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.
Second, we assume the best about each other.
In a complex mission, emails are short, timelines are tight, and not every message lands as intended.
Compassion says: “I will believe the best about your motives until we can talk it through.” That posture doesn’t avoid accountability; it makes accountability humane.
Third, we normalize small acts of care.
A text that says, “I’m praying for your meeting.” A quick, “How can I help?”
Picking up an unglamorous task because someone else is buried. If you ever saw me dance in the kitchen, you’d know it’s more comedy than romance—but even that awkward dance is a reminder: love shows up in the small, slightly awkward, utterly ordinary acts. That’s where trust grows.
Fourth, we practice repair.
We will get it wrong sometimes. When we do, we move quickly to confession and forgiveness. “I’m sorry for how I said that.” “I was tired and sharp; please forgive me.”
That ten-minute team reset I mentioned earlier? It wasn’t complicated. It was repair. Compassion that never repairs isn’t compassion; it’s a performance. Repair is what makes compassion credible.
Fifth, we share the comfort we’ve received.
Paul’s line is so clear: God comforts us “so that” we can comfort others. If God has met you in burnout, grief, family strain, financial stress—don’t hoard that story.
Offer it wisely. Your testimony might be the bridge someone else needs to cross a hard week.
Now, why does this matter beyond us? Because our neighbours can tell the difference. In the Evergreen years, hundreds of young people came through our doors.
They weren’t taking notes on our policies—but they could feel the tone in the room. If the staff were grounded and kind with one another, the space felt safe. People exhaled. Some took a first step toward trust. Some took a first step toward faith.
The same is true today, across every YSM site. The culture we cultivate among ourselves becomes the air our community breathes.
Let me circle back to Paul’s language. God is “the Father of compassion.” That means compassion isn’t an optional ministry elective—it’s family resemblance. Children of this Father grow to look like Him.
And because He is also “the God of all comfort,” there is no category of trouble He cannot meet. That’s good news for the people we serve—and for us.
Some of you are carrying heavy stories. Some are navigating quiet griefs no one knows about. Before compassion flows through us, it rests upon us. Receive His comfort today. Let it do its work in you. And then let it spill.
Here’s a simple, concrete invitation for this week. I’m going to put it in three small steps:
Choose one colleague—maybe someone you don’t know well, or someone in another department.
Offer one act of compassion—listen, pray, help, or encourage in a way that costs you a little.
Practice one repair—if there’s any small friction you can name and mend, do it.
That’s it. Three small steps. It’s not a grand strategy; it’s a dance step in the kitchen. And over time, those steps turn into a culture.
Let me add a word to those feeling worn thin. In my first decade of ministry, I flirted with burnout more than once—perfectionism, over-investment, the usual mix of zeal and poor boundaries.
More than once I drafted a resignation letter before a vacation and returned restored. (I may be the world’s slowest burnout.)
My point is: God’s comfort is not theoretical to me. He met me.
Jesus sustained me. He can do the same for you. Ask for help. Receive prayer. Set a boundary. Take a nap.
Remember: to love your neighbour as yourself, you still have to love yourself.
Friends, compassion is not sentimentality. It is the shape of Christ among us.
Benedict XVI spoke of “a heart that sees.” May God give us those eyes. Karen Armstrong reminds us that compassion dethrones the self. May God move us from the centre so there’s room for others.
Archbishop Tutu urges action. May God strengthen our hands.
So, let’s keep the dance going—even when it feels a little awkward. Because when compassion is real among us, it will be real through us.
And that is what our city most needs to see: not flawless professionals, but a people who have been comforted by God and therefore know how to comfort others.
Prayer:
Father of compassion and God of all comfort, thank You for meeting us in our troubles. Teach us to listen, to assume the best, to repair quickly,
and to share the comfort we’ve received.
Make our teams places of safety and our sites gardens of peace.
Give us hearts that see, and hands that act. In Jesus’ name, Amen.
Let’s go and do the small things that make a big difference. And if you happen to dance in the kitchen this week—no judgement. It might just make someone feel safe.
