75% compassionate

One of the guys who leads services at church sometimes gets our attention by deliberately misquoting the Bible. It generally takes a moment or two before your brain clicks in and says, hang on, that's wrong. And you look at him, and realise he's grinning at the slow dawning wave of comprehension that rolls across the room, and at the delight that follows when we recognise the actual glorious truth in place of the misrepresentation he set out.

Inside our heads those misrepresentations can be pretty hard to shift.

Here's an example. In Jesus' story of the man with two errant sons - sometimes called the parable of the prodigal son, and found in Luke 15:11-32* - a truly dysfunctional family is used to stagger us with the depths of our Daddy's grace. At one point, the father in the story sees his rebellious, filthy, disgraced younger son approaching the family home. In their last interaction - weeks ago - this lad had told him that he wished the father was dead. Since then he's thrown away a third of the family's wealth, and their entire social standing, with his morally corrupt lifestyle. And now he's back.

Jesus continues, "His father saw him and..."

Choose the right option:

1. ...turned his back

2. ...waited to see what the lad had to say for himself

3. ...was shocked to see how low his son had fallen

4. ...had compassion on him

Actually, it's none of these. The translators have struggled to express quite what the original text conveys - here's what they've tried:

...was filled with compassion for him (NIV)

...his heart was filled with pity (GNB)

...filled with love and compassion (NLT)

...was moved with compassion (AMP)

...great compassion swelled up in heart for his son (TPT)

Jesus describes the Father in the parable - and therefore our Daddy - as full of compassion. Not just a bit compassionate. Not even 75% compassionate. Full, swelling, fit-to-burst 100% compassion.

It's not what the audience expected. And it's not what we expect either. Maybe that's because this isn't the way we are. I'll speak for myself - even when I do have compassion for someone, it tends to be blended with a bit of holding back or judgement or preaching. And too often, there just isn't much compassion in my response at all. I don't give compassion like this, and I don't expect compassion like this from others (maybe that's why I tend to cry when someone is just plain kind to me).

My foster kids have been the same way - but more so. Given their experiences, it's not surprising that their expectations of their caregivers are pretty low. But what I find striking is just how little compassion they have for themselves.

When the translator came there was always a long list of things to talk about with her help. Hanh would be animated discussing food or rules or plans. But when I tried to affirm anything he'd done well, he'd dismiss it and ask why I was wasting time like this.

Mia had been thrown out of school recently and was struggling to find her place in the unit she'd been referred to. She didn't want any support though. She had her own plan. She would fight more of the other kids to prove she was tough enough.

Harmony was incapable of saying sorry. Admitting she'd got anything wrong was beyond her; she wasn't allowed to fail in her own eyes - she was already carrying too much shame to add any more. Anything that went wrong had to be blamed on other people.

And then there was Kayleigh.

Something had gone wrong at school today. Actually I knew what it was - they'd rung me to give me the heads up - but she hadn't said anything since coming in, had just dialed up the atmospheric pressure in the house like only a 14-year-old's shame and rage and turmoil can. We'd got through dinner, and I'd done the washing up as slowly as I could to give her more time to surreptitiously eat out of the serving dish - she'd refused to have any on her plate but I could tell from the untouched packed lunch how hungry she must be. And now... now she was sitting on the kitchen floor, in a little den under her favourite soft fleecy blanket, bashing her head rhythmically off the cupboard door. Crash. Crash. Crash.

She didn't want to talk. She wasn't going to stop, or to listen. She had hidden away from the rest of the world and inside her little cocoon was beating herself up. Literally. Crash.

(I don't want to leave her here, so I'll say what happened though we don't really need it for this post. I had no idea what to do. I found myself standing at the keyboard in the next room and started playing the songs she liked. The crashing died down, and then stopped. A couple of songs later, she appeared at my side, tearstained and jaw set, and started singing with me. I was not permitted to talk about it... but at least she wasn't isolated in her pain any more. Thank you, Daddy.)

None of these kids would admit that they were in pain, admit that their feelings mattered too, admit that they needed the love of others. Their response to hard times was to turn the pain inward - to push it down - to punish themselves if necessary, and then to get up and fight. Fists up. No one could come alongside. No one could help carry the burden. No one could validate how hard it was.

Last week I read an article by a counsellor who said something very similar. In a post taken from his book, 'Why am I like this?', Kobe Campbell writes, "Within my first few sessions with clients who've experienced childhood trauma, they usually find a way to communicate that their pain isn't valid enough to hurt them as deeply as it does - especially my Christian clients." He goes on to describe the ways people attempt to convince him - and themselves - that whatever they went through wasn't that bad really. And he explains that this is an act of self-betrayal. That they are teaching others to dismiss their pain by dismissing it themselves. This might be because they are afraid of being rejected if they reveal how they really feel, or because they are ashamed of their needs, or because they don't want to sound judgmental about the person who hurt them.

"I consider self betrayal the act of denying or minimizing one's true nature, feelings or needs in order to avoid conflict or judgment. It's a clever way to maintain connection with others and a quick way to lose connection with ourselves." he concludes.

(It might be worth reading that definition again and considering when we tend to fall into this trap.)

The bit that's the most compelling to me right now is that he observes Christians are the clients who do this the most. What does this do to our Daddy's heart?

When Hanh wouldn't let me praise him, Mia wouldn't let me support her, Harmony couldn't mend broken bridges and Kayleigh hid in her cocoon and beat herself up - it hurt. It hurt them most of course, but it also hurt me.

How much more must our Daddy hurt when we betray ourselves? Worse, when we take words he's written for us in love, or examples he's given to help us walk, and misuse them so they condemn us, or lead us to hide our pain, or make us feel shame over it. Verses taken out of context, thrown around as truth-grenades with no love, used to shut us up, shut us down, shut us out. "Rejoice always!" does not mean we can't feel sad. "Do not be afraid" is a gentle reassurance, not a harsh command. David faced Goliath - and watched his family fall apart around him. Elijah took on the prophets of Baal - and hid in a cave where he wanted to die. Paul preached the gospel all over the gentile world - and begged repeatedly, and without ever getting a 'yes', for Jesus to take the thorn away. They were utterly loved, held secure in the arms of their Daddy, his face shining compassion over them, in their highs and in their lows - and both are recorded for us. Even our heroes struggle, and mess up, and weep. We surely should have learned that we can extend grace to ourselves, and to each other.

We should have. But speaking for myself, I haven't - or at least, this is a lesson I'm only just beginning. So I'm going to spend some time with Jesus, looking at what he does, and how he does it, and what matters to him - and see if my hard little heart can be softened just a little bit more. You're more than welcome to come a long for the ride - and maybe you have insights to share too? I'd love to hear them.

Time matters

Our Daddy is full of compassion for how long it's been hurting. When Jesus comes down from the Mount of Transfiguration, he finds his disciples have been unable to cast an evil spirit out of the boy a father has brought to them. The father sounds pretty desperate. "If you can do anything, take pity on us," he pleads (Mark 9:22), and this story is best known for the father's next line - "I do believe - help my unbelief!" We've all been there... But if we go back a bit, at the start of the conversation, Jesus has asked another question: "How long has he been like this?" Now that's strange. It's not like he needs that information to effect a deliverance, so why bother?

I think he wants the father to know that the weight of carrying this burden for so long - 'since childhood', is his reply - is seen. Jesus recognises the depth of long-term pain. In the same way, Luke records that the woman who touched the hem of Jesus' cloak had been bleeding for twelve years, and John records that Jesus responds to the paralytic at the pool of Bethesda after learning he's been an invalid for 38 years. Even when he's about to do a miracle, Jesus is full of compassion for the story, for the heartache, for the desperation of hanging on and on and on. This is the same Daddy who inspired Psalm 6, recorded as an example prayer for us to use - 'My soul is in deep anguish. How long, LORD, how long?'

And the wonderful thing is that however long it's been, and however many times we've run to our Daddy with the same fear or hurt or doubt or question, he hasn't got sick of us. His response to us is the same every time - he is full of compassion. I remember Ella coming in from school one day and chatting for a few minutes before announcing, "Well, you're in a good mood today!" It made me feel awful. Was it really so noteworthy that I was being positive? What on earth was I normally like when she came in?

Our Daddy is never in a good mood. He's never in a bad mood. He's never in any moods at all. He never grows tired or weary - not even of us coming back and crying out about the same old problem. He is the same, yesterday today and forever, and his the-same-ness is 100% compassionate. Always. Even for us.

Shame matters

Our Daddy is full of compassion for the shame we carry. In Mark 5 Jesus is in the thick of a crowd, hurrying along with another desperate dad - this time it's Jairus, the synagogue leader, and the whole town knows his daughter is dying. As they dash towards the house to save her, an unknown woman does something unthinkable. She's bleeding, which makes her unclean, and anyone she touches will therefore also become unclean. She's contagious, dirty, unwanted, embarrassing. Her place is to stay at home, away from others, out of sight, until the bleeding stops and she can come back into decent society again. The problem is, she's been bleeding for twelve years, and no doctor has been able to help. So she, too, is desperate.

She leaves the house, finds the crowd, pushes through to the front, and reaches out to touch the hem of Jesus' clothes - and she's healed.

She's also unmasked. Jesus stops, turns, and searches to find who has just touched him - not the random jostling of the crowd, but a deliberate, faith-fuelled, hope-against-hope touch for help. And so she comes forward, 'trembling with fear', knowing that he may be angry, the crowd may be angry, that she has acted against all custom, and she blurts out her shame and tells her story. And having already physically healed her, Jesus now turns her whole world upside down. He calls her 'daughter'. He places her under his protection - no-one in the crowd will now dare to confront her. And he gives her a new identity - she's not a nameless, shame-filled, unclean woman any more. She's the daughter of the king. And instead of being rejected or punished or despised for the shame she's borne so long, she's commended for her faith. For the first time in years her head is held high, and she's free.

He does the same with the paralytic. His friends want him healed - their commitment shown by the roof they've torn apart to get him into Jesus' presence. But Jesus wants something else first. He wants him forgiven, set right, made clean. So he forgives his sins - and only then does he worry about his legs.

Physical healing wasn't enough for Jesus. The shame and guilt and sin and stigma we carry - whether it's for things that really are our fault, like the paralytic's sins, or for things that have been put onto us by others, like the woman's shame - he sees them and he does more than we ask or imagine; he forgives, protects, commends, and gives us a new identity. He is 100% compassionate. Always. Even for us.

Pain matters

Our Daddy is full of compassion for our emotional pain. In God's presence is fulness of joy; he always knows how he's bringing peace out of the chaos and glory out of the darkness. So when Jesus encountered our confusion or fear or anger or sadness, he could have simply done his next miracle, set things right, and led us straight into the rejoicing.

He doesn't do that. Sure, there are times he points out that our anxiety is unnecessary: when he calms the storm, he asks the disciples why they got so scared; and when he raises Jairus' daughter he first gets rid of the hysterical crowd - but he also sees and honours our pain. In John 11, when his friend Lazarus is ill, Jesus deliberately stays where he is long enough for him to die - because he knows that he is going to bring him back to life. When he does finally set out to Bethany he knows exactly what he's about to do. But when he meets Lazarus' sisters, he enters into their grief with them, helping Martha understand a little more, and simply weeping with Mary. He knows the joy that's just around the corner - but the pain of the road we've walked to get there is not just swept aside. He sits and weeps with us.

And he wept alone too. Three times in the garden, he asked for the cup to be taken from him - that he be spared the agony of the cross. And each time, there is silence from heaven. He's praying in such earnestness that he's sweating blood, troubled 'to the point of death'. Imagine Father and Son planning this from before the dawn of time. They knew we'd need to know that they get it, that we're understood to the core of who we are, even in our greatest pain and deepest longing and darkest fear. And so they wrote Gethsemane into the story. Pain matters enough for Jesus to endure it too.

He still meets us in our pain, in ways we don't understand, may not even realise are happening. Ella couldn't admit the pain she was going through, but week by week in church she cried her eyes out. She'd try to explain that the music made her cry, or that she'd been thinking about something sad. She didn't know what was going on - but it was her Daddy, creating a safe space for the pain to be expressed, there in his presence.

The fulness of joy at our Daddy's throne is real. But so is his compassion for the pain we walk through, even when it's self-inflicted, or about to pass away, or over something trivial. He remembers how we're made, knows we're like grass, and doesn't think we ought to be able to get a grip on our own. He is 100% compassionate. Always. Even for us.

Emptiness matters

Our Daddy is full of compassion for the empty places inside us. In John 4, Jesus has a long conversation with the last person anyone would expect a Jewish Rabbi to spend time with - a Samaritan woman who was so disgraced she had to visit the village well at high noon when everyone else was resting indoors. He skilfully weaves topics together, dealing with her arguments and evasions, until he gets her to express her need - at least in part - for water that actually satisfies. And then, weirdly, he asks her to get her husband and come back.

It sounds like a non-sequitur, or even a deliberate taunt to shame her. But it's not. The woman's thirst is being expressed in the string of relationships she's had. And there is no way to fill her without addressing it. In being direct and telling her he knows all about her inner emptiness, Jesus actually affirms her - he's talking with her and offering her living water despite knowing all she's got wrong. She has nothing to hide, and so she can come in confidence. He won't find out later and reject her. He won't tell her those desires are unimportant compared to the plans he has for her. And what he offers will satisfy.

Her emptiness became the place where Jesus' compassion could reach her and transform her life. And so can ours. He already knows all about it; we have nothing to hide, and so we can come in confidence too. He won't find out later and reject us. He won't tell us those desires are unimportant compared to the plans he has for us. And what he offers will satisfy. He is 100% compassionate. Always. Even for us.

Our desires matter

Our Daddy is full of compassion for the depth of our longings. When blind Bartimaeus manages to shout louder than the rest of Jericho and so gets Jesus' attention, the whole crowd is eager to see another miracle. They anticipate it as they get Bartimaeus up and on his feet and bring him over. And Jesus asks something that everyone there already knows the answer to: "What do you want me to do for you?"

He does it too at the pool of Bethesda. Learning that one particular paralysed man has been there for 38 years, he asks, "Do you want to get well?" That's a pretty strange question given that the man is here, every day, in the place where healing might just be possible.

Why? Maybe because he's drawing out faith - getting these men to state, in front of the crowd, that they want healing, to ask Jesus to do it, making clear the part that our belief plays. Maybe he wants them to articulate a desire that they have given up on, repressed, turned inward deep inside. Maybe he wants to see hope arise. Maybe he's encouraging them - and us - to ask directly for what we need. Maybe all of these things.

One thing is sure: our desires matter. Both Matthew and Luke record Jesus' sorrow over Jerusalem - 'How often I have longed to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, and you were not willing." (Luke 13:34) How different Old Testament history appears under this perspective - as we hear our Daddy yearning to show mercy but respecting the stubborn, stiff-necked, rebellious free will of his people. Maybe our own history has elements of this too.

Hanh used to have a weekly English lesson with a tutor who came to the house. I'd go into the room next door and hear through the wall as he relaxed and laughed and cracked silly jokes and took the mickey out of his own Veitnamese-meets-Geordie pronunciation. He was so different to the taciturn, angry, scared young man I saw the rest of the time. And how wonderful it was to hear him laugh - and how I yearned for him to trust me enough to be like this with me. And he was not willing.

Our Daddy is 100% compassionate. Always. Even for us.

Oh! how we Christians need to learn to trust our Daddy. To trust his compassion is unchanging, new every morning, poured out over us. To take his words and his stories and to remember who he is as we read them, as we pray them and as we speak them over each other - so they are always full of grace. Truth misapplied isn't true any more. If something we read in the Bible makes us fear the very God who loves us perfectly - fear that we're getting it wrong, fear that he'll be angry with us, fear that we're letting him down - then we haven't understood it yet, and we can bring it to him and ask him to show us what it means. And as we learn to trust him, he can pour his compassion over us, until we are full too - with compassion for each other and compassion for ourselves. For our pain and long-suffering, our brokenness and empty places, for our mistakes and imperfections and shame. No more self-betrayal. When we know compassion we can also know authenticity and gracious truth-telling and hope and joy in the midst of the struggle and real community.

Our Daddy's heart swells for you right now with full, bursting, joyous, gentle, robust, unending compassion. He is 100% compassionate.

* There's a post about this parable - if you've not read it, you might like to check out 'Daddy... the name Jesus chose to use'