920 BCE—following the death of King Solomon. The result was the Northern Kingdom, called Israel (which included Samaria), and the Southern Kingdom, called Judah (home to Jerusalem and most of Galilee). Roughly 200 years later, the Assyrian Empire conquered the Northern Kingdom. Judah held out until 586 BCE, when the Babylonians captured Jerusalem, destroyed the Temple, and sent the people into exile.
The initial split between the two kingdoms was political, but it quickly turned deeply personal and religious. Samaritans established their own places of worship and refused to travel to Jerusalem for festivals, let alone worship at the Temple.
Over time, and especially after intermarrying during the Assyrian conquest, Samaritan religious practices diverged and were seen as impure or heretical by their southern neighbors. They were accused of following other gods and participating in pagan cultic rituals.
The Judeans came to see themselves as spiritually superior. Though Samaritans were technically kin—descendants of Abraham, descendants of the twelve tribes of Israel—they were regarded as ethnic and religious half-breeds. Their faith was doubted, their bloodlines questioned. And the feeling was mutual. As we saw two weeks ago, Jesus—himself a Judean—was rejected outright by the Samaritans. Centuries of hostility had calcified.
Both groups clung to their distinct identities. Yes, they were all Jews, but first and foremost, they were Samaritans or Judeans. Their sense of self was not based primarily on shared ancestry or covenant faith, but on geography and ideology. That’s not just religious identity—that’s religious nationalism: a faith that prioritizes allegiance to nation, tribe, or political ideology over God.
Which brings us to the parable of the Good Samaritan.
Jesus doesn’t use the phrase “religious nationalism.” Instead, he tells a story about what it means to be a neighbor—or, perhaps more tellingly, what it means not to be one.
A man is traveling from Jerusalem to Jericho. We don’t know his background. He could be a Judean, a Samaritan, or even a foreigner. All we know is that he’s robbed, beaten, and left half dead. A priest sees him and crosses to the other side. A Levite—another religious leader—does the same. Then comes a Samaritan. He sees the man, has compassion, and takes action. He tends the man’s wounds, brings him to shelter, and pays for his continued care.
Jesus asks: “Which of these three was a neighbor?” And the answer is clear: the one who showed mercy. But Jesus never asks the other question: “Who was not a neighbor?” Of course, we know it’s the priest and the Levite. But what’s more revealing is why they failed to act.
Some have suggested they were avoiding ritual impurity—that maybe they thought the man was dead, and touching a corpse would make them unclean. But the text never says the man is dead. In fact, it’s clear he isn’t. Others argue that the blood alone might make them impure—but notice: they’re going down the road from Jerusalem, not up. In Jewish tradition, you go up to Jerusalem no matter where you are in the world. Every other place you go outside of Jerusalem requires you to go down to that place. They’re not on their way to the Temple, and purity laws would not have applied in the same way. Besides, Torah is explicit: saving life always takes precedence over purity.
So what keeps them from helping? I would argue: nationalism.
To help the wounded man would mean stepping outside the boundaries of their expected religious and national identity. It would mean risking impurity, yes—but more than that, it would mean crossing the boundary of who counts as “one of us.” The priest and Levite prioritize maintaining their identity as Judean religious elites. The Samaritan, by contrast, chooses compassion over cultural boundary. He chooses faithfulness over ideology.
That’s the critical takeaway. Human beings are never of just one identity. We carry many layers—ethnic, national, religious, familial. But those who embrace religious nationalism—whether in ancient Judea or modern America—elevate their national identity above their faith in God. They prioritize cultural allegiance over divine compassion.
That’s what makes Christian Nationalism so dangerous. Not because of its politics, but because of the way it distorts the gospel. It replaces the sacrificial love of Jesus with fear of the “other.” It turns fellow Christians into enemies when national or cultural power feels threatened.
I’ve shared with you before my concerns about Christian Nationalism in our country. Not as a partisan issue, but as a discipleship issue. Because it undermines the very thing Jesus came to proclaim: a kingdom not of this world. A kingdom where love for neighbor—every neighbor—is the defining mark of faithfulness.
When nationalism takes precedence, we always end up divided—just like the Northern and Southern Kingdoms, Israel and Judah. And that division weakened both kingdoms to the point of collapse. They lost the very thing they thought their nationalism would protect: the Promised Land.
Christian nationalism walks to the other side of the road. It cannot recognize the neighbor across lines of race, class, theology, or politics. It divides. It cannot stop to help, because it has already decided who is worthy of care—and who isn’t.
But the gospel compels us to walk differently. It invites us to see the image of God not just in the familiar, but in the stranger. It calls us to cross the lines drawn by fear, pride, and politics. And it dares us to love with a mercy that defies borders, bloodlines, and ideologies.
The question is not simply “Who is my neighbor?” but “What kind of neighbor will I be?”
As followers of Jesus—those committed to the Way—we are called to cross boundaries, not enforce them. We are called to be helpers. To partner with God in the work of healing and reconciliation. To be neighbors.
Will we be the ones who cross to the other side to preserve our comfort or identity? Or will we draw near, take a risk, love? Because to follow Jesus is not just to admire the Good Samaritan—it is to become one. Not for the sake of a nation, but for the sake of the kingdom of God.
Amen.