Reflections

For 14th June 2026

“I was a stranger and you welcomed me.”

READING: Matthew 9:35- 10: 8-23

What Does Compassion Look Like?

I wonder what compassion looks like?

Not as an idea, but in practice. Not something we admire from a distance, but something we can recognise when we encounter it.

Perhaps if we were asked that question, many of us would immediately think of someone who has shown us compassion. A teacher who noticed when we were struggling. A friend who listened without trying to fix everything. A neighbour who quietly helped during a difficult time. A nurse who took an extra moment to explain what was happening. A volunteer who sat alongside someone who was lonely. Compassion often appears not in grand gestures but in ordinary acts of attention.

Many of us will know the hymn Brother, Sister, Let Me Serve You. It is one of those hymns that seems simple on the surface but grows deeper each time we sing it. The opening words are familiar:

“Brother, sister, let me serve you,
let me be as Christ to you.”

Those words capture something important. Compassion is not simply about doing things for people. It is about being present to them. It is about recognising their dignity, their humanity, and their belovedness in the sight of God.

In today’s Gospel, Matthew tells us that Jesus travelled through towns and villages, teaching, proclaiming the good news, and healing those who were sick. Then Matthew pauses and tells us something remarkable. Jesus looked at the crowds and was “moved with compassion.”

What is striking is that compassion begins with seeing.
Jesus notices people.

He does not rush past them. He does not reduce them to a problem to be solved. He does not see a crowd; he sees human beings. Matthew describes them as “harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd.” They are weary, anxious, vulnerable, carrying burdens that others may not even notice.

Jesus allows himself to see their reality.
And what he sees touches him deeply.

The word Matthew uses for compassion is unusually strong. It describes something felt in the depths of a person’s being. This is not detached concern. It is not simply feeling sorry for someone. Compassion means allowing another person’s experience to affect us. It means refusing to remain untouched.

Perhaps that is why compassion can be difficult.

We live in a world overflowing with information. Every day we hear news of wars, poverty, displacement, loneliness, and suffering. Sometimes the sheer weight of it all tempts us to turn away. We can become overwhelmed or numb. Yet compassion invites us to keep our hearts open. It asks us not to look away.

And perhaps that raises another question.
Who is it that we struggle to see?

Not simply those we love or understand, but those who seem unfamiliar to us. Those whose experiences differ from our own. Those whose stories challenge our assumptions. Those whom society often overlooks.

The Christian tradition has always linked compassion with hospitality. Throughout Scripture, welcoming the stranger is not an optional extra but a central expression of faith. Abraham welcomes strangers beneath the trees of Mamre and discovers that God is present in the encounter. The Good Samaritan crosses social and religious boundaries to care for someone in need. Again and again Jesus places those on the margins at the centre of attention.

In Matthew’s Gospel, Jesus even says, “I was a stranger and you welcomed me.”
It is a startling thought.
The stranger may be the very place where Christ is waiting for us.

This is one of the deepest truths of the Incarnation. Christians believe that God came among us not as a powerful ruler demanding recognition but as a vulnerable child dependent upon the welcome of others. God entered the world as one who needed hospitality.

When we welcome the stranger, we reflect the God who first welcomed humanity.

Yet the Gospel invites us even further. It is not simply that we are called to help others. We are called to recognise Christ within them.

That sounds inspiring until we remember who the strangers in our own lives might be. They may be refugees seeking safety. A neighbour whose culture is different from ours. Someone who votes differently. Someone whose faith is different. Someone carrying wounds we cannot see. Someone who feels invisible.

Compassion asks us to move towards them rather than away from them.

Francis of Assisi discovered this for himself. Before his conversion, he feared lepers and avoided them whenever possible. Then one day he encountered a leper and, instead of turning away, he stopped. What had once seemed bitter became sweet. In the face of the one he had feared, Francis encountered Christ.

Compassion transformed both the encounter and the person who entered it.

The same often happens to us.
The person we visit may change us.
The person we listen to may teach us.
The person we welcome may reveal something new about God.

This is where that beautiful hymn offers a deeper challenge. It begins with the words, “Brother, sister, let me serve you.” Most of us are comfortable with that part. We like the idea of helping others. We want to be generous.

But the hymn also says something much harder:

“Pray that I may have the grace
to let you be my servant too.”

That may be one of the most profound lines in any modern hymn.

Christian compassion is not a one-way street.

We are not always the strong helping the weak. Sometimes we are the ones who need help. Sometimes we are the ones who need hospitality. Sometimes we are the ones who need to listen and learn.

True compassion involves receiving as well as giving.

It means recognising that those we meet are not simply people with needs. They are also people with gifts. They carry wisdom, resilience, insight, and grace. If we approach them only as helpers, we may miss what God wants to give us through them.

Perhaps this is why Jesus does not begin with strategy or programmes. Before sending the disciples out, he tells them to pray.

“The harvest is plentiful, but the labourers are few.”

Notice what he does not say. He does not tell them to create a harvest. He does not tell them to manufacture God’s work in the world. The harvest is already there.

God is already at work.

Compassion begins with noticing where that work is happening. It means paying attention to where healing is needed, where reconciliation is possible, where loneliness is waiting for friendship, and where strangers are waiting to become neighbours.

Only then does Jesus send the disciples out.

Heal the sick.
Bring peace.
Welcome the excluded.
Share what you have received.
“Freely you have received; freely give.”

Perhaps compassion looks less like heroic achievements and more like paying attention. It looks like noticing who is missing from the table. Listening before speaking. Learning a name. Sharing a meal. Crossing a boundary. Choosing curiosity over judgement. Standing alongside rather than standing above.

In a divided and often fearful world, compassion begins with seeing.

Seeing the person in front of us.
Seeing the image of God within them.
Seeing Christ in the stranger.

And perhaps, as the hymn reminds us, having the grace to discover that Christ may also be speaking to us through them.

So perhaps the Gospel leaves us with two simple questions.