The King James text of 1611, set beside a plain-English rendering, so the original may be both read and understood.
Like Mark, Luke was not one of the twelve apostles. The early Church remembered him as a physician—Paul calls him "the beloved physician"—and as a Gentile, very likely the only non-Jewish author in the whole Bible. He was a traveling companion of Paul, and in the book of Acts (his own sequel to this Gospel) the narrative quietly shifts to "we" whenever he is along for the journey. He was not an eyewitness to Jesus' life, and he says so plainly: he set out instead to investigate everything carefully, gathering the testimony of those who had seen it, so that his patron Theophilus might know the certainty of what he had been taught.
The result is the longest and, in places, the most tender of the four Gospels. Luke alone preserves the songs around Jesus' birth, the shepherds and the manger, the boy in the temple, and the parables of the Good Samaritan, the prodigal son, and the rich man and Lazarus. More than the others he lingers on the people the world overlooked—the poor, the sick, the foreigner, women, tax collectors, and outright sinners—and on prayer, joy, and the Holy Spirit. The early Church gave him the symbol of an ox, a creature of sacrifice and service.
Of his later life little is recorded. Tradition holds that he never married, wrote his Gospel in Greece, and lived to old age, serving the gospel he had so carefully set down for others to trust.
Written with AIThe reflection below was written by AI as commentary — one reader's lens on the text, offered alongside it and never in place of it. It is not scripture, and not the King James words themselves.
Luke reads like the work of a careful, compassionate outsider—someone who came to the story secondhand and was determined to get it right, and who could not stop noticing who else had been left out. It is a doctor's Gospel: attentive to bodies and suffering, but even more to the wounds the respectable would rather not see.
Its great theme is reversal. The proud are scattered and the humble lifted up; the rich are sent away empty and the hungry filled; the religious expert walks past the beaten man while a despised Samaritan stops. Again and again the person who "should" be last turns out to be first—a tax collector in a tree, a thief on a cross, a wayward son running home to a father who was already watching the road. For a Gentile writing largely for Gentiles, that was the heart of the good news: that the welcome of God reaches all the way to the outsider, and that no one is too far gone to be found.