Luke 10:25–37
Some of the best ministry moments don’t happen under a steeple.
They don’t get scheduled, and they rarely make it into the bulletin.
They happen at gas stations and grocery stores. On back porches. In waiting rooms. Sometimes at the kitchen sink, when someone you love suddenly opens up and you’re there—not with the perfect words, but with presence, and a listening ear.
That’s where love does its best work. Quiet, inconvenient, often unnoticed—yet unmistakably Christ-like. Unlike Sunday attendance, this is much more difficult if not downright impossible to manage and control. I think that’s why Jesus chooses to work primarily in this way. To keep us humbly following him rather than our own so-called great ideas.
In Luke 10, Jesus tells the story of a man beaten, robbed, and left for dead. The people you’d expect to stop—the churchy, pastor types—don’t. The one who does stop is the least expected. A Samaritan, an outsider. His act of mercy wasn’t flashy. It was costly, risky, and deeply human.
As is often the case, Jesus never answers the lawyer’s question: “Who is my neighbor?” Instead, He flips the question: “What kind of neighbor are you?”
Like the lawyer, we are often tempted to think that the most important things that relate to church life happen on a Sunday morning in a special room. My friends, I can assure you this is almost never the case.
It’s easy to think church is mostly about what happens on Sunday mornings. And of course, worship matters. It centers us. It reorients us. The scriptures (Hebrews 10:24-25) even challenge us to remind one another to not neglect gathering together. But sometimes we are tempted to confuse a training and encouragement session for the actual game we are meant to play. Coming to practice (Sunday mornings) and then failing to show up on game day makes no sense whatsoever. Hint: Game Day is mostly held Monday through Saturday and rarely occurs in the official building.
If you want to grow your church, take this seriously:
The parable of the Good Samaritan illustrates this so clearly you have to try hard to miss it: most of the Gospel happens when we’re on the road. Living our everyday lives, with our eyes looking for opportunities, and our hearts inwardly seeking the leading of God’s Spirit.
These are ordinary, spiritual practices, a mindset if you will, that any follower of Jesus can learn. This too, is the fertile ground of discipleship. We almost never learn these practices alone, but in an accountable community. That’s the vision behind the LIFT discipleship process.
This is about repenting of Sunday-centric, building-centric Church-ianity and embracing the Christianity Jesus introduced us to. You know, the version of Christianity where we all go out in the world and do as he did? This is for everyone. And this will inevitably grow the church. It is still true: if you organize a church, you might, if you’re lucky, get a disciple or two. But if you make disciples, you always get the church.
So here’s a gentle challenge I’d like to leave with you:
Let’s not measure the strength of our church only by the number of people in the seats. Let’s also measure it by how many people we’re willing to go and serve outside of the building.
The church is at its best not when it’s performing to create an impression, but when it’s neighboring. Not when it’s impressive, but when it’s available, humble, and authentic. This is frequently inconvenient. This way of living keeps us a little off guard and a lot dependent on Jesus.
So this week, I invite you to cross the street. Make the call. Bring over the casserole. Or say, “I’ve got an hour—want company?” Love like Jesus. Not because it’s convenient. But because it’s what He did for you.
And when we start living like that—Monday through Saturday—Sunday mornings begin to shine a whole lot brighter.
In Christ,
Pastor Mark
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