Call to Mercy
Reflections on Amos 7:7–17, Colossians 1:1–14, and Luke 10:25–37 | Proper 10, Year C
Grace and peace to you from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.
A plumb line in the hand of God.
A traveler on a dangerous road.
And a prayer that we might be filled with knowledge and bear fruit in every good work.
These are the threads that run through today’s readings—from the prophet Amos, the letter to the Colossians, and the Gospel of Luke. Each offers a different lens, but they are bound together by a single, unsettling question: What kind of people are we becoming? Or perhaps more urgently: Will we live as people of mercy?
In the first reading, Amos is given a vision—a plumb line, that simple ancient tool used to test whether a wall is truly vertical. God holds the plumb line in the midst of the people and declares: "I am setting a plumb line among my people Israel." In other words, God is measuring us. Not our beliefs or our words, but our alignment with justice.
This is not a message about private morality. Amos isn’t focused on whether people are behaving politely at home. He’s speaking about public integrity, how society treats the poor, and how corruption infects the highest levels of power. God's patience is wearing thin, and the wall of the nation—its moral structure—is leaning badly. A collapse is coming.
When Amos delivers this warning, the high priest Amaziah tells him to get out. To stop stirring the waters. To go prophesy somewhere else. Power never likes prophets. But whether anyone listens or not, the plumb line still hangs.
In the second reading, St. Paul offers a very different tone. He begins with gratitude—for the faith and love already visible in the church at Colossae—and then he prays. His prayer is rich, layered with hope: that the people may be filled with the knowledge of God’s will, that they may bear fruit in every good work, that they may grow in spiritual wisdom and endure with joy.
Paul’s vision of the Christian life is deeply grounded in a lived faith—faith that produces fruit, not just religious feeling. Where Amaziah wanted to silence the prophet, Paul lifts up a community that lives out the truth with humility and endurance. His prayer is not just that we believe—but that we become people whose lives reflect the grace we’ve received. Which leaves us with a question of our own: What kind of fruit is growing in our lives? Are we aligned with God’s purposes—or merely drifting with the current of comfort and convenience?
And then we come to the Gospel. A legal expert approaches Jesus with a theological question: “What must I do to inherit eternal life?” Jesus draws him back to the heart of the Torah: Love God. Love your neighbor. But the man wants to limit this love—“And who is my neighbor?” he asks, trying to define the boundaries of his responsibility.
Jesus doesn’t give him a definition. He gives him a story.
A man is traveling a treacherous road and is attacked, stripped, and left for dead. A priest passes by and walks around him. A Levite does the same. But a Samaritan—an outsider, someone despised by the religious establishment—sees the man, is moved with compassion, and acts. He bandages his wounds, pours out oil and wine, carries him to an inn, pays for his care, and promises to return.
This is not passive goodwill. This is costly, inconvenient, boundary-breaking love.
And when the story ends, Jesus doesn’t ask, “So, who qualifies as a neighbor?” He asks, “Which of these became a neighbor to the man?” The answer, reluctantly spoken, is clear: “The one who showed him mercy.” And Jesus responds, “Go and do likewise.”
So what do we see when we hold these readings side by side?
From Amos, we hear God’s demand for justice. A society is judged not by its wealth or its prayers, but by how it treats its most vulnerable.
From Paul, we receive a vision of fruitfulness—a life lived in alignment with God’s will, marked by endurance, wisdom, and good works.
From Jesus, we are given the clearest picture of all: mercy is the defining trait of the faithful life. Not knowledge. Not titles. Not purity. Mercy.
The central question is not “Who counts as my neighbor?” That question comes from a place of self-justification. The real question is: What kind of neighbor will I be?
Will I be like Amaziah—maintaining religious order while ignoring injustice?
Will I be like the priest and the Levite—so concerned with ritual purity or self-preservation that I leave the suffering in the ditch?
Or will I be like the Samaritan—willing to see, to be moved, to act?
The plumb line of God still hangs beside us.
The road is still dangerous.
And the call to mercy still speaks.
Amen.
