I’ve been thinking about a question I asked in last week’s Journal: have I mistaken being useful for being loved?
That question has stayed with me. But it has also turned around and started asking something of me. If being needed and being loved are not the same thing, then perhaps being useful to people is not the same thing as loving them either.
That is uncomfortable for a man who believes in stewardship. I can give an account of work. I can show you the thing I finished, the problem I solved, the responsibility I carried, the hours I put in. They are all real things, and I am grateful for the ability to do them. But here is a question I don’t always like asking:
Did anybody actually experience love from me while I was doing all of that?
Not admiration for my effort. Not relief that I got something done. Love.
I’ve been sitting with Luke 10. It is one of those chapters that becomes very different when you refuse to rush through its familiar stories.
The road, the home, and the things we overlook
A man is left injured on the road. A priest comes along, sees him, and passes on the other side. A Levite does the same. Then a Samaritan comes to where the man is. He sees him, has compassion, treats his wounds, gets him to somewhere he can be cared for, and takes responsibility for what the care will cost.
We’re not told why the first two men passed by. We can supply explanations until we’re satisfied with one, but Scripture doesn’t give us their diaries. What it does give us is a striking difference: all three encountered the man; one drew near.
That detail has been troubling me because I know how easily we can see a need and still not really arrive where the person is.
A friend sends a message that isn’t quite like their usual messages. We notice, but there is a meeting. A parent calls and we say we’ll call back properly when the day calms down. Someone in the house has gone quiet, and the easiest explanation is that they’re just tired. A colleague is carrying more than they should, but their competence makes their struggle less visible. And then there’s the person we keep saying we must visit.
Of course, we cannot answer every call, repair every relationship in an afternoon, or carry everybody’s burden. Some interruptions are genuinely beyond our capacity. Stewardship includes boundaries, discernment and the humility to know that we are not anyone’s saviour.
But I suspect there is a difference between having a limit and hiding behind a schedule. I have needed to ask God to show me that difference.
Then Luke does something beautiful. Almost immediately after the Samaritan, we enter Martha’s home.
Martha welcomes Jesus and works to serve Him. Mary sits at His feet and listens. Martha is troubled by the work and asks Jesus to intervene. And Jesus answers the worry and distraction that have taken hold of her. I don’t think the point is that hospitality was wrong or that useful work was sinful. The Samaritan has just shown us love through remarkably practical effort.
Perhaps the two encounters belong together more closely than we often allow. The Samaritan stops for the person in his path. Mary stops for the Lord in her home. One refuses to pass by a neighbour. The other refuses to be too occupied to listen to Jesus.
And I wonder how often I manage to do the very things I call good while walking past both.
It is possible to organise a home and miss the people living in it. To provide for a child and miss what the child is trying to tell you. To serve in church and become unavailable to God. To build work that genuinely helps people and slowly become a stranger to the people who know your name.
The week’s invitation
None of that makes the work unimportant. It makes love too important to be measured by output alone.
Perhaps this is where obedient stewardship becomes less comfortable and more real. A steward doesn’t simply maximise what they can accomplish. A steward must remain answerable to the One who entrusted the work, the relationships, the moments, and even the limitations.
Last week I wrote that God loved us before we were useful. I still believe that with everything in me. This week the response is becoming clearer to me: if I am loved before my usefulness, I do not need to make usefulness the only language in which I love others.
Sometimes love will look like solving the problem. Sometimes it will look like staying in the room without an answer. It may be an apology without a defence, listening without looking at the clock, returning the call, praying with somebody rather than merely promising to, or making room for the person whose need does not fit into the plan.
I am not asking us to perform kindness for a week and then return to business as usual. I am asking us to be attentive enough to notice where we have become very good at doing the right things while passing by what matters.
So here’s the invitation I’d like us to carry through the rest of this week. Read Luke 10:25–42 slowly. Ask God to show you one person you have been passing, one responsibility that needs a different kind of attention, and one place where work has become louder than His voice.
And do something that can be recognised as love. Something actual. Something that reaches the person rather than simply making you feel like a good person.
We will not account for every moment perfectly. We certainly won’t save the world by Friday. But we can be faithful with the person and the moment in front of us.
I pray that God would give us eyes that notice, hearts that draw near, hands that serve without performing, and enough reverence to sit and listen when He is speaking.
One, Perfect Love.
Read and watch: Luke 10
Read Luke 10:25–42 and watch this reading of the Good Samaritan and Mary and Martha. Let the text come first; the video is a companion, not a substitute.