The earthly ministry of our Lord Jesus Christ is radiant with compassion, a divine quality inseparable from His very Person, for He is Love Incarnate. This compassion is an eternal aspect of the uncreated energies of God, made manifest in the Theanthropos—God-Man—Jesus Christ. In the Gospels, our Lord is often described as being “moved with compassion”, a word which conveys a visceral stirring of divine love in response to human suffering. “And seeing the multitudes, he had compassion on them: because they were distressed, and lying like sheep that have no shepherd” (Matthew 9:36). This compassion is kenotic—self-emptying—and seeks not personal admiration but communion. Every healing, exorcism, and every act of mercy in the Gospels is a theophany, a revealing of the living God, as the One who stoops down to lift up the fallen.

Christ’s compassion is not limited to physical affliction, though it does not ignore the body, for the body itself is sacred and destined for resurrection. In Orthodox anthropology, the human being is a psychosomatic unity—soul and body are not at odds but interwoven, both created by God and both redeemed by Christ. Thus, when He healed the blind, cleansed the lepers, and restored the paralytic, He was not addressing superficial ailments, but revealing the holistic nature of salvation. However, His mercy reaches deeper still, to the noetic heart of man—the innermost chamber of the soul where true communion with God is either sustained or broken. It is here that the deepest wounds fester, wounds invisible to the world yet more damaging than any bodily infirmity—pride, envy, despair, hardness of heart, and separation from the Source of life.

The episode of the woman caught in adultery (John 8:1–11) reveals how Christ addresses the soul’s woundedness. She is dragged into the court, her shame exposed, her life hanging in the balance. The false spiritual leaders of the time weaponised the Law for humiliation. Yet Christ, the very Giver of the Law, does not condemn her; neither does He excuse the sin. Instead, He bends down and writes on the ground, a gesture shrouded in mystery but heavy with meaning. The Fathers have interpreted this act as Christ recalling the lawgiver who once wrote upon stone, now stooping to inscribe upon dust—the dust from which man was formed. He meets her not with a harsh word but with a question that turns the eyes of the accusers inward. “He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her” (John 8:7). When all depart, He speaks to her gently—not with indulgence, but with restoring mercy. “Neither will I condemn thee. Go, and now sin no more” (John 8:11). Here divine compassion and divine truth kiss without contradiction.

When Christ stands before the tomb of Lazarus, He reveals another dimension of His compassion. Though He is the Resurrection and the Life and knows that He will raise Lazarus in moments, “Jesus wept” (John 11:35). These tears are not signs of weakness or uncertainty, but of the God who willingly enters into the sorrow of His creation. He does not remain detached from the human condition, but assumes it fully. His weeping sanctifies human grief and confirms that sorrow, when united to God, is never barren. He does not rush to cancel pain but dwells within it, embracing it, and then redeeming it. His tears are the dew of divine tenderness, watering the barren soil of the grave and preparing it to yield resurrection. In this, the Orthodox behold not a sentimental teacher alone but the compassionate Word of God who descends even unto Hades to raise up Adam with His own hand.

In both accounts—the shamed woman and the weeping Lord—the compassion of Christ unmasks the distortion of justice that seeks only punishment, and reveals the mercy that heals. His compassion is active, not passive; it does not simply feel but restores. It speaks the truth, yet it does not crush the penitent. For the Orthodox Christian, these are living realities in the life of the Church. Every soul that confesses in tears before the icon of Christ is that woman. Every mourner who stands by the coffin of a loved one becomes Lazarus’ sister, met by the same Lord who weeps and says, “I am the Resurrection and the Life” (John 11:25). Thus, Christ’s compassion is liturgical, sacramental, and deeply personal—reaching down into the shattered depths of our being to raise us into divine communion.

Nowhere is the compassion of Christ more fully revealed than in His Passion. It is here, on Golgotha, that divine love is unveiled in its most vivid and self-emptying form. The Cross is not only the scene of redemptive suffering; it is the supreme epiphany of divine mercy. It is the axis upon which all of salvation history turns, where time meets eternity and sin is conquered by sacrificial love. The Son of God, who created the heavens and the earth, willingly submits to mockery, scourging, nails, thirst, and death—not because He is overcome by evil, but because He chooses to bear the full weight of evil to redeem the fallen. The Cross, in Orthodox theology, is not accidental; it is the cosmic altar upon which the High Priest offers not a goat or lamb, but His very self, once and for all.

The words spoken by our Lord during His crucifixion are windows into the divine heart. “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do” (Luke 23:34) is an active expression of mercy—mercy that prays, even while it bleeds. He does not reserve His compassion for the penitent only; He offers it even to those who drive the nails. Our Lord reaches into the abyss to rescue the undeserving. When the repentant thief turns to Him in humility, Jesus replies with immediacy and certainty: “Amen I say to thee, this day thou shalt be with me in paradise” (Luke 23:43). There is no delay, no transaction, no condition—only the unbounded generosity of God who embraces a broken man on the edge of eternity and brings him into the Kingdom.

We view this as ontological healing. The thief is not merely forgiven; he is transfigured. Christ, who is Life itself, enters the realm of death in order to transfigure it from within. This is the mystery of divine compassion—that He who knew no sin becomes sin for our sake—not by guilt but by solidarity. The Cross becomes the tree of life, reversing the curse of Eden’s tree, and Christ, the New Adam, stretches out His arms not in defeat, but in embrace. The blood that pours from His side is not the mark of failure but the river of renewal, washing the world and anointing it for resurrection. Here, divine justice and divine mercy are not opposites, but one and the same reality—the re-establishment of communion with God through love freely given.

The Orthodox see the Cross as the summit of Christ’s otherwise glorious ministry. The icon of the Crucifixion is never one of horror alone; it is also an icon of glory. The inscription above His head reads not “Victim” but “King of Glory.” The Cross is His throne, and His wounds are His regalia. This paradox—suffering as victory, death as birth—is at the very heart of Orthodox soteriology. His compassion is a reality wrought in blood. And from the Cross, that compassion flows outward like light from the sun—reaching the martyrs, the monastics, the penitent, the broken, the forgotten. In every generation, the Cross remains the fountain of healing, the measure of love, and the pledge of resurrection.

It is for this reason that Orthodox Christians honour the Cross not as a symbol of torment but as the wood of life. We bow before it, we kiss it, we trace its sign upon our bodies, because in it we have seen the depths of divine compassion. This is the mystery the Church beholds in awe—that God has suffered, not to validate suffering, but to overthrow it. The Cross reveals that there is no place—no suffering, no shame, no death—so dark that Christ will not enter it to save. In the Cross, divine compassion becomes radiant, universal, and victorious. And so we cry out, not with despair but in wonder: “Through the Cross, joy hath come into all the world.”

In the life of the Orthodox Church, the compassion of Christ is not relegated to the pages of sacred history, nor confined to private devotion—it is a living and breathing reality at the very heart of ecclesial existence. The Church is not simply an institution or a spiritual fellowship; she is the very Body of Christ, animated by the Holy Spirit, wherein the love and mercy of the Lord are continually made present and active. In every Divine Liturgy, the faithful do not simply recall the Lord’s compassion—they encounter it. Christ, the Crucified and Risen One, comes to feed His people, just as He once fed the hungry on the mountainside. He gives not only bread and wine but His very Body and Blood as the medicine of immortality. The Eucharist is the supreme manifestation of divine compassion—a “broken” God feeding broken men, healing them through mystical union with Himself.

In the Mystery of Repentance, that same mercy reaches the depths of the human soul. The penitent does not come before a judge’s bench, but kneels before the merciful Lord, represented by the priest, who himself stands as a fellow sinner. “May God, through me a sinner, forgive thee”—these words are not viewed as legal formulae, but declarations of healing, spoken in the name of Christ who forgave the thief and restored the adulteress. There is no humiliation here, only humility; no scorn, only restoration. The aim is not punishment but reconciliation, the restoration of communion with God. The entire ascetical life of the Church—fasting, vigils, prostrations, tears—is not a transaction to earn divine favour, but a means of softening the hardened heart so it might receive God’s love. Asceticism is the surgery of the soul, not self-hatred but the longing to be made whole. The monastic repetition of “Kyrie eleison”—“Lord, have mercy”—is never empty ritual, but the heartbeat of a soul yearning for divine nearness.

This compassion of Christ, however, is not given merely to be received; it is to be lived. We are called not only to behold the mercy of God, but to become its vessel. “Be ye therefore merciful, as your Father also is merciful” (Luke 6:36) is not moral advice, but a divine imperative grounded in the Incarnation. The saints are not merely holy because they kept commandments—they are radiant because they reflected the divine compassion that transformed them. St. Isaac the Syrian, one of the great theologians of mercy, writes with piercing clarity: “What is a merciful heart? It is a heart burning with love for the whole of creation … for every created thing.” Theosis—participation in the divine nature—is not defined by ecstatic visions or miraculous signs, but by the extent to which a soul becomes merciful as God is merciful. To be merciful is to share in the very energies of God.

It follows, then, that compassion is not optional in the Orthodox life—it is essential. One cannot be united to Christ while remaining cold toward one’s neighbour. Hardness of heart is incompatible with divine likeness. The Church Fathers do not hesitate to say that mercy is the sign of authentic spiritual progress. A person may fast rigorously, pray without ceasing, and possess deep theological knowledge, but if they are lacking in mercy, they remain far from God. This is why the saints weep for sinners, bless their persecutors, and even intercede for the damned. Their hearts have been enlarged by grace, made capacious enough to carry the sorrows of others. In them, the compassion of Christ is no longer confined to word or memory—it walks the earth once more, healing, restoring, and inviting all into the Kingdom of love.

Within the Orthodox Church, compassion is the air we are meant to breathe. Every icon, feast, and hymn sings of the God who did not abandon us in our misery but descended into it, clothed Himself in our weakness, and opened for us the gates of Paradise. The Church preserves this memory and makes it alive, calling each soul not only to worship the Merciful One, but to become like Him—to be a channel for others through mercy. In doing so, the Church manifests her true nature as a hospital for the broken—a sacred ark bearing the compassion of Christ through the raging seas of the world, toward the harbour of eternal rest.

Our age is marked by coldness, cynicism, and calculated cruelty. The Holy Church is a living witness that Christ is still moved with compassion when He sees the multitudes, lost and weary, wounded by sin, deceived by falsehood, and estranged from their Creator. The sacred icons, the burning incense, the chanted prayers—all are invitations to return to the Compassionate One. He awaits the prodigal not with scorn but with open arms. His mercy endures forever, and in His wounds, we find not shame, but healing. For He alone is the Lover of mankind—the Philanthropos Theos—who desires that all should be saved and come to the knowledge of the truth.

May God bless you +

Fr. Charles
3 August 2025