James 2:1–13
I’ve had an old friend keeping me company in the writing lab this week.
Actually, two old friends. Greg and Rebecca Sparks.
Somehow, I recently rediscovered their 1992 album, Field of Your Soul, and it’s been playing almost nonstop while I’ve been working. Thirty-four years later, the music still holds up beautifully. But one song in particular has stopped me in my tracks.
It’s called Mercy Me.
The song paints a picture of poverty and human need—and of our tendency to look away when we encounter suffering we don’t know how to relieve. There’s a helplessness in that moment. We see someone struggling. We recognize the need. But we also recognize the limits of what we can do.
And sometimes, rather than face those limits, we look away.
I’ve been thinking about that a lot. Because I recognize myself in the song.
Not that I intentionally turn my back on people who are hurting. At least, I don’t think I do. But how often have I noticed someone struggling, felt that uncomfortable tug of compassion, and then quietly moved along because I didn’t know what to say or how to help?
I wonder how often my uncertainty has looked an awful lot like indifference.
Which brings me to James.
In the second chapter of his letter, James describes a gathering where two visitors arrive. One is dressed in fine clothing, wearing a gold ring. The other is poor, dressed in shabby clothes.
The well-dressed visitor receives a warm welcome and a good seat. The poor visitor is told to stand aside or sit on the floor.
Then James asks a question that should make every one of us uncomfortable:
“But if you show special attention to the man wearing fine clothes … have you not discriminated among yourselves and become judges with evil thoughts?” (James 2:3–4)
There’s our little word. But.
James isn’t interested in how welcoming these people think they are. He’s interested in what their actions reveal about how they value other human beings.
The problem isn’t merely that they treated one visitor poorly. It’s that they looked at two people and decided one mattered more than the other.
And before we distance ourselves too comfortably from those first-century believers, perhaps we ought to consider how easily we make similar judgments.
We may not assign seats according to someone’s clothing or jewelry. But we notice appearances. We notice circumstances. We notice whether someone seems to have their life together—or whether their struggles are painfully visible.
Sometimes we gravitate toward people whose lives seem familiar and manageable, while keeping a comfortable distance from those whose stories are more complicated.
James doesn’t leave much room for that distinction.
“But if you show favoritism, you sin and are convicted by the law as lawbreakers.” (James 2:9)
Strong words. Especially for those of us who consider ourselves reasonably compassionate people.
But James isn’t finished.
He brings the conversation around to mercy:
“Mercy triumphs over judgment.” (James 2:13)
And suddenly, I’m hearing that old song again.
I’m also remembering a story Jesus told about a man beaten and abandoned beside a road. Two respected religious men saw him and passed by on the other side. We aren’t told what they were thinking. Perhaps they were afraid. Perhaps they were busy. Perhaps they simply didn’t want to become involved.
Whatever their reasons, they saw him.
But they kept walking.
Then came a Samaritan, someone the original audience would hardly have expected to become the hero of the story. He saw the wounded man, took pity on him, and moved toward him.
That’s the difference mercy makes.
And isn’t that what we see throughout the life of Jesus?
People tried to keep the blind, the sick, the desperate, and the socially unacceptable at a distance. They tried to silence those who cried out for His attention.
But Jesus stopped.
He noticed people others overlooked. He listened to voices others dismissed. He crossed the boundaries people had drawn between themselves and those they considered unworthy.
He never seemed particularly concerned about whether someone’s story was tidy enough to deserve His attention.
Which leaves me with a question I haven’t been able to shake this week.
What if mercy doesn’t always begin with knowing how to solve someone’s problem?
What if it begins with refusing to look away?
I can’t fix every broken circumstance I encounter. Neither can you. Sometimes the needs are enormous, the answers uncertain, and our resources painfully limited.
But we can notice. We can listen. We can acknowledge someone’s humanity rather than reducing them to their circumstances. And sometimes we can offer a little practical help, even when we can’t make everything right.
Perhaps that’s where mercy begins.
Not with having all the answers.
But with being willing to see the person.Because Jesus always did.
Author’s Note: Much of this reflection was inspired by “Mercy Me,” from Greg and Rebecca Sparks’ 1992 album Field of Your Soul. If you can find it on whatever streaming services you use, I encourage you to give it a listen. Better yet, spend some time with the entire album. More than thirty years later, these songs are still speaking to me. Perhaps they’ll have something to say to you, too.
Please comment!