28 Sermon Illustrations on Compassion Of Christ

"I was eight years old when my father took me with him to Washington," said a man who was later prominent in national life. "It was during the darkest hours of the Civil War. "We were walking on the street when a tall, thin man with very long legs, loose clothes and a frowning, wrinkled face, came striding toward us. His eyes were fixed on the pavement. His lips were moving. I remember thinking how cross he looked and what long strides he took, making his coattails flop about his legs. "But I was more interested in watching a ragged little urchin between us, standing on the curb, his big eyes fixed on a pile of oranges in a vendor's cart. The vendor's back was turned while he made change for a customer. "The tall man passed the boy at the same time we did. He stopped suddenly, plunged a hand into his pocket, bought a big orange, gave it to the boy, and went on. "The boy was grinning and had already set his teeth in the orange, much to my envy, when my father asked him whether he knew who gave it to him. He shook his head, his teeth going deeper into the orange. "'That was President Lincoln, lad,'my father said, 'Hurry and thank him.' "The boy ran, caught the flopping coat, and as the stern face turned sharply, he called, 'Thank you, Mr. President Lincoln!' "Suddenly the face was transformed as I have never seen a face since then. A beautiful smile covered it, making it what has ever since seemed to me one of the handsomest faces I have ever seen. A voice which thrills me yet said: 'You're welcome, boy. You wanted to steal it while the man wasn't looking, didn't you? But you wouldn't because it wasn't honest. That's the right way. I wish some men I know were like you.'" A Coat for Christ "He that hath two coats, let him impart to him that hath none; and he that hath meat, let him do likewise." It was a wild, wintry night. The temperature had dived to a polar position. Winds rose in shrieking crescendos and lashed the country with lethal blasts. But the Czar's interests must be protected. A Russian soldier must patrol between two sentry boxes even on such a night. Poorly clad, the miserable man marched from one post to the other, shivering and chilled. Then it began to snow. Before long the hills which surrounded that frozen, forsaken place were covered with snow. The sentry was wrapped in the vicious embrace of a fierce, freezing blizzard. Then a poor peasant happened to pass nearby on his way home. Answering the soldier's challenge, he identified himself and secured permission to proceed. But the peasant pitied the sentry. "You are cold and must patrol all night," he said kindly. "I am only a short distance from my cottage. Here, wear my coat tonight. You can return it to me in the morning." The soldier gladly accepted the proffered wrap. But even the heavy borrowed coat could not keep out the cold which seeped through the sentry like poison. No wrap seemed warm enough on that night to fend off the icy fingers of death. The next morning his comrades discovered the soldier frozen in the field. The peasant never recovered his coat. But he did see it again. A long time afterwards, when the peasant himself lay on his deathbed, he dreamed that Jesus appeared to him. "You are wearing my coat, Lord," the dying man said, recognizing the wrap he had loaned to the sentry. "Yes," answered Jesus. "This is the coat you loaned to me that frightful night when I was on duty and you passed by." "But Lord," objected the peasant, "You were not that soldier!" "No," replied Jesus in the dream. "But inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these My brethren, ye have done it unto me. I was naked and ye clothed me!"

Oh! there are no tears in heaven; but, when angels come down to earth, it may be they can fall into companionship with human sadness, and even learn to weep; and where is the spectacle which shall wring tears from eyes which they were never meant to stain, if it be not that of the obstinate rejection of the gospel of reconciliation, and of careless trifling with a thing so inestimably precious as the soul? Old men, buried with your gold, angels weep over you! Young men, frittering away your days in vanities and pleasures, angels weep over you! H. Melvill.

Licinius, one of the Roman tribunes, when Christians were put to the torture, forbade all the lookers-on to show the least pity towards them; threatening the same pains to them that did show it which the martyrs then suffered. His malice was greater than his power. And this is the way Christians are to walk: if they cannot relieve others with their goods, yet what can hinder their comfortable words, or their prayers and tears, or their pity and sympathy?

A Christian retired to a hut in a forest, that he might the better serve God in fasting, meditation, and prayer, but, to his surprise, did not find happiness. Going forth with a murmuring heart, he one day met a sick beggar, whom he took to his hut, fed, clothed, and exhorted. His own grief grew lighter in the labor. The next day he went forth, and left the beggar in his hut. On his return, he found that he had gone, and taken his silver cup and crucifix. He started after the thief with vengeance in his heart, which soon changed to pity as he thought of the poor, tempted brother. He went to the village to purchase another cup and crucifix, and there saw a crowd dragging the beggar before a magistrate. He pressed through the crowd, and whispered to the thief, "Brother, I will stand by you, and shield you." The people, astonished, cried, "He is a thief, and deserves to lose his head!" But the Christian followed him to the court, and, when he was condemned to imprisonment, whispered, "Keep up thy heart, brother: I will go with thee." They both entered the prison-walls together. There Christian proposed to the beggar to exchange garments with him, and so escape while he staid out his term of imprisonment. Then a strange light filled the prison. The beggar was transformed into the Lord himself, and said, "I was naked and you clothed me; I was hungry, and you gave me food; I was in prison, and you came unto me." Then the hermit learned that enjoyment consists, not in seclusion from the world, but in ministering to the needy in it; and the reward of Christ, "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these, ye have done it unto me."

Luther said, "I would run into the arms of Christ if he stood with a drawn sword in his hands." John Butterworth, reading this, resolved to do likewise; and found, as every venturing sinner does, no sword in the hands of Christ, but open arms and a hearty welcome. Jesus' proclamation, forever sounding forth to every burdened heart, is, "Come unto me, all ye that labor, and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." He demonstrated his marvellous compassion by dying for us: he will not now repulse the approaching sinner.

They are good tears which burst from our hearts when we look upon Him whom we have pierced, and weep as a mother that weepeth for an only son; the tears which Christ wept over Jerusalem, fallen and impenitent, foreseeing its relentless doom; the tears of compassion which he wept over the sorrows of the house of Lazarus; the tears which Paul shed, when, in the city of Ephesus, he went, by night and by day, from house to house, entreating the people to be reconciled unto God. Not the bitter and disappointed mood of Jonah when he was exceedingly displeased and very angry because the Lord had relented of his threatenings against Nineveh, and entreated God, saying, "Take, I beseech thee, my life away from me, for it is better for me to die than to live;" but the mood of Jeremiah the prophet, when he exclaimed, "Is there no balm in Gilead? Is there no physician there? Why, then, is not the health of the daughter of my people recovered?" "Oh that my head were water, and mine eyes a fountain of tears, that I might weep day and night for the daughters of my people!" Not the tears of pride which come reluctant from the steeled head, like water dropping from the flinty rock, but the tears of pride humbled and convinced by the power of God, which flow copiously like the stream which issued from the rock when it had been smitten by the wand of Moses, the messenger of God. Not the tears of natural desire after a worldly good, nor the tears of natural sorrow for a worldly good removed, but the tears of spiritual desire after spiritual good, or the tears of sorrow when God hath hidden his countenance, or removed our candlestick out of its former place.

— E. Irving

Rev. Leigh Richmond was once conversing with a brother clergyman on the case of a poor man who had acted inconsistently with his religious profession. After some angry and severe remarks on the conduct of such persons, the gentleman with whom he was discussing the case concluded by saying, "I have no notion of such pretences; I will have nothing to do with him." "Nay, brother, let us be humble and moderate. Remember who has said, 'making a difference?' with opportunity on the one hand, and Satan at the other, and the grace of God at neither, where should you and I be?"

The following anecdote of Dr. Walker, well known as the director of the London Jennerian and Vaccine Institutions, is extracted from his memoir.

While our troops were using the weapons of destruction, Dr. Walker was busily employed in saving life. His work of vaccination being completed, he attended the sick of the British navy, and of the Turkish army. The sense of weariness while engaged in these works of mercy, he seems hardly to have known; being assisted by his friend General Sir John Doyle, in prosecuting these labors of goodness. The following extract of a letter from that worthy officer speaks volumes. "The general can never forget the impression made upon him by the extraordinary situation in which he first made an acquaintance with that amiable and benevolent individual, Dr. Walker. The day after the action, near Alexandria, where the brave Abercrombie fell, the general was riding over the field of battle, attended by two orderly dragoons, to see if there were any wounded, French or English, who had escaped notice the evening before; when, on turning round a wall near the sea-side, he was struck with an appalling sight of more than a hundred French soldiers, with their officers, huddled together, desperately wounded by grape and cannon shot from an English brig of war. From being collected in the recess of the wall, they had escaped notice on the previous day of search, and were exposed to the night air, and with undressed wounds. Here the general saw a man, evidently English, in the garb of a Quaker, actively employed in the heavenly task of giving his humane assistance to those poor brave sufferers; giving water to some, dressing the wounds of others, and affording consolation to all. Upon inquiry he found the benevolent individual to be Dr. John What were the sufferings of the martyrs compared with these?

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Walker, who was himself almost exhausted, having been thus nobly employed from day-break, without any assistance."

A fine sculpture in the Boston Public Garden is a marble group representing the Good Samaritan helping the man who had fallen among thieves. But more beautiful than the fine work of the sculptor is the inscription showing how the monument was erected to commemorate the earliest use of anesthetics in surgery at the Massachusetts General Hospital, with these texts from Scripture appended:

“Neither shall there be any more pain.”

“This also cometh forth from the Lord of hosts, which is wonderful in counsel, and excellent in working.”--FRANKLIN NOBLE, “Sermons in Illustration.”

A young married woman, wife of a Mohammedan, was lying ill in one of the mission hospitals in North India. While there she was daily taught of the love and compassion of the Savior, and she soon desired to know and serve Him. Her husband was told of her wish and was exceedingly angry and had her removed immediately from the hospital. He prohibited the mission ladies from visiting her. But just before the conveyance came to take her away she called the doctor and missionary to her and said: “I can be taken away from you, but not from Christ, for I can pray to Him even behind the purdah, but I want you to remember my desire. You know Jesus well, I only know Him a little; when you meet me at the judgment seat of heaven, just go to Him and tell Him who I am and how anxious I was to publicly confess Him on earth. Make it plain to Him, please.”

Dr. Finsen, who discovered the “light cure” for the disease of lupus, was greatly tempted to keep his secret to himself and thus become a very rich man. He lay awake all one night, perturbed as to whether he would make public his discovery. When morning came, Dr. Finsen had “chosen the better part,” and had decided to enrich the world with his cure. Only $1,500 a year was paid him by the Government of Denmark, and gradually the awful disease from which he himself was a sufferer made it impossible for him to work more than an hour a day and to eat hardly anything. Literally, Dr. Finsen laid down his life for the army of fellow sufferers. Queen Alexandra, proud of her fellow countryman, introduced the cure which bears his name to the greatest hospital in the world, and Finsen’s discovery has alleviated the torture of countless invalids. (Text.)

“The tenderest are the bravest; the loving are the daring.” This finds its illustration in an incident related by the wife of Gen. George E. Pickett, of the Confederate army, just after his famous Gettysburg charge:

One Sunday, just after the battle, when he was in Richmond recruiting his division, we were walking to church together, when we saw a little Hebrew child, standing first on one foot and then on the other, rubbing his eyes with very dirty hands, and crying as if his heart would break.

“What is the matter, little man?” my Soldier asked.

“My shoes is hurtin’ my feet so, I can’t walk! I can’t get anywhere!” the boy sobbed. General Pickett knelt down, unlaced the shoes, took them off, tied them together, wiped away the muddy tears with his own clean handkerchief, and, taking the child in his arms, carried him to his home. (Text.)

M. Guyau, in his “Sketch of Morality,” relates a dream that he had. He felt himself soaring in heaven, far above the earth, and heard a weary sound ascending as of torrents amid mountain silence and solitude. He could distinguish human voices--sobs mingled with thanksgiving, and groans interrupted by benedictions; all melting into one heartrending symphony. The sky seemed darkened. To one with him he asked, “Do you hear that?” The angel answered, “These are the prayers of men, ascending from the earth to God.” Beginning to cry like a child, the dreamer exclaimed, “What tears I should shed were I that God!” Guyau adds: “I loosened the hand of the angel, and let myself fall down again to the earth, thinking there remained in me too much humanity to make it possible for me to live in heaven.”

It is that earth-cry that brings God down to help the needy.

Rev. Edward Payson Scott, Baptist missionary in Assam, was strongly moved to visit a wild hill tribe--the Nagas--three days’ journey from his station, whereas yet he had made only a start in the Naga language and had to take a Naga teacher along. He was strongly urged by the British resident officer not to run such risk, but he could not be deterred; and, when an escort of soldiers was offered him, he firmly declined, as it would defeat the very end in view, which was to go as a messenger of peace. A military escort would give a false impression of his whole spirit and motive.

So with a native companion he set out, and when they reached the base of the mountain ridge where the native village crowned the summit, and began the ascent, the alarmed villagers forming in battle-line, waved their spears in menace, the chief crying out, “Halt! we know you! You are the man of the British Queen, come to make us prisoners and carry off our children. Come no nearer!”

The missionary drew out his violin, and began to sing in the native tongue, “Alas, and did my Savior bleed!” When he had sung one verse, the chief and his warriors had already thrust their spears into the ground and broken ranks. As Mr. Scott sang on, about the amazing pity, grace, love shown when the Maker died for the sin of the creature, the wild men began to creep down the hillside, nearer and nearer; and the chief cried out, “Where did you learn that? Sing us more; we never heard the like before.” The savages were subdued. The stranger was safe from their spears, and welcomed to their huts and best hospitality. The cross has never lost its charm. (Text.)--_Missionary Review of the World._