Minister
“When Love Stops and Looks”
Luke 10: 25–37
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Let us pray.
God of compassion, who moves through every holy interruption, every aching need, every unexpected moment of grace, open our hearts to be broken and remade by your love. Amen.
Over the next six weeks, we’ll be exploring what it means to follow Jesus not just as admirers, but as people who make a difference. It’s easy to imagine changemakers as extraordinary people, leaders, activists, visionaries with endless energy and insight.
But what if Jesus shows us something different? What if the path to being a changemaker begins not with power or strategy, but with compassion?
It’s hard to practice compassion when the world feels so overwhelming. Wars, disasters, poverty, injustice, loneliness, political division, it can all feel like standing at the base of a mountain to move it with a teaspoon. And yet, we are here. We are the Body of Christ. And Jesus tells us that ordinary people, when moved by love, can change the world. Sometimes one person, one act, one moment at a time.
Luke tells us that a lawyer—an expert in the Jewish law—approaches Jesus. He asks, “Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?”
Jesus responds, as he often does, with a question: “What is written in the law? How do you read it?”
The lawyer answers correctly: “Love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, strength, and mind, and love your neighbour as yourself.”
Jesus affirms this answer: “Do this, and you will live.”
But the lawyer wants clarification: “And who is my neighbour?”
The question isn’t about knowledge; it’s about boundaries. How far does responsibility extend? Who counts as deserving of my care?
And Jesus responds, as he often does, not with a legal definition, but with a story.
A man is beaten, robbed, and left on the side of the road. A priest comes along, sees him, and walks past. A Levite comes, sees him, and walks past.
It’s tempting to read this as a story about villains. But I don’t think that’s Jesus’ point. These were respected, religious people. They weren’t cruel; they were busy, distracted, cautious, or constrained by rules. Perhaps they were simply thinking, “Someone else will handle this.” (Which is, of course, the unofficial slogan of procrastinators everywhere.)
Then comes the unexpected character: a Samaritan. Someone outside the Jewish community. Someone considered an enemy. Someone society had dismissed.
If Jesus were telling this story today, we might imagine: A pastor walks past. A respected community leader walks past. And then, a person from the margins stops, maybe someone different from us in politics, culture, or beliefs. Someone we wouldn’t have expected to be the hero of the story.
And what does the Samaritan do? He sees the man and is moved with compassion. The Greek word is splagchnizomai (pronounced splonk-nee-ZOH-my) literally, “gut-level feeling.” In the New Testament, splagchnizomai is used to describe the deep, gut-level compassion Jesus felt when he saw people in pain, left out, or lost. It doesn’t mean pity. It doesn’t mean feeling sorry.
It literally means being moved from your innards, like your heart and gut are teaming up, urging you to do something.
This is the kind of compassion that doesn’t stay an emotion, it becomes an action.
It’s the word used when Jesus healed, fed, touched, and restored. It’s not polite sympathy. It’s a visceral, embodied response. Compassion grabs you by the stomach and stops you in your tracks.
He doesn’t just feel. He acts: he bandages wounds, puts the man on his animal, brings him to an inn, pays for his care, and promises to follow up. Compassion is costly. It risks safety, resources, comfort, and reputation.
And this is where we move from parable to practice. We do not have to imagine compassion only on dusty roads in ancient Israel.
At Mount Seymour United, we see this every week.
Think of our Church Café. People come hungry, sometimes for food, sometimes for connection. They find tables ready, chairs pulled out, coffee poured, and smiles that say, You matter here. A bowl of soup, a warm drink, a friendly conversation, these may seem small, but they are holy acts of presence, creating belonging and reminding people they are seen.
Think of our Mental Health Ministry. It’s quieter, behind closed doors, but no less transformative. People who cannot afford counselling are offered support, one session at a time. Here, compassion looks like saying, “I hear you. You do not have to carry this alone.” It’s listening, accompanying, walking alongside someone through their pain. Sometimes the most profound acts of love are silent and patient.
And of course, we can’t speak of compassion at Mount Seymour without naming the incredible ministry of our Thrift Shop. It is so much more than a place to find a bargain, it is a place where community is woven, week after week. Volunteers show up not just to sort and sell, but to welcome, to listen, to share laughter and life. Customers come as strangers and often leave as friends. And when someone in our wider community loses everything in a fire, or finds themselves in crisis, they are not turned away, they are invited in to take what they need, no questions asked.
Compassion there is not theoretical; it is tangible, practical, and deeply relational. And through the revenue the shop generates, a portion is sent directly to First United in the Downtown Eastside, extending that compassion even further.
The Thrift Shop is a living parable of what it means to “see and be moved”… love turned into shared dignity.
These ministries of our church, different in form, but the same in heart, remind us that compassion is not one-size-fits-all. It’s not always loud, not always visible. But it is always powerful.
Compassion is not sentimental. It doesn’t just make us feel good. It disrupts.
It interrupts our routines, upends our assumptions, and challenges our schedules. That’s exactly what happened with the Samaritan. Compassion asks us to act before it’s convenient, before we’ve calculated the cost, before we’re comfortable.
And in doing so, it transforms not just the person receiving care, but also the one giving it. This is the paradox of changemaking: by stepping into another’s need, we ourselves are changed.
The question for us this week is: Who is lying on the side of your road?
Maybe it’s someone physically present: a neighbour, a friend, a colleague. Maybe it’s someone struggling silently: a family member, a student, someone in the street. Maybe it’s a person we have written off, someone “different,” someone society says doesn’t matter.
Compassion begins with seeing. It begins with acknowledging pain, whether visible or invisible. And then it moves to action, whether small or large.
Sometimes we imagine changemaking as grand: campaigns, policies, programs, large-scale initiatives. But Luke reminds us that compassion is foundational. Before we can fix systems, we must stop, see, and act.
These are not small acts. They are kingdom-building acts.
If compassion can be practiced in our Café, in our thrift shop, in our sanctuary, what else might it look like?
Compassion shaping our daily habits: how we speak, drive, shop, and interact.
Compassion shaping our politics: seeking justice, protecting the vulnerable, lifting the marginalized.
Compassion shaping our systems: noticing inequity, acting to reduce it, refusing to normalize indifference.
Moment by moment, person by person, compassion creates change. That is how God works through us, not necessarily to fix the whole world at once, but to change the world for someone, right here, right now.
Jesus concludes the parable with a command: “Go and do likewise.”
Not: think about it.
Not: pray about it.
Not: delegate it to someone else.
Do.
This week, you might: Make eye contact with someone you usually hurry past.
Reach out to a friend or neighbour who seems distant.
Offer practical help: a meal, a ride, a listening ear.
And when you yourself are in need, let someone stop for you. I know that many of you are used to being the ones to care for others, but sometimes reaching out and accepting help from a willing helper is showing compassion to them.
Compassion is mutual. Changemaking is never only giving; it is participating in the flow of God’s love, both giving and receiving.
Compassion is not weakness. It is strength. It is courage. It is resurrection power.
Jesus modeled it fully, touching lepers, feeding crowds, healing, comforting, risking all. Love that refuses to walk past pain is unstoppable. It led him to the cross, and beyond it, to resurrection.
Our acts of compassion, whether through a coffee and conversation at the Café, a quiet hour in counselling, a call to someone struggling, or a single act of kindness—participate in that same unstoppable love.
Friends, we begin our Changemakers series here, now.
Let us begin with what is right in front of us.
Let us see. Let us stop. Let us act.
Not to fix everything. Not to be perfect. Not to earn praise. But to be people who respond to God’s love with our hands, hearts, and presence.
May it be so. Amen