The Good Samaritan flips the script:
compassion isn't about who you are or where you're from,
it's about what you do when someone else is in need.
Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot
Love With No Agenda
Throughout my life, I’ve noticed something curious about some Christians I meet. Because I try to be approachable and open, I often find myself in conversations where people take an interest in me, especially when faith comes up. At first, their attention feels genuine, even warm. But I’ve also experienced the sharpness of that interest waning when it becomes clear I’m not going to "convert." It makes me wonder—what kind of love is that? Is it genuine, or is it something else entirely?
This kind of interaction often leaves a sour taste. Love that comes with an agenda doesn’t feel much like love at all. True Christian love, as described in the Bible, is supposed to be unconditional. The kind of love Paul wrote about in 1 Corinthians 13 isn’t “self-seeking” or dependent on outcomes. It’s patient, kind, and enduring. When someone’s kindness or attention dries up because I don’t fit into their plan, it feels more like being a project than a person.
I want to believe these moments are a product of misplaced zeal. Some Christians feel so compelled to share their faith that it becomes more about completing a task than forming a relationship.
But I’ve also come to see these interactions as a missed opportunity. The most profound witness to faith isn’t always tied to convincing someone to believe the same as you. Often, it’s simply showing Christlike love, the kind that cares for others regardless of whether they ever agree with you. That’s why the story of the Good Samaritan stands out so strongly to me.
The Samaritan had no agenda. He didn’t help the wounded man to prove a point, win him over, or gain anything for himself. He simply saw a fellow human being in need and acted with compassion. His love wasn’t contingent on who the man was or what he believed—it was rooted in something deeper. In contrast, the priest and the Levite, though likely pious men, walked by. Perhaps they were too focused on their own spiritual obligations to see the man’s humanity. The Samaritan, on the other hand, demonstrated the kind of love that asks for nothing in return.
That story reminds me of what Christian love is supposed to look like: patient, generous, and free of strings. When love becomes conditional—when someone withdraws their care or attention because they don’t get the outcome they hoped for—it feels transactional. It also leaves the recipient feeling less like a person and more like a checkbox on someone else’s spiritual to-do list.
But maybe there’s a lesson in that, too. Those moments, while disappointing, can also be opportunities for grace. How we respond when someone’s interest fades might be the real test of our own ability to love without conditions. If we can meet those moments with kindness, we might leave a quiet impression of what true care looks like—a care that reflects Christ.
When I think about these encounters now, I try to view them with understanding. Love that comes with an agenda isn’t necessarily “false”; it’s just limited. It falls short of the higher standard we’re called to as Christians. And perhaps that’s where the real challenge lies: to live a faith that doesn’t waver when it meets resistance, a faith that doesn’t walk away when there’s nothing to gain, and a faith that mirrors the selfless love of the Good Samaritan.