Compassion

Compassion

As soon as Jesus heard the news, he left in a boat to a remote area to be alone. But the crowds heard where he was headed and followed on foot from many towns. Jesus saw the huge crowd as he stepped from the boat, and he had compassion on them and healed their sick.

That evening the disciples came to him and said, “This is a remote place, and it’s already getting late. Send the crowds away so they can go to the villages and buy food for themselves.” But Jesus said, “That isn’t necessary — you feed them.” “But we have only five loaves of bread and two fish!” they answered. “Bring them here,” he said.

Then he told the people to sit down on the grass. Jesus took the five loaves and two fish, looked up toward heaven, and blessed them. Then, breaking the loaves into pieces, he gave the bread to the disciples, who distributed it to the people. They all ate as much as they wanted, and afterward, the disciples picked up twelve baskets of leftovers. About 5,000 men were fed that day, in addition to all the women and children! (Matthew 14:13-21)

 Theresa Briones is a tender, compassionate, loving mother. She also has a wicked left hook that she used to punch a woman in a Laundromat. As reported in the Victoria Advocate, some kids were apparently making fun of Theresa’s daughter, Alicia. Alicia is bald. Her knees are arthritic. Her nose is pinched. Her hips are creaky. Her hearing’s bad. She’s missing teeth. She has the stamina of a seventy-year-old. And she’s only ten.

“Mom,” the kids taunted, “come and look at the monster!” Alicia weighs only twenty-two pounds and is shorter than most preschoolers. She suffers from progeria — a genetic aging disease that strikes 1 in 8,000,000 children. Kids with progeria seldom live beyond their mid-teens, and there are only 100 known cases of the disease in the world. “She’s not an alien. She’s not a monster,” Theresa defended. “She’s just like you and me.” Mentally, Alicia is a bubbly, fun-loving third grader with a long list of friends. She watches television in a toddler-sized rocking chair, and plays with Barbie dolls and teases her younger brother. Theresa has grown accustomed to the glances and questions. She’s patient with the constant curiosity. Genuine inquiries she accepts. Insensitive slanders she does not.

The mother of the finger-pointing children came to investigate. “I see ‘it,’” she told the kids. “My child is not an ‘it,’” Theresa stated. Then she decked the woman. That’s the nature of parental love. Mothers and fathers have a God-given ability to love their children regardless of imperfections. Not because the parents are blind. It’s just the opposite, really – they see vividly. Theresa sees Alicia’s inability as clearly as anyone. But she also sees Alicia’s value.

So does God. God sees us with the eyes of a Father. He sees our defects, errors and blemishes. But he also sees our value. He knows that each human being is a treasure. And because he does, people aren’t a source of stress but a source of joy. And when Jesus lands on the shore of Bethsaida, he steps into a sea of humanity. Keep in mind, he crossed the Galilee to get away from the crowds because he needed to grieve alone, and then be with his disciples. The last thing he needed was another crowd of thousands to teach and heal.

But his love for people overcame his need for rest, and when Jesus landed and saw a large crowd he had compassion on them and healed their sick. He had compassion on them, because they were like sheep without a shepherd. He welcomed them and spoke to them about the kingdom of God, and healed those who needed healing. It’s doubtful that anyone in the crowd thought to ask Jesus how he was doing, however. There’s no indication that anyone was concerned with how Jesus felt. The truth is, no one came to give; all had come to take.

It was like 5:00 p.m. on most weekdays in a lot of homes. The time of day when everyone wants a piece of Mom. One’s hungry, and the other wants her to read him a book. Another needs help with her homework, and the husband wants to tell her about his day. All at once. It’s Piranha Hour. When’s yours? When do people in your world demand a lot and offer little? Every boss has had a day in which the requests outnumber the results. There’s not a businessperson alive who hasn’t groaned as an armada of assignments docks at his or her desk. For the teacher, the piranha hour often begins when the first student arrives and ends when the last student leaves. Piranha hours: parents have them, bosses endure them, assistants dread them, teachers are besieged by them, and Jesus taught us how to live through them – successfully.

When hands extended and voices demanded, Jesus responded with love. He did so because the code within him disarmed the alarm. The code is worth noting, too: People are precious. “Sure,” you say, “but that was a piece of cake for Jesus. He’s God. He could do things like that; I can’t. After all, he was divine.” True, Jesus was equally God and man. But don’t be too quick to dismiss what he did. Consider his loving response from another perspective. Consider that, along with his holy strength, he also had a holy awareness. There weren’t any secrets on the mountain that day; Jesus knew the hearts of each person. He knew why they were there and what they would do.

Matthew writes that Jesus “healed their sick.” Not some of their sick. Not the righteous among the sick. Not the deserving among the sick. But “the sick.” Surely, among the many thousands, there were a few people unworthy of good health because the same divinity that gave Jesus the power to heal also gave him the power to perceive. For instance, I wonder if Jesus was tempted to say to the rapist, “Heal you? After what you’ve done?” Or to the child molester, “Why should I restore your health?” Or to the bigot, “Get out of here, and take your arrogance with you.”

And he could see not only their past, but their future as well. Undoubtedly, there were those in the multitude who would use their newfound health to hurt others. Jesus gave voice to the speechless who would curse. He gave sight to eyes that would lust. He healed hands that would kill. Many of those he healed would never say, “Thank you.” But he healed them anyway. Most were probably more concerned with being healthy than being holy. But he healed them anyway. Some of those who asked for bread that day would cry for his blood a few months later. But he healed them anyway.

Jesus chose to do what you and I seldom, if ever, choose to do. He chose to give gifts to people, knowing full well that those gifts could be used for evil. So, don’t be too quick to attribute Jesus’ compassion to his divinity. Remember both sides. For each time Jesus healed, he had to overlook the future and the past. (Something, by the way, that he still does) Have you noticed that God doesn’t ask you to prove that you’ll put your salary to good use? Have you noticed that God doesn’t turn off your heart when you misuse his gifts? Aren’t you glad that God doesn’t give you only that for which you remember to thank him?

God’s goodness is spurred by his nature, not by our worthiness. God does it daily, for millions of people. So, what did Jesus know that allowed him to do what he did? What internal code kept his calm from erupting into chaos? He knew the value of people.

Interestingly, the stress seen that day is not on Jesus’ face, but on the faces of the disciples. “Send the crowds away,” they demanded. Fair request. “After all,” they’re saying, “you’ve taught them. You’ve healed them. You’ve accommodated them. Now they’re getting hungry. And if we don’t send them away, they’ll want you to feed them, too!” I wish I could have seen the expression on the disciples’ faces when they heard the Master’s response. “That isn’t necessary. You feed them.”

I used to think that that was a rhetorical statement. I used to think that Jesus knew the disciples couldn’t feed the crowd, but that he asked them anyway. I used to think that it was a “test” to teach them to rely on God for what they couldn’t do. I don’t see it quite like that anymore. I still think it was a test, but not a test to show them what they couldn’t do, but a test to demonstrate what they could do. After all, they’d just come back from a road trip achieving the impossible. Jesus was asking them to do it again. “You give them something to eat.”

And I wish I could tell you that the disciples did it. I wish I could say that they knew God wouldn’t ask them to do something he wouldn’t empower them to do, so they fed the crowd. I wish I could tell you that the disciples miraculously fed the five thousand men plus women and children. But I can’t. Because they didn’t. Rather than looking to God, they looked in their wallets: “That would take eight months of a man’s wages! Are we to go and spend that much on bread and give it to them to eat?” (John 6:7) It’s as if they were saying, “Y-y-y-you’ve got to be kidding.” “He can’t be serious.” “It’s one of Jesus’ jokes, right?” “Do you know how many people are out there?”

Eyes big as saucers. Jaws dangling open. One ear hearing the din of the crowd, the other the command of God. Don’t miss the contrasting views. When Jesus saw the people, he saw an opportunity to love and affirm them because they had value. But when the disciples saw the people, they saw thousands of problems. And don’t miss the irony, either. The disciples tell the “Bread of Life” that there’s no bread. How silly we must appear to God.

And here’s where Jesus should have given up. This is the point in the pressure-packed day where Jesus should have exploded. The sorrow, the life threats, the exuberance, the crowds, the interruptions, the demands, and now this. His own disciples can’t do what he asks them. In front of five thousand men, they let him down. “Beam me up, Father,” should have been Jesus’ next words. But they weren’t. Instead he inquires, “How many loaves do you have?” The disciples bring him a little boy’s lunch. And a lunch pail becomes a banquet; all are fed. No word of reprimand is given. No furrowed brow of anger is seen. No “I-told-you-so” speech is delivered. The same compassion Jesus extends to the crowd is extended to his closest friends.

Look at this day one more time. Review what our Lord faced. Intense sorrow — the death of a dear friend and relative. Immediate threat — his name is on the wanted poster. Immeasurable joy — a homecoming with his followers. Immense crowds — a Niagara of people followed him everywhere. Insensitive interruptions — he sought rest and got people. Incredible demands — crowds of thousands clamored for his touch. Inept assistance — the one and only time he asked for help, he got a dozen “you’re-pulling-my-leg” expressions.

But the calm within Christ never erupted. The alarm never sounded. What did Jesus know that enabled him to do what he did? He knew the incredible value of people. As a result, he didn’t stomp his feet and demand his own way. He didn’t tell the disciples to find another beach where there were no people. He didn’t ask the crowds why they hadn’t brought their own food. He didn’t send the apostles back into the field for more training. Most importantly, he stayed calm in the midst of chaos. He even paused, in the midst of it all, to pray a prayer of thanks.

A boy went into a pet shop, looking for a puppy. The store owner showed him a litter in a box. The boy looked at the puppies. He picked each one up, examined it and then put it back into the box. After several minutes, he walked back to the owner and said, “I picked one out. How much will it cost?” The man gave him the price, and the boy promised to be back in a few days with the money. “Don’t take too long,” the owner cautioned. “Puppies like these sell quickly.” The boy turned and smiled knowingly, “I’m not worried,” he said. “Mine will still be here.”

The boy went to work — weeding, washing windows, cleaning yards. He worked hard and saved his money. When he had enough for the puppy, he returned to the store. He walked up to the counter and laid down a pocketful of wadded bills. The store owner sorted and counted the cash, and after verifying the amount, he smiled at the boy and said, “All right, son, you can go get your puppy.” The boy reached into the back of the box, pulled out a skinny dog with a limp leg, and started to leave.

The owner stopped him. “Don’t take that puppy,” he objected. “He’s crippled. He can’t play. He’ll never run with you. He can’t fetch. Get one of the healthy pups.” “No thank you, sir,” the boy replied. “This is exactly the kind of dog I’ve been looking for.” And as the boy turned to leave, the store owner started to speak but kept silent. He suddenly understood. You see, extending from the bottom of the boy’s pants was a brace — a brace for his leg that had been “crippled” in an accident.

Why did the boy want that particular dog? Because he knew how it felt, and he knew the dog was very special. And what did Jesus know that enabled him to do what he did? Because he knew how the people felt, and he knew that they were very special. Don’t forget that. Jesus knows how you feel.

Under the gun at work? Jesus knows how you feel. You’ve got more to do than is humanly possible? So did he. You’ve got children who make a “piranha hour” out of your dinner hour? Jesus knows what that’s like. People take more from you than they give in return? Jesus understands. Your teenagers won’t listen? Your students won’t try? Your employees give you blank stares when you assign tasks? Believe me, Jesus knows how you feel.

You are precious to him. So precious that he became like you so that you would come to him. When you struggle, he listens. When you ache, he responds. When you question, he hears. He’s been there. You’ve heard that before, but you need to hear it again. He loves you with the love of a Theresa Briones. He understands you with the compassion of the “crippled” boy. And like Theresa, he battles with hell itself to protect you.

And, like the boy, he paid a great price to take you home.

Grace,

Randy