Who Are We Becoming in the Presence of Suffering?

Who Are We Becoming in the Presence of Suffering?

On Mercy and the Recovery of the Human Heart

The Gospel asks us to look at suffering in two directions.
First, we look toward the wounded person and ask:
“Who will help?”

But then Jesus turns the mirror toward us and asks:
“Who are you becoming while this person suffers?”
This second question is harder.

The wounded person beside the road has an obvious injury. His wounds can be seen. His need can be recognized. His cry can be heard.

But there is another wound that may remain invisible:
the heart that has gradually lost its capacity for mercy.

A person can walk, work, prosper, worship, study Scripture, preach sermons, hold authority, and enjoy the respect of society while becoming increasingly unable to feel another person's suffering.

That is a frightening poverty.
For when mercy disappears, the first thing we lose is not simply generosity.

We lose sight.
The human being before us becomes a category.

The homeless person becomes a problem.
The poor become an expense.

The immigrant becomes an argument.
The prisoner becomes a number.

The stranger becomes a threat.
The wounded become someone else's responsibility.

And eventually we can stand very near another person's suffering while remaining infinitely far from the person.
This is why mercy is more than kindness.

Mercy restores vision.
Mercy removes the category and reveals the face.

It reminds us that before someone is rich or poor, citizen or foreigner, respected or rejected, successful or broken, that person is first a human being whose life possesses a dignity that neither society nor circumstance created.

The Good Samaritan understood this not through theory but through action.

He saw.
His heart moved.
His feet stopped.
His direction changed.
He approached.
He touched the wounds.
He lifted the wounded man.
He carried him.
He paid for his care.
He remained responsible.

This is the anatomy of mercy.
The eye sees.
The conscience responds.
The feet change direction.
The hands become involved.
And the stranger becomes neighbor.

Therefore Jesus does not merely ask us to feel compassion.

He commands: “Go, and do thou likewise.”
The Gospel must move.

From Scripture into conscience.
From conscience into decision.
From decision into action.
From action toward the neighbor.

Otherwise, we may spend our lives studying the road to Jericho while repeatedly walking past the person lying beside it.

The great danger facing a society is therefore not only that suffering increases. The deeper danger comes when our capacity to be disturbed by suffering decreases.

When homelessness becomes scenery, something has happened to us. When poverty becomes merely statistics, something has happened to us.

When war becomes numbers on a screen, something has happened to us. When another person's anguish no longer interrupts our plans, something has happened to us.

At that point, the question is no longer only:
“What happened to them?”

The Gospel forces us to ask:
“What happened to us?”

This is why mercy saves in two directions.

Mercy helps restore the person who has been wounded.
But mercy also preserves the humanity of the person who refuses to pass by.

Every time we stop, conscience remains alive.
Every time we listen, another person's humanity becomes audible again. Every time we cross a social boundary to become neighbor, indifference loses territory.

Every time we refuse to reduce a person to a label, the human face returns. And every time mercy becomes action, something of the Gospel becomes visible in the world.

The deepest poverty, therefore, may not be having nothing in one's hands. It may be having nothing in one's heart that moves those hands toward another person.

And the greatest wealth may not be possessing enough to stand above others. It may be possessing enough mercy to kneel beside them.

This is the examination Jesus places before every generation.

Not merely: What do you believe?

But: Whom does your belief teach you to see?

Not merely:
How much Scripture do you know?

But:
Whose suffering can still interrupt you?

Not merely:
Who is your neighbor?

But:
To whom are you willing to become a neighbor?

For when mercy disappears, the neighbor becomes a category.
When mercy returns, the category becomes a face.
When the face is truly seen, distance begins to collapse.
And when we cross that distance, we discover something extraordinary:

The road toward the wounded neighbor is also the road back to our own humanity. So when suffering stands before us, let the final question not be only: “What will happen to this person?”

Let us also ask:
“Who will I become because I encountered this person?”

May the answer be:

One who saw.
One who stopped.
One who crossed the road.
One who showed mercy.
One who became a neighbor.

For the Gospel is not complete in us merely when we can explain mercy. It becomes visible when another human being can experience mercy through us.

Blessed are the merciful.
Emmanuel. Amen.

Pastor Steven G. Lee
St. GMC Corps
August 16, 2026Who Are We Becoming in the Presence of Suffering?
On Mercy and the Recovery of the Human Heart

The Gospel asks us to look at suffering in two directions.
First, we look toward the wounded person and ask:
“Who will help?”

But then Jesus turns the mirror toward us and asks:
“Who are you becoming while this person suffers?”
This second question is harder.

The wounded person beside the road has an obvious injury. His wounds can be seen. His need can be recognized. His cry can be heard.

But there is another wound that may remain invisible:
the heart that has gradually lost its capacity for mercy.

A person can walk, work, prosper, worship, study Scripture, preach sermons, hold authority, and enjoy the respect of society while becoming increasingly unable to feel another person's suffering.

That is a frightening poverty.
For when mercy disappears, the first thing we lose is not simply generosity.

We lose sight.
The human being before us becomes a category.

The homeless person becomes a problem.
The poor become an expense.

The immigrant becomes an argument.
The prisoner becomes a number.

The stranger becomes a threat.
The wounded become someone else's responsibility.

And eventually we can stand very near another person's suffering while remaining infinitely far from the person.
This is why mercy is more than kindness.

Mercy restores vision.
Mercy removes the category and reveals the face.

It reminds us that before someone is rich or poor, citizen or foreigner, respected or rejected, successful or broken, that person is first a human being whose life possesses a dignity that neither society nor circumstance created.

The Good Samaritan understood this not through theory but through action.

He saw.
His heart moved.
His feet stopped.
His direction changed.
He approached.
He touched the wounds.
He lifted the wounded man.
He carried him.
He paid for his care.
He remained responsible.

This is the anatomy of mercy.
The eye sees.
The conscience responds.
The feet change direction.
The hands become involved.
And the stranger becomes neighbor.

Therefore Jesus does not merely ask us to feel compassion.

He commands: “Go, and do thou likewise.”
The Gospel must move.

From Scripture into conscience.
From conscience into decision.
From decision into action.
From action toward the neighbor.

Otherwise, we may spend our lives studying the road to Jericho while repeatedly walking past the person lying beside it.

The great danger facing a society is therefore not only that suffering increases. The deeper danger comes when our capacity to be disturbed by suffering decreases.

When homelessness becomes scenery, something has happened to us. When poverty becomes merely statistics, something has happened to us.

When war becomes numbers on a screen, something has happened to us. When another person's anguish no longer interrupts our plans, something has happened to us.

At that point, the question is no longer only:
“What happened to them?”

The Gospel forces us to ask:
“What happened to us?”

This is why mercy saves in two directions.

Mercy helps restore the person who has been wounded.
But mercy also preserves the humanity of the person who refuses to pass by.

Every time we stop, conscience remains alive.
Every time we listen, another person's humanity becomes audible again. Every time we cross a social boundary to become neighbor, indifference loses territory.

Every time we refuse to reduce a person to a label, the human face returns. And every time mercy becomes action, something of the Gospel becomes visible in the world.

The deepest poverty, therefore, may not be having nothing in one's hands. It may be having nothing in one's heart that moves those hands toward another person.

And the greatest wealth may not be possessing enough to stand above others. It may be possessing enough mercy to kneel beside them.

This is the examination Jesus places before every generation.

Not merely: What do you believe?

But: Whom does your belief teach you to see?

Not merely:
How much Scripture do you know?

But:
Whose suffering can still interrupt you?

Not merely:
Who is your neighbor?

But:
To whom are you willing to become a neighbor?

For when mercy disappears, the neighbor becomes a category.
When mercy returns, the category becomes a face.
When the face is truly seen, distance begins to collapse.
And when we cross that distance, we discover something extraordinary:

The road toward the wounded neighbor is also the road back to our own humanity. So when suffering stands before us, let the final question not be only: “What will happen to this person?”

Let us also ask:
“Who will I become because I encountered this person?”

May the answer be:

One who saw.
One who stopped.
One who crossed the road.
One who showed mercy.
One who became a neighbor.

For the Gospel is not complete in us merely when we can explain mercy. It becomes visible when another human being can experience mercy through us.

Blessed are the merciful.
Emmanuel. Amen.

Pastor Steven G. Lee
St. GMC Corps
August 16, 2026

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