Comfort Received, Comfort Shared: Living Out Compassion Together

2 Corinthians 1:3–4 (NIV)

“Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God.”

Paul calls God “the Father of compassion” and “the God of all comfort.” That’s not a Hallmark line; it’s the operating system of the Christian life.

God comforts us—really, specifically, personally—so that what we have received becomes something we can pass on. Comfort received becomes comfort shared. CThat’s the flow of compassion.

Think of it this way. People sometimes say the most secure foundation for children isn’t only a parent’s love for them, but the love parents show each other.

When kids see a steady garden of love—small kindnesses, shared laughter, patient listening—that becomes the ground they stand on.

A young person once told me he knew his parents loved each other because, when they thought no one was looking, they’d dance in the kitchen.

He said, “It was kind of embarrassing, but I think that’s why I felt safe.” That’s what love looks like when it moves from idea to action: it shows up in ordinary places that quietly shape us.

I think the same dynamic applies here at YSM. The compassion we extend to one another as staff—that’s our “dance in the kitchen.” It’s the behind-the-scenes reality that sets the tone for everything else.

If compassion is real among us, it will be real through us.

If we practice patience, listening, honour, and grace with each other across roles and backgrounds,

then what we offer our neighbours isn’t just a program or a service—it’s the comfort of God, alive and moving through us.

I’ve been around YSM for just over forty years now—some of that on Evergreen’s old summer missionary team, some as a volunteer, and the last thirty-eight as full-time staff.

Back in my Evergreen years (1985–1996), I saw staff teams form and re-form as people came and went, as drop-ins and outreaches rose and shifted, and as Church at the Mission was birthed in 1987.

Not every team was perfect. Some worked like a well-oiled machine—clear vision, shared load, visible impact. Others… well, let’s just say they had “creative tension.”

You know you’re on one of those teams when a two-hour meeting includes one hour and fifty minutes of “discussion.” (And if you’re wondering, yes, I contributed my fair share to the “creative” part.)

When we let tension go unhealed, the community always picks up on it. You can’t hide a storm inside a lighthouse.

But here’s what I also saw again and again: teams that made room for honest conversation, where you could disagree about methods—or even how to live faithfully—and still stay at the table.

Teams where different church traditions sat side by side. It was like a small taste of the church universal.

Let me offer one snapshot. Years ago, during a busy stretch, our team hit a wall. Fatigue, miscommunication, and a couple of sharp words left the air a little crackly. That night, before we opened the doors, we paused.

We named what had landed badly, apologized, prayed for one another, and reminded ourselves why we were there. It took ten minutes.

When the doors opened, the room felt different—warmer, safer. The youth were the same; the needs were the same. But we were different. Our internal compassion created external space. That’s the pattern Paul describes: comfort received becomes comfort shared.

The point is simple: strong teams shaped by compassion for one another create spaces of compassion for others.

What we practice internally overflows outward. And that remains true today across the mission—frontline, admin, leadership, every role in the mix. Different functions, one mission.

Along the way, I’ve been helped by voices across the Christian family. Pope Benedict XVI described the way of Jesus as “a heart that sees”—a heart attentive to where love is needed, and then it acts.

Karen Armstrong puts it this way: true compassion dethrones the self; it moves me from the centre so that I can truly honour the other with justice and respect.

And Archbishop Desmond Tutu reminds us that compassion isn’t just feeling; it moves to change the situation. Taken together: eyes that see, a self moved off the throne, and hands that act.

Let’s make that practical. What does compassion among us look like on a Tuesday afternoon?

First, we listen before we fix.

Most of us are pretty good at quick advice—especially in a crisis. But compassion begins with hearing the heart.

Elder Thaddeus (an Orthodox elder) wrote about listening carefully and meeting people’s pain with gentleness because every human being is a manifestation of the love of God.

When we truly listen to one another as colleagues—before we debate, explain, or defend—we’re practicing the compassion of God. Listening is not wasting time; it is making space for the Holy Spirit.