“So then, as we have opportunity, let us do good to everyone, and especially to those who are of the household of faith.” – Galatians 6:10

In a world where suffering rarely takes a break, we are called to lean in—not turn away.

I think often of that verse in Galatians. It’s tucked gently into the end of Paul’s letter, a reminder that our faith doesn’t float in abstraction. It moves. It acts. It crosses borders, kneels low, and brings bread to the hungry and comfort to the grieving. It reaches for those in the thick of battle—not just metaphorically, but sometimes quite literally.

When war breaks out—whether across oceans or in the quiet tremors of someone’s soul—our first response isn’t to ask, is it safe? It’s to ask, is it faithful?

Because the Church is not confined to comfort.

The Church—the household of faith—is a global, breathing Body. And when one part suffers, we all suffer. When our brothers and sisters are displaced, bombed, starved, or isolated, we cannot simply offer prayers from the sidelines and call it enough.

We’re meant to embody the prayers we pray.

Helping the household of faith in war zones means listening when the rest of the world forgets. It means supporting local churches and pastors who stay behind to care for the broken. It means resourcing trauma care for the weary, showing up with blankets and bread, and reminding the faithful in hiding that they are not forgotten by the family of God.

It’s easy to romanticize suffering from afar. But real help is not romantic—it is rugged. It’s sending supplies in the mud. It’s finding ways to translate truth across language and pain. It’s navigating checkpoints and curfews and trauma triggers to sit with the grieving and to whisper, You’re not alone. The Church sees you. God sees you.

Helping the household of faith in war zones also means refusing to let global conflict numb us into inaction. It means choosing proximity. Choosing presence. Choosing to let our comfort be disrupted by the discomfort of others—because that is what love does.

And sometimes… it simply means showing up with loaves and fishes, trusting that God still multiplies.

This is our moment to be the Church—not just in sanctuary, but in the rubble.

May we carry each other across borders and battle lines. May we see beyond headlines into homes and hearts. And may we never forget that the household of faith is bigger than the pew beside us.

It stretches across oceans.

It bleeds and weeps and prays in the trenches.

And it waits for us—not just to care, but to come.