The Wound of Compassion, Part Two

Last week we started talking about the wound of compassion. Julian of Norwich prayed: "Lord, wound me with the wound of contrition, wound me with the wound of compassion, wound me with the wound of very longing after God." Week one: The wound of contrition - when God lets you see your sin clearly, when you're broken by what you've done, and that wound becomes the doorway to grace. Last week: Steps 1-3. You treasure Christ. You're filled with grace and truth together. You overflow toward Him in worship. That's vertical. That's the foundation. Because you cannot overflow to others what you haven't first received from Jesus. But all of that is still between you and Jesus. That's beautiful. That's essential. But it's not compassion yet. Compassion happens when the vertical becomes horizontal. When your overflow stops being just between you and Jesus and starts moving toward other people. Today we're walking through steps 4 and 5. And by the end, you'll be standing at a threshold. Next week, we'll talk about what happens when you cross it. But before we dive in, I need to tell you something I've been wrestling with. Something that's changed how I understand my own brokenness, my own past, my own struggles. For years, I thought the goal was to get past my wounds. To heal from them. To move beyond them. To get to a place where they didn't matter anymore. Where I could minister despite them. Where I could lead from a place of having it all figured out. But I've discovered something that turned all of that upside down. You don't minister to people despite your wounds. You minister through your wounds. Your past emptiness, your remembered pain, your ongoing struggles - these aren't disqualifications to loving others as Christ would. They're your credentials. They're what give you access to other people's wounds. Think about it. The great illusion is thinking we can lead someone out of a desert we've never walked through. That we can offer water to the thirsty if we've never known thirst. That we can guide someone through darkness if we've never been blind. But that's not how it works. You can't. You enter the desert with another person. You walk into it with them. And you stay there until grace begins to rise out of the dry ground. That's what compassion is. Not standing at the edge of the desert, giving directions. But walking into it. Staying. Waiting for grace to spring up. And that's going to be woven through everything we talk about today. Because when your fullness meets someone's emptiness, it's your memory of being empty that makes you capable of compassion instead of judgment. It's your wound that becomes the bridge. So turn with me to Luke 7. Same passage, but we're going to see something we might have missed.

Step 4: Your Overflow Encounters Someone Who Lacks What You Have

The Collision Point

This is where everything shifts. Up until now, it's been vertical - you and Jesus. You're treasuring Him, you're being filled by Him, you're overflowing toward Him in worship. That's beautiful and essential. But now something happens. Your overflow collides with reality. You encounter someone who doesn't have what you have. And everything changes. Look back at Luke 7. The woman is at Jesus' feet, weeping, worshiping, pouring out her perfume. She's full. She's satisfied. She's tasting grace and truth together, and it's transforming her. But there's someone else in the room. Simon. And Simon is empty. He doesn't see what she sees. He doesn't taste what she tastes. He's got religion, but he doesn't have Jesus. He's got knowledge about Christ, but he doesn't treasure Christ. Verse 39 tells us what Simon is thinking: "If this man were a prophet, he would have known who and what sort of woman this is who is touching him, for she is a sinner." Simon is evaluating. Judging. Calculating. He's completely missing it. And Jesus - Jesus sees it. He sees Simon's emptiness. Later in the passage, Jesus will point it out: "You gave me no water for my feet... You gave me no kiss... You did not anoint my head with oil." Simon has nothing to offer because he's empty. He's not overflowing because there's nothing inside to overflow. That's the collision. Two people in the same room with Jesus. One full. One empty. One overflowing. One withholding. One treasuring. One evaluating.

The Nature of This Encounter The collision happens in moments. Specific moments. With specific people. You're not suddenly burdened for "people in general" or "the lost world." You encounter someone. A person. And something shifts inside you. You realize: they're dying of thirst. They're starving. They're empty. And you have living water. You have bread. You're full. Here's what happens: Your satisfaction in Christ collides with their desperation to satisfy themselves without Christ. You're tasting something real - not perfectly, not completely yet, but genuinely. And then you're standing in front of someone who's still desperately reaching for things that can never fill them. And you can see it. You can see the emptiness behind the performance. The thirst behind the consumption. The hunger behind the achievement. Why This Is Different from Before Before you treasured Christ, you couldn't see this clearly. Remember what Romans 1:18 says: sin suppresses truth. When you're empty, your vision is darkened. You can't see reality clearly - not about God, not about yourself, not about others. You might notice suffering, but you interpret it through your own brokenness. You might feel sympathy, but it's filtered through your own emptiness. But now? Now you've been filled with grace and truth together. Now your vision is clearing. And when you look at people, you begin to see what Jesus sees. You see the glory they were made for. You see the emptiness they're trying to fill with everything except Jesus. You see the thirst they're trying to quench with everything except living water. And can I just add something here - seeing as Jesus sees isn't blind faith. It's not a faith where you just go, "I believe in Jesus" and that's it. Because remember, last week we said there's believing and there's receiving. Believing acknowledges facts. But receiving treasures Christ as supremely satisfying. And when you treasure Him, when He becomes your satisfaction, your eyes open. You start seeing people the way He sees them. The Memory of Your Own Emptiness And Here's what makes this encounter so powerful: you remember. You remember what it was like to be empty. You remember the desperation of trying to fill yourself with things that couldn't satisfy. You remember the exhaustion of performing, achieving, consuming, trying to prove your worth. You remember the darkness of not seeing Jesus clearly. You remember the suppression of truth. The woman at Jesus' feet - she remembers. She remembers being "the sinner" everyone whispered about. She remembers the shame. The isolation. The emptiness. And, yet, now she's full. Now she's forgiven. Now she's loved and accepted and secure. But she hasn't forgotten what it was like. And that memory is what makes compassion possible. Think about it. If you've never been starving, you can't really understand hunger. You might see it, feel sorry about it, even give money to address it. But you don't feel it. You can walk past it without being gripped by it. But if you've been starving - if you've known what it's like to have your stomach eating itself, to be so weak you can barely stand, to be willing to do almost anything for food - and then someone feeds you, gives you bread, restores your strength... you can never again walk past someone who's hungry without that bread in your hand burning. You remember. And the memory compels you. The Collision Creates a Crisis This is where it gets uncomfortable. Because when your overflow collides with someone's emptiness, you can't just walk away. You can't un-see what you've seen. You can't forget what you now know. There's a crisis. A decision point. What are you going to do with what you now see? Simon faced this moment too. Jesus told him the parable of the two debtors - one forgiven little, one forgiven much. And then Jesus said, "Do you see this woman?" That's the question: Do you see? Really see? Do you see her as a person made in God's image, capable of treasuring Christ just like you? Or do you see her as "the sinner" who's beneath you? The crisis is this: Your fullness has made you aware of their emptiness. And now you have to choose. Will you overflow toward them? Or will you protect your fullness, keep it to yourself, stay comfortable? What You See vs. What They See Here's what's remarkable about this collision. You see their emptiness, but they might not. You see, Simon doesn't think he's empty. He's a Pharisee. He's got religion down. He knows the Law. He keeps the rules. He's invited Jesus to dinner - that's pretty spiritual, right? He doesn't see his own need. The truth is, he’s blinded to the needs around him. He's like the church in Laodicea in Revelation 3:17: "You say, I am rich, I have prospered, and I need nothing, not realizing that you are wretched, pitiable, poor, blind, and naked." So the collision isn't just between your fullness and their emptiness. It's also between your vision and their blindness. You can see what they can't see about themselves. And that creates a dilemma. How do you love someone who doesn't think they need what you have? How do you offer living water to someone who thinks they're already hydrated? The Temptation to Judge This is where Simon fails. He sees the woman's sin - her emptiness, her past, her reputation. And he uses her sin to coerce his lack. Because, instead of compassion, he feels judgment. Look at what he says… "If Jesus were really a prophet, he'd know what kind of woman this is." Simon sees, but what he sees doesn't move him toward her. It moves him away from her. It reinforces his sense of superiority. And here's the danger: when you're full and you encounter someone who's empty, you can default to judgment too. You can think, "Well, if they would just treasure Jesus like I do..." "If they would just stop trying to fill themselves with that..." "If they would just see what I see..." And suddenly you're Simon. Full of knowledge, but empty of compassion. The collision should create compassion, not condemnation. The memory of your own emptiness should create humility, not superiority. You should look at them and think, "That was me. That is me, apart from grace. The only difference between us is that God opened my eyes and filled me. Not because I was better. Not because I was smarter. Not because I tried harder. Because of receiving grace.” The Specific Nature of the Encounter Now, Let me ask you something. When was the last time you encountered someone's emptiness and you actually felt it? Not just noticed it. Felt it. When was the last time you saw someone striving, performing, achieving, consuming - and something in you stirred? Not judgment. Not frustration. But recognition. Memory. Compassion. Maybe it was in a conversation where underneath all the words you heard the same desperation you used to carry. The same thirst you used to have. The same ache. Maybe you saw someone making choices, building their life around something, and you recognized it because you did the same thing. You built your identity on that. You tried to find your worth there. And you remember - not intellectually, but viscerally - what that emptiness felt like. The collision doesn't happen in categories. It happens in moments. Specific moments. With specific people. And you can't predict when it's going to happen. But when it does, you'll know. Because something shifts inside you.

The Question This Raises

So here's the question this encounter creates: What are you going to do? You're full. They're empty. You have what they desperately need, even if they don't know they need it. Are you going to overflow toward them? Or are you going to protect your fullness, keep your distance, stay comfortable? Because here's what we haven't said yet: overflowing toward them is going to cost you something. It's going to be inconvenient. It's going to be messy. It's going to interrupt your plans. It's going to require vulnerability. You're going to have to risk rejection. You're going to have to enter into their chaos. You're going to have to be patient while they figure out what you already know. You're going to have to love them while they're still empty, still blind, still trying to satisfy themselves with everything except Jesus. And that's scary. That's uncomfortable. That's why many Christians stay at step 3. They treasure Jesus. They're filled with grace and truth. They overflow in worship. But they never let that overflow collide with anyone's emptiness. They keep it contained. Safe. Comfortable. Sunday morning only. But if you let the collision happen - if you really see people's emptiness and let yourself be gripped by it - something shifts. And that's step 5.

But before we get to step five I have one thing to say… everything we have learned up until now is still not compassion. Compassion comes next. But it can't come without this collision first. You can't have Christ-like compassion for people you don't actually see. You can't overflow toward people you're avoiding. The encounter has to happen. The collision has to occur. Your fullness has to meet their emptiness face to face. And when it does, you're at the threshold of the wound.

Step 5: You Cannot Rest While They Remain Empty

The Holy Restlessness

Now, This is where the wound begins to form. This is where awareness turns into ache. You've encountered their emptiness. You've seen their need. You've felt the collision. And now something happens inside you that you can't control and you can't turn off: you cannot rest while they remain empty. This isn't pity. Pity looks down from a position of comfort and says, "Oh, that's sad. Poor them." Pity feels bad for a moment, then moves on. This isn't sympathy either. Sympathy feels what they feel from a safe distance. Sympathy says, "I'm sorry you're going through that," then goes home and forgets about it. This isn't even empathy. Empathy enters into their experience, feels alongside them, truly understands their pain. But empathy, but here’s the thing about empathy… it can still walk away when the feeling becomes too much. So what is it? What do we call this ache, this compulsion, this inability to rest? If not sympathy, if not empathy, of not pity….. what is it? It’s called, a "holy restlessness." It's what Julian of Norwich was praying for when she asked to be wounded with the wound of compassion. It's a blessed pain. A sacred ache. A compulsion you can't escape. The Biblical Language for This Paul gives us the language for this in 2 Corinthians 5:14: "The love of Christ controls us." That word "controls" in Greek is συνέχω - synechō. It means to hold together, to constrain, to compel, to hem in. It's the same word used when Jesus is pressed in by the crowd. When Paul is "constrained" to preach the gospel. It's not a gentle suggestion. It's a force. A pressure. A compulsion. The love of Christ has gripped you so completely that you are compelled. You cannot NOT overflow. You cannot NOT care. You cannot rest while they remain empty because the love that has filled you will not let you rest. It's controlling you. Not in a manipulative way - in a compulsive way. Like gravity. Like a river finding its level. Like water seeking the cracks in a dam. The Difference from Human Compassion And its… totally…. Different than Human compassion… because human compassion is emotion-based. It comes and goes. You feel it one day, not the next. It's triggered by what you see, what you hear, how you feel that day. You watch a documentary about poverty and you feel compassionate. The documentary ends, the feeling fades, life goes on. You see a homeless person on the corner and you feel a twinge of sympathy. Then the light turns green and you drive away and forget. Human compassion is also selective. We feel it for people we like, people who are like us, people whose suffering makes sense to us. We feel it when it's convenient, when we have energy, when we're in a good mood. But We don't feel it for people who annoy us, people who "brought it on themselves," people whose choices we disagree with. But Christ-like compassion? This is completely different. This is overflow-based, not emotion-based. It flows from fullness, not from feelings. And it's compulsive. It won't turn off. It won't let you rest. It won't let you walk away. Think about the woman at Jesus' feet. She's not overflowing because she feels compassionate in that moment. She's overflowing because she's full. And fullness overflows. It has to. It's not a choice. It's the nature of Christ like fullness. And here's what makes this kind of compassion sustainable: it's not dependent on your emotional state. You don't have to work up feelings. You don't have to manufacture care through guilt. You're full, so you overflow. Naturally. Inevitably. Even when it's inconvenient. Even when you're tired. Even when they're difficult. Because overflow isn't about them deserving it. It's about you being full. The Ache That Won't Stop Let me describe what this feels like. You're going about your day and you think about that person. That neighbor. That coworker. That family member. And you feel this... ache. This holy restlessness. This sense of "I can't just leave them there. I can't just let them stay empty. I have to do something." It's not anxiety. It's not guilt. It's not religious obligation. It's more like... have you ever seen someone you love heading toward danger and you can't just watch? You have to warn them. You have to intervene. You have to do something. That's the feeling. But it's not about danger. It's about emptiness. They're dying of thirst and you have living water, and you cannot just watch them die. It interrupts your comfort. You can't settle into your satisfied life while they're still empty. You can't fully enjoy your fullness while they're still lacking. It's not guilt - you're not responsible for their choices. It's not savior complex - you're not the one who saves them. But you cannot rest. You cannot be satisfied in your satisfaction while they remain empty. Why You Can't Rest And I ask myself… why can’t I rest? Why can’t I just leave them alone, and leave and go about my day? Why is it, when I am at Starbucks and a single mom comes in and she’s got these lovely little lambs with her, and you can tell she’s tired, but also a strong woman, and my heart just wants to leap out of my chest in… can I get your coffee. Can I buy that bear cake pop for the little one…

Here’s why: because the thing that has satisfied you…. is a Person. And that Person is passionate about them. Jesus isn't satisfied while they're empty. Jesus isn't resting while they're still dying of thirst. And you're full of Jesus. So His restlessness becomes your restlessness. His longing for them becomes your longing for them. His refusal to give up on them becomes your refusal to give up on them. Think about it, in Luke 15. Jeuss tells of Three parables - the lost sheep, lost coin, lost son. In each one, there's restlessness. The shepherd can't rest while one sheep is lost. He leaves the ninety-nine and goes searching. The woman can't rest while one coin is missing. She tears the house apart looking. The father can't rest while his son is gone. He watches the road, waiting, hoping, longing. That's Jesus. That's His heart. He cannot rest while people are lost. While people are empty. While people are dying. And now you're full of Him. So His restlessness is filling you. His longing is becoming your longing. His "I cannot rest" is becoming your "I cannot rest." The Refusal to Be Satisfied Alone There's something radical happening here. Your satisfaction in Christ is creating a dissatisfaction with their lack of Christ. You're full, but you're not comfortable being full alone. You have living water, but you can't just hydrate yourself while they die of thirst. You've found treasure, but you can't just sit on it while they live in poverty. This is the mystery of Christian joy. It's a joy that won't stay selfish. It's a satisfaction that refuses to be solitary. It's a fullness that must overflow or it feels incomplete. C.S. Lewis said it this way: "We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea." That's the emptiness you're seeing in others. They're making mud pies when the ocean is available. And you've been to the ocean. You've tasted the saltwater. You've felt the waves. And you cannot rest while they're still in the slum making mud pies. The Compulsion to Share This creates a compulsion. Not a duty. Not an obligation. A compulsion. You HAVE to share what you've found. You HAVE to tell them about the treasure. You HAVE to offer them living water. Not because you're supposed to. Not because that's what Christians do. But because you cannot NOT do it. It's like finding the cure for cancer and then walking through a cancer ward. You can't just keep it to yourself. You can't just think, "Well, I'm healthy now, good for me." You'd be compelled to share it. Driven to tell everyone. Unable to rest until everyone who needs it has access to it. That's what treasuring Christ does. It makes you unable to rest while others remain empty. Unable to be satisfied alone. Unable to keep the good news to yourself. The Pain of This Inability to Rest And Here's the thing: this inability to rest is painful. Thats why we call it a wound. It hurts to care this much. It hurts to see their emptiness and feel so burdened by it. It hurts to long for their salvation, their fullness, their joy in Christ, and not be able to make it happen. You can't force them to treasure Jesus. You can't make them drink living water. You can't open their blind eyes. You can only overflow what you have inside of you, and You can only offer what you’ve either treasured or been given … You can only witness. And that's agonizing. Because you know what they're missing. You know what they need. You have what would satisfy them. But you can't make them take it. This is the wound starting to form. Within this holy restlessness. This blessed pain. This ache that won't stop. You cannot rest while they remain empty, but you also cannot force them to be filled. So you're stuck in this tension. This longing. This compulsion that can't be resolved by your own efforts. The Difference from Codependency Now, Let me be clear about what this isn't. This isn't codependency. Codependency says, "I need them to be okay so I can be okay." That's making your peace dependent on their condition. That's unhealthy. That's trying to control what you can't control. That's taking responsibility for their choices. In all of my years of pastoring, this is often what hurt people do. Hurt people try to control so they don't get hurt again. They build their peace on managing other people's choices, other people's responses, other people's lives. And it destroys them. It destroys relationships. It's exhausting, and It’s unsustainable. This holy restlessness is different. You're not responsible for their choices. You're not taking on their burden as if it's yours to carry. You're not trying to be their savior. You're already at rest in Christ. You're already full. You're already satisfied. But your satisfaction in Christ creates a longing for their satisfaction in Christ. Your rest in Christ creates a restlessness about their lack of rest. It's like Paul in Romans 9:1-3: "I am speaking the truth in Christ—I am not lying; my conscience bears me witness in the Holy Spirit— that I have great sorrow and unceasing anguish in my heart. For I could wish that I myself were accursed and cut off from Christ for the sake of my brothers, my kinsmen according to the flesh." Paul is saying something stunning. He's so full of Christ that he wishes he could be cut off from Christ if it would mean his brothers could know Christ. That's not codependency. That's not unhealthy attachment. That's the overflow of being so satisfied in Christ that you cannot be satisfied while others remain empty. That's the wound of compassion. What This Restlessness Produces And so, what does this restlessness - this inability to be satisfied alone - produce? Well it produces several things: First, it produces prayer. You start praying for them. Constantly. Naturally. Not because you're supposed to, but because you can't help it. You're thinking about them, so you're talking to Jesus about them. You're burdened for them, so you're lifting them up. You're unable to rest, so you're bringing them to the One who can give them rest. Second, it produces presence. You start showing up. Being around. Making yourself available. Not in a weird, stalker way. But in a consistent, faithful way. You're at the neighborhood gathering. You're accepting the coffee invitation. You're saying yes to the dinner. You're staying after the meeting. Because you can't overflow toward them from a distance. Overflow requires proximity. Third, it produces patience. You're not in a hurry. You're not trying to force a moment. You're not manufacturing opportunities. You're just consistently there, consistently full, consistently overflowing. And you're willing to wait. To be patient. To let the Spirit work in His timing. Because you know: you can't make them thirsty. You can only be available with water when they are. And I think this is one of the greatest dilemmas within our church culture today. The church is not patient. There are gimmicks and ideas that stir the emotions of people, and churches celebrate mass baptisms and big response moments, but very few stop to ask what happens next. We love the speed of Acts 2, but we do not embrace the slowness of Acts 2:42 to 47. We celebrate the moment, but we avoid the process. We crave fast fruit, but discipleship is slow. Listen, Formation takes time. The apostles did not panic when three thousand people came to Christ. They simply devoted themselves. They taught. They prayed. They shared life. They trusted the Spirit to shape what He had started. But today, instead of trusting the Spirit, we rush. We try to manufacture spiritual maturity overnight. We chase results instead of relationships. And the tragedy is that we end up producing converts who have no one walking with them. Patience is not the enemy of revival. Patience is what keeps revival from collapsing.

Fourth, it produces persistence. You don't give up. When they reject your overflow, you don't walk away. When they push back, you don't quit. When they don't respond, you don't stop. Not because you're stubborn. Not because you're trying to prove something. But because you cannot rest. The compulsion won't stop. The holy restlessness won't let you give up. The Testimony of This in Scripture Think of Jesus in John 4, with the woman at the well. He's tired. It's noon. He's sitting by a well. The disciples go get food. And a Samaritan woman shows up. Jesus should rest. He should eat. He should take care of Himself. But He can't. He starts a conversation. He offers living water. He persists even when she deflects. He doesn't rest until He's overflowed toward her. And when the disciples come back and say, "Rabbi, eat," what does Jesus say? "I have food to eat that you do not know about... My food is to do the will of him who sent me and to accomplish his work." He's saying: Overflowing toward her satisfied Me. Offering living water to someone dying of thirst was food for My soul. I cannot rest while people are empty, and when I overflow toward them, that fulfills something in Me that food can't touch. That's the holy restlessness. That's the inability to be satisfied alone. That's what happens when you treasure Christ, when you're filled with grace and truth, when your overflow collides with someone's emptiness. You cannot rest. And that inability to rest - that ache, that blessed pain - that's the wound forming.

CONCLUSION What's Happening Next Now, I need to tell you what we're doing with the rest of this series. Next week we have our Thanks For Giving dinner, and then we move into Advent. So instead of rushing through the final part of this series or making you wait until January, I'm going to do something different. I'm going to finish this series through a video sermon that you can watch on your own time. Part 3 will cover what happens when you cross the threshold - when you let yourself be pierced by their pain, when you become willing to be wounded for love's sake, and what those wounds become. How they mark you. How they identify you. How they become scars that prove you belong to Jesus. It'll be available online, and you can watch it during Thanksgiving week, during Advent, whenever you're ready. Because this is important, and I don't want to rush it. The Question for This Week But today, I want you to sit with this question: Who is God bringing to your mind right now? As I've been talking about collision, about encounter, about seeing someone's emptiness - who came to mind? That restlessness you feel? That inability to be satisfied while they remain empty? That's the love of Christ controlling you. That's the Spirit. That's compassion beginning to form. Don't ignore it. What to Do This Week Pray. Not a quick prayer. Wrestle with God about them. Tell Him you can't rest. Be present. Accept the invitation. Show up. Make yourself available. Overflow requires proximity. Be patient. Don't force it. Just be consistently full, consistently overflowing. Trust the Spirit's timing. Be honest. Are you judging them? Then go back to contrition. Remember your own emptiness. Remember grace. Standing at the Threshold You're standing at a threshold today. You've encountered their emptiness. You cannot rest. You feel the compulsion. But you haven't crossed yet. Crossing that threshold is scary. It's costly. It's going to wound you. But this is where compassion is born. Not in the comfortable place where you're full and safe. But in the uncomfortable place where your overflow collides with emptiness and you can't walk away. Jesus didn't stay in heaven. He descended. He entered. He made Himself available to be wounded. And that's what saved us. He's calling you to do the same. Not to save anyone - He's the Savior. But to love like He loves. To overflow like He overflows. To let your fullness collide with someone's emptiness and refuse to walk away. Closing Prayer Father, help us see people's emptiness clearly. Help us remember our own. Give us Your holy restlessness - the kind that won't let us be satisfied alone. The kind that makes us unable to rest while others remain empty. We're standing at a threshold. We're scared. But we know this is what we were made for. Prepare our hearts for what comes next. Because we want to love like You love. We want to bear Your image. We want to carry Your scars. In Jesus' name. Amen. *