Trinity 2 2026

(Matthew 9:35 - 10:8)

In today’s Gospel reading, Matthew tells us that Jesus travelled through towns and villages, teaching, proclaiming the good news, and healing those who were sick. Then Matthew pauses and tells us something remarkable. Jesus looked at the crowds and was “moved with compassion.”

What is striking is that compassion begins with seeing.
Jesus notices people.

He does not rush past them. He does not reduce them to a problem to be solved. He does not see a crowd; he sees human beings. Matthew describes them as “harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd.” They are weary, anxious, vulnerable, carrying burdens that others may not even notice.

Jesus allows himself to see their reality.
And what he sees touches him deeply.

The word Matthew uses for compassion in his writing is unusually strong. It describes something felt in the depths of a person’s being. This is not detached concern. It is not simply feeling sorry for someone. Compassion means allowing another person’s experience to affect us. It means refusing to remain untouched by what we see.

Perhaps that is why compassion can be so difficult.

We live in a world overflowing with information. Every day we hear in the news of wars, poverty, displacement, loneliness, and suffering. Sometimes the sheer weight of it all tempts us to turn away. We can become overwhelmed or numb. Yet compassion invites us to keep our hearts open. It asks us not to look away.

And perhaps that raises another question for us.
Who is it that we struggle to see?

Not simply those we love or understand, but those who seem unfamiliar to us. Those whose experiences differ from our own. Those whose stories challenge our assumptions. Those whom society often overlooks.

The Christian tradition has always linked compassion with hospitality. Throughout Scripture, welcoming the stranger is not an optional extra but a central expression of faith. Abraham welcomes strangers beneath the trees of Mamre and discovers that God is present in the encounter. The Good Samaritan crosses social and religious boundaries to care for someone in need. Again and again Jesus places those on the margins at the centre of attention.

Further on in Matthew’s Gospel, Jesus says, “I was a stranger and you welcomed me.”
It is a startling thought but the stranger may be the very place where Christ is waiting for us.

This is one of the deepest truths of the Incarnation. Christians believe that God came among us not as a powerful ruler demanding recognition but as a vulnerable child dependent upon the welcome of others. God entered the world as one who needed hospitality.

When we welcome the stranger, we reflect the God who first welcomed humanity.

Yet the Gospel invites us even further. It is not simply that we are called to help others. We are called to recognise Christ within them.

That sounds inspiring until we remember who the strangers in our own lives might be. They may be refugees seeking safety. A neighbour whose culture is different from ours. Someone who votes differently. Someone whose faith is different. Someone carrying wounds we cannot see. Someone who feels invisible.

And compassion asks us to move towards them rather than away from them.

St. Francis of Assisi discovered this for himself. Before his conversion, he feared lepers and avoided them whenever possible. Then one day he encountered a leper and, instead of turning away, he stopped. What had once seemed bitter became sweet. In the face of the one he had feared, Francis encountered Christ.

Compassion transformed both the encounter and the person who entered it.

The same often happens to us.
The person we visit may change us.
The person we listen to may teach us.
The person we welcome may reveal something new about God.

Christian compassion is not a one-way thing either.

We are not always the strong helping the weak. Sometimes we are the ones who need help. Sometimes we are the ones who need hospitality. Sometimes we are the ones who need to listen and learn.

True compassion involves receiving as well as giving.

It means recognising that those we meet are not simply people with needs. They are also people with gifts. They carry wisdom, resilience, insight, and grace. If we approach them only as helpers, we may miss what God wants to give us through them.

Perhaps this is why Jesus does not begin with strategy or programmes. Before sending the disciples out, he tells them to pray.

“The harvest is plentiful, but the labourers are few.”

Notice what he does not say. He does not tell them to create a harvest. He does not tell them to manufacture God’s work in the world. The harvest is already there.

God is already at work.

Compassion begins with noticing where that work is happening. It means paying attention to where healing is needed, where reconciliation is possible, where loneliness is waiting for friendship, and where strangers are waiting to become neighbours.

Only then does Jesus send the disciples out.

Heal the sick.
Bring peace.
Welcome the excluded.
Share what you have received.
“Freely you have received; freely give.”

Perhaps compassion looks less like heroic achievements and more like paying attention. It looks like noticing who is missing from the table. Listening before speaking. Learning a name. Sharing a meal. Crossing a boundary. Choosing curiosity over judgement. Standing alongside rather than standing above.

In a divided and often fearful world, compassion begins with seeing.

Seeing the person in front of us.
Seeing the image of God within them.
Seeing Christ in the stranger.

And perhaps the Gospel leaves us with two simple questions today.

• Who are we truly seeing?
• And if we allow ourselves to see as Christ sees, who might we discover standing before us?

Amen