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Eugene was in his thirties when he first walked into group therapy. He carried with him the weight of a childhood that most people would struggle to imagine. He had grown up in a broken home. His father was a ghost; present in name, absent in every way that mattered.

His mother, battling an untreated and serious mental illness, was volatile and unpredictable in the household. As the eldest of two children, Eugene bore the brunt of her suffering. He described those years simply as “hell on earth.” He was called names that no child should ever hear, and beaten whenever his mother's inner storm found a target.

His school attendance told its own story: each thrashing at home meant another absence from class, another gap in the education that might have been his way out. The day he finished high school, he packed what little he had and rented a room. He was on his own.

Working life offered him no sanctuary. Eugene drifted from job to job, never staying long enough to let the pressure build beyond what he could bear. Chronic anxiety was his constant companion, and when workplace stress mounted, he would at times dissociate, slipping away from the present moment as though his mind had quietly decided that reality was too much to hold.

Criticism was particularly devastating for him, even when it was fair and offered gently. Without warning, he would be mentally back in his childhood; small, helpless, bracing for the next blow. Whatever little self-confidence he had would simply collapse.

He would go silent and withdraw. Those who knew him sensed there was more beneath that silence than mere introversion. There was hurt, but also a quiet, smouldering resentment toward those who had wounded him. Forgiveness did not come easily to Eugene.

He had few friends, and even those he allowed, were kept at a careful distance. Being around him was like treading on eggshells: one wrong step, one wrong word, and the shutters would come down. The work he gravitated toward reflected all of this: roles that required little human connection, where he could exist largely undisturbed, alone with his thoughts.

Then, one day in group, something shifted. Eugene said he wanted to enrol in a nursing aide course; the first step on a five-year journey toward becoming a qualified nurse. The therapy group absorbed this quietly. For anyone else, it might have seemed a modest ambition.

For Eugene, it was nothing short of extraordinary. This was a man who had spent his entire life putting walls between himself and others, and here he was, articulating a desire to care for people at their most vulnerable, to enter a profession built entirely on human connection.

He had no savings. Rent, food, daily expenses, school fees, uniform, transportation; everything would need to be covered. Then, just as quietly as Eugene had shared his dream, a Voice said to me, "I want you to support Eugene until he graduates." And so we did.

In time, Eugene completed his studies. Throughout Scripture, divine compassion is rarely depicted as passive; it consistently moves toward intervention. In the Old Testament, the word often translated as "compassion" is rachamim, sharing its root with rechem, meaning "womb." It carries a visceral, intimate quality.

When God sees Israel's suffering in Egypt, that compassion drives the Exodus, one of the most dramatic acts of divine intervention. In the Gospels, the Greek word splanchnizomai “to be moved with compassion” is used of Jesus before nearly every miracle: whether He be healing the sick, feeding the hungry, or raising the dead.

The emotion and the action are inseparable. He doesn't just feel, He reaches out and touches. The parable of the Prodigal Son captures it beautifully: the father sees his son "while he was still a great way off" and runs to him. Compassion doesn't wait, it moves.

This pattern suggests something important about the nature of divine love: it isn't detached sympathy from a distance. It's a love that enters the situation; what theologians sometimes call the missio Dei, the very nature of God. Compassion without action, in this framework, would be foreign to God's character.

It also has implications for human ethics: if we are made in God's image, genuine compassion in us should similarly resist being merely a feeling. As 1 John puts it, if we see a brother in need and "shut up our bowels of compassion," something has gone wrong!

God's compassion, unlike human compassion, is never frustrated by inability. Where He is moved, He is also fully capable of acting. His compassion and His omnipotence work together perfectly. Scripture says God causes rain to fall on the just and the unjust (Matthew 5:45) as His compassion extends even to those in rebellion against Him; most powerfully expressed in the cross, where He dies for His enemies (Romans 5:8).

Divine compassion doesn't wear thin, it doesn't burn out, doesn't grow weary of the same person failing again and again. It is inexhaustible as Lamentations 3:22-23 declares that “His mercies are new every morning.” Perfectly pure Divine compassion flows entirely from His nature and love; untainted by ego, guilt, or self-interest.

It is given freely, not to gain anything in return. Interestingly, Christian theology teaches that human compassion can be transformed, not by self-effort, but by participating in divine love. As we receive God's compassion, we become capable of reflecting it more purely.

The command to "be compassionate as your Father is compassionate" (Luke 6:36) is not a guilt trip but an invitation into a higher quality of love than we can manufacture on our own.

About Coram Deo

Coram Deo — before the face of God. This blog reflects on Scripture, world events, science, music, psychology, and the human mind — always through the lens of Christian faith. All of life is lived before the face of God.