It was just after sunset on a chilly evening in Chicago. The streets pulsed with life—horns, footsteps, laughter, rushing commuters. The Michigan Avenue Bridge glittered with lights reflecting off the black water below. Thousands passed across it every hour. But on this particular night, one man stood still.
He was in his mid-thirties. Ordinary clothes. Shoulders slumped. Hands shaking. Eyes fixed on the river beneath him. He wasn’t sightseeing. He wasn’t checking his phone. He wasn’t waiting for anyone.
He was deciding whether to live or die.
For forty long minutes he stood there—alone—while crowds flowed around him like he didn’t exist. People glanced, then turned away. A few whispered to each other and kept walking. Most never even noticed him at all. In a city of millions, he was invisible.
And then—finally—someone stopped.
Not a counselor. Not a pastor. Not a police officer. Just a street musician with a guitar strapped to his back. He didn’t know the man. He wasn’t trained for emergencies. He simply saw trembling hands and a broken expression and felt a tug in his spirit.
He stepped close, lowered his voice, and said five simple words:
“Hey man… are you okay?”
That was it. No sermon. No lecture. No advice. Just care.
The man collapsed into tears. He didn’t jump. He didn’t run. He didn’t push the stranger away. He crumbled to the ground like a dam that finally burst. When paramedics arrived, he told them something that froze every heart listening:
“I was going to jump. I just needed someone to care… someone to notice.”
The police officer who filed the report later said, “Hundreds passed him. One person stopped. And that one person saved his life.”
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A PICTURE OF OUR WORLD
Church family—this isn’t just a story about a bridge in Chicago. It’s a mirror held up to our generation.
People are drowning emotionally while the world walks past. Souls are bleeding silently while crowds rush on. Hearts are breaking just beneath the surface—and no one sees.
We are surrounded by smiling faces and shattered spirits. Surrounded by crowds, yet starved for compassion. Surrounded by information, yet empty of connection.
It is possible—tragically possible—to live in a world full of pain… and never stop long enough to care.
And into that kind of world, God still speaks the ancient words of Lamentations 1:12:
> “Is it nothing to you, all you who pass by?”
Jeremiah stood before the ruins of Jerusalem—smoke rising, walls broken, lives crushed—and he cried out, not because the city was destroyed, but because the people had stopped caring.
They walked by suffering like it wasn’t their business. They passed brokenness like it wasn’t their problem. They saw pain—and felt nothing.
And the Spirit preserved that cry for every generation—because the human heart hasn’t changed much.
“Is it nothing to you?”
Do you see suffering—and remain unmoved?
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THE AGE OF NUMBNESS
We live in the most connected time in history. News alerts. Headlines. Video clips. Social media feeds. Tragedy after tragedy. Disaster after disaster. Pain, packaged and delivered in high-definition, all day long.
And the result?
We feel less. We care less. We notice less.
Not because we’re cruel—but because constant exposure dulls the soul. When everything is urgent, nothing feels personal. When suffering becomes common, compassion becomes optional.
We scroll past agony. We swipe past heartbreak. We observe pain—but don’t engage it.
Like the bridge in Chicago. Like the roads of ancient Jerusalem. Like the busy sidewalks of our own communities.
We are surrounded by suffering—but starved for compassion.
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WHY WE STOP CARING
Most of us didn’t choose indifference. It happened quietly. Slowly. Almost imperceptibly.
Three forces steal compassion:
1. Overwhelm
There’s so much need that we feel powerless. “What difference can I make?” So instead of doing something small, we do nothing at all.
2. Distraction
Life gets loud—work, appointments, responsibilities, screens—and compassion suffocates under the weight of busyness.
3. Self-Protection
To care is to risk. It might cost time, energy, money, comfort, or emotional weight. So the heart builds walls to stay safe—and love dies behind them.
We become spectators instead of servants. Observers instead of neighbors. Passersby instead of disciples.
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JESUS’ MEASURE OF TRUE DISCIPLESHIP
Jesus didn’t say:
“By this they will know you are My disciples—if you win every argument.”
Or—
“—if you keep every regulation flawlessly.”
He said:
> “By this all will know that you are My disciples, if you have love for one another.” (John 13:35)
Love—not correctness. Love—not performance. Love—not reputation.
The world is not moved by our doctrines if it is untouched by our compassion.
In fact:
Sabbath without love is hypocrisy. Truth without love is brutality. Faith without love is noise.
The greatest evidence of Adventist identity is not merely that we keep the seventh day holy—but that Sabbath rest produces Sabbath hearts:
Restful. Gentle. Compassionate. Christlike.
If Sabbath makes us knowledgeable but not loving, then we have learned the day—but not the Lord of the day.
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THE DIVINE CONTRAST
Lamentations shows us what lovelessness looks like—people walking past pain without engagement.
Calvary shows us the opposite—God running toward suffering with open arms.
At Jerusalem, people ignored the broken. At Calvary, Jesus embraced the broken.
The world steps away from hurting people. Jesus steps toward them.
He didn’t remain distant. He didn’t analyze from afar. He entered our suffering. He bore our wounds. He carried our sorrows.
Jesus didn’t pass by humanity—He entered humanity.
And if we are followers of Jesus…
We cannot walk past hurting souls and feel nothing.
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THE QUESTION GOD ASKS TODAY
So church—let’s bring it close.
When you hear the loneliness in a widow’s voice… When you notice the silence of a discouraged teenager… When a brother stops attending church… When a neighbor’s life unravels… When someone cries behind a polite smile…
Is it nothing to you?
Do we say, “That’s not my business”? “I don’t want to get involved”? “Someone else will handle it”?
Or do we hear the whisper of the Spirit:
“Stop. See. Care.”
Christianity is not merely believing in Christ. It is feeling with Christ. It is seeing through His eyes. It is loving with His heart.
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THE PRAYER THAT BEGINS THE JOURNEY
Before this sermon goes any further, before we talk about cost, sacrifice, ministry, mission—here is the first step:
“Lord, don’t let me walk past hurting people and feel nothing.”
That prayer is the birthplace of revival. That prayer is the beginning of compassion. That prayer is where numb hearts thaw.
Because the greatest danger in the Christian life is not hostility—it is apathy.
And the greatest miracle God can perform today is to give us hearts that see, hearts that feel, hearts that stop—hearts like Jesus.
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Real love is never cheap.
Real compassion always costs.
We admire kindness in theory, but often resist it in practice—because compassion sounds beautiful until it requires something from us.
And Jesus knew that. Which is why, when He wanted to define what love looks like—not in creed, but in action—He told a story that still unsettles comfortable religion.
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THE ROAD NOBODY WANTED TO TRAVEL
Luke 10 paints the scene. A man is traveling from Jerusalem to Jericho—a notoriously dangerous stretch known as “The Bloody Way.” Ambushes were common. Robbers hid in the cliffs. People avoided that road unless they absolutely had to.
And suddenly—violence strikes.
A gang attacks. The traveler is beaten, robbed, stripped, and left half-dead in the dirt. He can’t speak. He can’t move. He can’t save himself. His life hangs in the balance—and all he can do is lie there and wait.
Then footsteps echo down the road.
A priest approaches—one of the most respected religious figures of the day. Surely, help has arrived.
The Bible says:
“He saw him.” Noticed him. Recognized the need.
But then—Jesus adds four haunting words:
“…and passed by on the other side.”
Maybe he told himself, “I’m running late.”
Maybe, “I might get attacked too.”
Maybe, “Someone else will come along.”
But for whatever reason—he walked away.
A Levite comes next. Another respected religious man. Another believer. Another leader. And he responds the same way:
He saw.
He passed.
He left.
Two religious men. Two commandment-keepers. Two Sabbath observers.
Both unwilling to care.
And Jesus doesn’t accuse them of cruelty—only indifference.
They weren’t the attackers. They just weren’t the helpers.
And sometimes the greatest sin is not what we do—but what we don’t do.
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ENTER THE UNLIKELY HERO
Then Jesus introduces the most shocking character possible—a Samaritan. Someone the Jews despised. Someone considered unclean. Someone viewed as outside the circle of true faith.
If anyone had an excuse to walk away—it was him.
But Scripture says:
“He came where he was.
He saw him.
He had compassion.”
Three movements:
He approached.
He noticed.
He acted.
Compassion pulled him off the path of convenience and onto the path of sacrifice. He bandaged wounds. He poured oil and wine. He lifted the man onto his own animal, walked beside him, took him to an inn, paid for his care, and promised to return.
And Jesus asks the piercing question:
> “Which of these three was a neighbor?”
And the answer is unavoidable:
The one who cared enough to cost.
Not the one who believed correctly. Not the one who worshipped properly. Not the one who held the position.
The neighbor was the one who paid a price to love.
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THE FEAR BEHIND OUR INDIFFERENCE
We like the Good Samaritan story—until we realize we’re often the priest or the Levite.
Why don’t we stop? Why don’t we get involved? Why don’t we lean into people’s pain?
Because caring confronts our fears.
1. Fear of Inconvenience
Love interrupts our schedule. Compassion ruins our plans. Ministry rarely happens when it’s convenient.
The priest and Levite may have had important duties—but Jesus is teaching us this:
If love can’t interrupt us, it can’t define us.
2. Fear of Cost
Helping might require money, time, or emotional investment. It might stretch us beyond what feels comfortable. The Samaritan opened his wallet as well as his heart.
3. Fear of Risk
“What if I say the wrong thing?”
“What if I get in too deep?”
“What if helping hurts me?”
But Christianity is not a risk-free faith.
Jesus didn’t call us to safe love—He called us to sacrificial love.
4. Fear of Messiness
Suffering is complicated. Broken lives aren’t neat. Pain doesn’t fit into tidy boxes. Caring about people means stepping into situations we can’t always fix.
But Jesus didn’t ask us to fix everyone—only to love them.
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A MODERN SAMARITAN
Years ago, Dawson Trotman—the founder of The Navigators—was boating with friends on a lake. Someone fell overboard. Without hesitation, Dawson dove into the water. He held the struggling girl up until rescuers could reach her. She survived.
Dawson drowned.
When Billy Graham was asked to summarize Dawson’s life, he said:
> “He died the same way he lived—helping someone else.”
He didn’t die preaching a sermon. He didn’t die in a sanctuary. He died in sacrifice.
Because compassion costs.
And heaven knows his name.
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LOVE IS NOT A FEELING—IT’S A CHOICE
Anyone can feel sympathy. Anyone can say, “That’s so sad.” Anyone can post a comment or send a thought.
But sympathy doesn’t heal wounds.
Love moves.
Love lifts.
Love pays.
Love shows up.
Jesus didn’t just feel compassion—He walked dusty roads, touched lepers, fed the hungry, wept with the grieving, washed feet, and carried a cross.
The cross is the highest proof that love is a verb.
And if we want to be like Jesus, we must move from emotion to action.
Love without cost is admiration.
Love with cost is Christ.
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A CHURCH THAT REFUSES TO WALK BY
Imagine a church where:
No one cries alone.
No visitor leaves unnoticed.
No discouraged teenager disappears without someone pursuing them.
No struggling family feels abandoned.
No member slips away silently into silence or shame.
That is not fantasy. That is Christianity.
The Sabbath was designed to be more than a day of worship—it was meant to be a day of refuge. A weekly reminder that God sees our pain, hears our cry, and draws near. And if the Sabbath reveals God’s compassion to us, then Sabbath people must reveal God’s compassion to others.
A cold church cannot preach a warm gospel.
The world will not believe we serve a loving Savior if we are an unloving people.
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WHEN GOOD PEOPLE DO NOTHING
William Wilberforce spent decades fighting to abolish the slave trade. At one critical vote, he finally secured enough supporters to win. But on voting day, several men who supported him stayed home—too tired, too busy, too indifferent.
He lost by three votes.
History doesn’t remember their names—but heaven does.
Their inaction prolonged suffering for millions.
Sometimes the greatest harm is caused not by evil men doing wicked things, but by decent men doing nothing.
God did not call us to be spectators in a suffering world.
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OUR MOST DANGEROUS EXCUSE
We often say:
“I’m not gifted for that.”
“I don’t have the right personality.”
“I’m sure someone else will handle it.”
But the truth beneath those words is often simpler:
“I don’t want it to cost me.”
Yet every miracle God performs through His people begins with someone who said:
“Lord, I’m willing—even if it costs.”
Compassion will cost us evenings.
Conversations.
Energy.
Comfort.
And sometimes our pride.
But the price of compassion is always cheaper than the price of indifference.
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THE ULTIMATE COST
Look to Calvary.
Jesus didn’t save us from a distance. He didn’t delegate redemption. He didn’t pass by our brokenness.
He stepped into our suffering. He carried our grief. He paid our debt. He died our death.
Our salvation wasn’t cheap—it cost blood.
And every time we choose sacrificial love, we echo the cross.
We are never more like Jesus than when we love someone who cannot repay us.
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What happens when God’s people choose love anyway?
Because biblical love is not sentimental—it is transformational. It does not simply soothe pain; it alters destinies. It reshapes communities. It turns ordinary disciples into world-changers.
And to see it clearly, we start—not in a sanctuary—but on a battlefield.
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THE DAY COMPASSION BECAME A MOVEMENT
In 1859, in northern Italy, two armies clashed at Solferino. When the smoke cleared, 40,000 men—from both sides—lay dead or wounded across the fields. No medical teams. No organized aid. Just thousands of broken bodies—groaning, bleeding, dying in the dirt while townspeople hid in fear.
Into that horror stepped a Swiss businessman named Henry Dunant. He hadn't come to be a hero. He was there on unrelated business. He was untrained. Unprepared. Ordinary.
But he saw the suffering—and something in him refused to walk past.
He tore up his own clothing for bandages. He begged villagers to help. He cried out the words that became famous:
> “Tutti fratelli.”
“We are all brothers.”
No uniforms. No nations. No sides. Just human beings worthy of care.
His compassion sparked a movement that changed history—the birth of the International Red Cross, the Geneva Conventions, and the foundation of modern humanitarian law.
One man. One moment. One decision not to walk by.
And millions of lives saved in the generations that followed.
Love doesn’t just help the hurting. Love rewrites the future.
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THE POWER OF ONE HEART
Church family—never underestimate what God can do through a single willing soul.
Moses stood alone before Pharaoh.
David stood alone before Goliath.
Daniel prayed alone in Babylon.
Esther stood alone before a king.
Jesus hung alone at Calvary.
And every time, God used one surrendered life to unleash salvation.
Satan whispers, “You’re just one person. You can’t make a difference.”
But Heaven declares:
“One heart filled with Christ can change the world.”
Not because we are powerful—
but because love is powerful.
Not because we are capable—
but because Christ in us is unstoppable.
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THE MISSION OF THE CHURCH
Jesus didn’t raise up the church to be:
A debating society,
A religious museum,
A theological trophy case.
He raised up the church to be:
A hospital for the hurting.
A refuge for the broken.
A lighthouse for the drowning.
A family for the lonely.
When the early church exploded across the Roman Empire, it wasn’t because Christians won arguments—it was because they won hearts.
When plagues swept cities and pagan priests fled, Christians stayed. They nursed the sick. They buried the dead. They fed abandoned children. They rescued the unwanted.
Historian Tertullian recorded the testimony of unbelievers who marveled, saying:
> “See how they love one another.”
And the gospel spread—not by force, but by compassion.
Christianity conquered the world—not with swords, but with service.
And if it did then, it can again.
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WHEN LOVE BECOMES EVANGELISM
The world is tired of sermons it cannot feel.
People are not asking, “Is Christianity true?” nearly as often as they are asking, “Do Christians care?”
In a world where:
Depression is rising,
Families are breaking,
Anxiety is suffocating,
Loneliness is epidemic,
the most powerful testimony is not a polished doctrine, but a loving disciple.
A meal delivered at the right time. A text that says, “You matter.” A visit to someone forgotten. A hand on a trembling shoulder. A ride to church for someone who has no ride. A prayer prayed through tears.
Kindness is the gospel with skin on it.
Some hearts won’t open to a Bible study— but they will open to love.
Some ears won’t listen to theology— but they will listen to compassion.
Some lives won’t walk into a sanctuary— but they will walk into a friendship.
And when love opens the door, truth walks in behind it.
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THE LAST-DAY BATTLE
Jesus warned:
> “Because lawlessness will abound, the love of many will grow cold.” (Matthew 24:12)
Coldness. Numbness. Indifference.
That is the spiritual climate of the last days.
But if the world is getting colder, God is calling His people to burn brighter.
The remnant is not merely identified by commandments kept—but by love lived. Revelation doesn’t describe a loveless army—it describes a compassionate people sealed with the character of Christ.
In the final crisis, the greatest apologetic will not be information—but incarnation:
Jesus’ love made visible in His people.
Sabbath-keepers must become Savior-revealers.
If Sabbath teaches us that God cares about our rest, then we must care about the restless.
If Sabbath teaches us that God hears our cry, then we must hear the cries of others.
If Sabbath teaches us that God draws near to the broken, then we must draw near too.
A loveless Adventism is a powerless Adventism.
But a loving Adventism can shake the world.
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THE KINGDOM SCORECARD
When Jesus describes the final judgment in Matthew 25, He says something stunning:
> “I was hungry… and you gave Me food.
I was thirsty… and you gave Me drink.
I was a stranger… and you took Me in.”
And the righteous respond, “When?”
And Jesus answers:
> “Inasmuch as you did it unto one of the least of these, you did it unto Me.”
Notice He does not say:
“You preached long sermons.”
“You defended doctrines.”
“You won debates.”
He says:
“You cared.”
Heaven measures love by how we treat the least—not the greatest.
In God’s kingdom, compassion is not extra credit—it is the curriculum.
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A PERSONAL TURN
Let’s bring this home.
Somewhere in your life there is a person on a bridge:
Someone silently drowning in loneliness.
Someone pretending to be fine.
Someone whose smile is a mask.
Someone who needs one person to stop, notice, and care.
That someone might be:
A neighbor. A co-worker. A church member. A spouse. A child. A prodigal. A stranger in the pew.
And God may be calling you—not to fix them—but to love them.
To speak five simple words:
“Hey… are you okay?”
Love begins with noticing. Compassion begins with slowing down. Ministry begins with one act of courage.
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APPEAL
Church family, if there was ever a time when the world needed loving Christians—it is now. Not someday. Not eventually. Now.
If the Spirit is whispering in your heart:
“Stop walking past wounded people.”
“Stop assuming someone else will help.”
“Stop waiting for the perfect moment.”
“Stop protecting yourself from compassion.”
Then today is your invitation.
Let this be your answer:
“Jesus, make me a loving Christian.”
Not just in belief— but in behavior.
Not just on Sabbath— but on Monday.
Not just in church— but in life.
A Christian who stops. A Christian who notices. A Christian who cares. A Christian who pays the cost. A Christian who loves like Jesus.
Because somewhere, someone’s life may depend on it.
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PRAYER
Lord Jesus, melt our indifference. Break our selfishness. Rescue us from the fear that keeps us distant. Give us eyes to see the hurting, ears to hear the silent cries, and hearts that refuse to walk past broken lives. Make us a Sabbath people who reveal Your compassion. Teach us to love those who cannot repay us, to lift those who have fallen, to comfort those who have no one. Fill us with the Spirit of Calvary—love that costs, love that moves, love that saves. And may the world know we belong to You because we love as You loved. In Your holy name, Amen.
