This weekend, more than 40 people in Ukraine were killed in one of the deadliest Russian attacks since the full-scale invasion began. The strikes destroyed homes, leveled a children’s hospital in Kyiv, and left a nation once again holding its breath beneath the rubble.

The images are almost too much to bear — babies carried out on stretchers, nurses shielding toddlers with their bodies, fathers weeping beside the wreckage of what was once a home.

And for those of us watching from a distance, the grief is layered.
We feel helpless.
We feel numb.
We feel heartbroken.
We wonder, What can I possibly do from here?

But the Gospel doesn’t let us look away.
And Jesus never gave His followers the option of compassion without action.

“Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.”
— Matthew 5:9

Peacemaking Is Not Passive

We often think peace means calm, or the absence of conflict. But biblical peace, shalom, is much more than that. It is the presence of justice, wholeness, and right relationship with God and others.

That kind of peace doesn’t just happen. It must be made.

And when war rages, in Ukraine or anywhere else, the people of God are called not to quiet comfort, but to courageous intercession, advocacy, and generosity.

We don’t need to be near the smoke to carry water to the fire.

What Responsibility Looks Like

When we see the world breaking, our hearts should break too and then move us to act.

1. We Pray, Earnestly and Specifically
Not just “God, bring peace,” but:

• Comfort the mothers who just lost their children.
• Protect those digging through rubble.
• Strengthen pastors, doctors, and aid workers who are exhausted.
• Disrupt evil strategies.
• Let justice roll down like waters.

2. We Give
Not everyone can go. But many of us can give. Find organizations with trusted boots on the ground: those delivering food, trauma care, and spiritual hope. What feels small to us can be lifeblood to someone else.

3. We Bear Witness
Don’t scroll past it.
Don’t forget by Tuesday.
Talk about it. Pray out loud for Ukraine in your church, in your home, in your staff meetings. Let your kids see you cry and care. Let your heart stay tender.

4. We Stay Open to God’s Assignment
Maybe you’re meant to host, write, teach, serve, connect, advocate. Ask Him. You might be part of someone’s answer to prayer even from a world away.

War Is Loud. But Love Can Be Louder.

We are not powerless. We are not forgotten. And neither are they.

God is near to the brokenhearted and He often shows up through His people.

Let us not grow numb in the face of destruction.
Let us not mistake distance for exemption.
Let us not wait until it’s trending to start caring again.

“Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.”
— Romans 12:21

• Pray for Ukraine with your family, your small group, your church — by name and by need.
• Give to trusted ministries and NGOs doing trauma-informed care, medical response, and community rebuilding.
• Share the stories — not for shock value, but to awaken compassion.
• Stay awake. Stay soft. Stay faithful.

Because when the sky falls, the Church should rise.

This morning, Pastor Thomas preached a message that landed deep in my spirit: Kindness is not the same as niceness. And maybe that’s something we all need to sit with a little longer.

Niceness is often a mask—polite smiles, agreeable nods, quiet avoidance of anything uncomfortable. It keeps the waters smooth and the optics clean. But kindness? Kindness has grit. Kindness is gentle and grounded. It is compassion with conviction, gentleness with a spine, and truth wrapped in mercy.

In our culture, niceness can be self-protective. We play it safe. We avoid offense. We nod when we want to speak up and smile when we want to cry. But biblical kindness doesn’t play safe. It doesn’t look away from suffering, ignore injustice, or shrink back from truth.

Kindness is how love puts on work boots.

It sees the need and moves toward it. It speaks truth—but not to win an argument or prove a point. It speaks truth because love refuses to leave someone in darkness. Kindness doesn’t flatter; it cares. It doesn’t just feel compassion; it shows compassion—through presence, support, and action.

Jesus was the embodiment of this kind of kindness. Think about how He treated people:

• The woman at the well—He named her shame without shaming her. He spoke truth, but with such tenderness that she ran to tell others about the Man who saw her and loved her (John 4).
• The woman caught in adultery—He stooped low, protected her from harm, and offered grace alongside an invitation to live differently (John 8).
• The leper—He didn’t just heal him. He touched him. He crossed the lines that society had drawn and made space for dignity (Matthew 8).

Over and over, Jesus showed us that kindness is the practical expression of God’s love. It is not passive. It is not performative. It’s fiercely present, honest, and merciful.

“But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness…”
— Galatians 5:22

“Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you.”
— Ephesians 4:32

We often think of kindness as something soft. But in Scripture, kindness is powerful. It leads to transformation. Paul writes that “God’s kindness is meant to lead you to repentance.” (Romans 2:4) Kindness changes us. It calls us home.

Real kindness doesn’t hide when someone is struggling. It doesn’t turn away from pain, even when the pain is messy or unfamiliar. It notices. It moves. It bends low to bind wounds, to make space, to speak words that heal.

And that means kindness often costs us something.

It may cost our comfort, our convenience, or our carefully curated boundaries. It may cost our image—because sometimes kindness looks like taking a stand when others want to stay silent. Or slowing down to offer presence when everyone else is rushing by.

But kindness isn’t rooted in people-pleasing. It’s rooted in love.

Love that sees.
Love that acts.
Love that does not give up.

Kindness is not optional for the follower of Christ. It is part of the fruit of the Spirit, evidence that the Spirit is alive in us. And in a world full of harshness, division, and hurry—our kindness can be a radical act of faith.

So today, let’s ask ourselves:
Where is God inviting me to trade niceness for kindness?
Who needs my presence, not just my politeness?
Where can I show up with compassion and clarity?

Let’s not just talk about love. Let’s let it take on flesh.

Kindness is love in motion.

So bring a meal. Speak a hard truth with tenderness. Write the note. Hold the hand. Make room for someone’s grief. Ask the deeper question. Listen without fixing. Say what needs to be said—but say it with mercy.

Because the world doesn’t need more agreeable Christians.
It needs kind ones—people who carry the heart of Jesus into every room they enter.

We live in a world where lines are drawn quickly: between us and them, worthy and unworthy, right and wrong, visible and invisible. It’s easy to forget, in the tide of division and disagreement, that every person we encounter carries the image of God.

It’s not just theology. It’s truth. From the mother holding her baby in the shelter line to the neighbor who gets on your last nerve; from the outspoken activist to the quiet man bagging your groceries; each one is fashioned by divine hands, loved beyond measure, and called by name.

Jesus never encountered someone and failed to see their value.

The leper — touched.
The Samaritan woman — heard.
The tax collector — called.
The woman caught in adultery — protected.
The thief on the cross — welcomed.

Not once did Jesus say, “You don’t count.”

Instead, He shattered social norms and religious walls to restore dignity where it had been stripped. His ministry was not just about truth. It was about truth delivered in love, in eye contact, in compassion, in presence.

As followers of Christ, our lives are not meant to be measuring sticks of worthiness, but mirrors of mercy.

Dignity isn’t something someone earns by meeting our expectations. It’s something we acknowledge because God already placed it there.

You may disagree with someone’s choices.
You may struggle to understand their culture, politics, lifestyle, or even their tone.
But disagreement is never license for dehumanization.

Ephesians 4:2 reminds us:

“Be completely humble and gentle; be patient, bearing with one another in love.”

We bear with one another because love isn’t just a feeling. It’s a posture. It bows low, listens deeply, and chooses compassion even when it’s hard.

How we treat those with no power over us says everything about who we are in Christ.

Do we talk over the quiet ones?
Dismiss the elderly?
Mock those struggling?
Ignore the poor?
Hold grudges against those who’ve hurt us?

Or do we lean in with the grace we ourselves have received?

When we live as if every person matters, we become a living gospel. We reflect a Kingdom where the first are last and the unseen are seen.

Let’s be the people who pause before speaking harshly.
Who remember the barista’s name.
Who speak gently to the child acting out.
Who listen without correcting every flaw.
Who choose empathy over superiority.

Because when we do, we are doing something sacred.

We are joining Jesus in lifting the heads of the weary.
We are telling the world: “You matter, not because of what you do; but because of whose you are.”

There is a quiet ache that echoes through human history: the ache of not belonging.

From ancient tribal divisions to modern-day polarization, we’ve become skilled at drawing invisible lines – us vs. them, right vs. wrong, worthy vs. unworthy. This act of distancing others, of placing them outside the circle of grace we reserve for “our kind,” has a name: othering.

But the gospel tells a different story.

Made in His Image

Genesis 1:27 reminds us that every person, regardless of nationality, race, gender, background, belief, or behavior, is made in the image of God. The imago Dei is not selectively bestowed. It is intrinsic. Sacred. Undeniable.

To “other” someone, then, is not just a social act; it is a spiritual rupture. It is to deny the divine fingerprint in another. It is to forget that Christ did not die for a chosen few, but for all (John 3:16, Romans 5:8).

When we diminish another’s dignity, we forget who God is. And we forget who we are.

Jesus and the Other

Jesus had every right to remain distant. Holy. Separate.

But He didn’t.

He touched lepers (Mark 1:40-42). He broke social codes to speak with a Samaritan woman (John 4). He dined with sinners, elevated women, honored children, and healed Roman enemies. Again and again, He crossed the boundaries that others had drawn, cultural, religious, ethnic, moral, and said, “This one belongs. This one matters. This one is Mine.”

If Jesus was comfortable with proximity to the other, why aren’t we?

Why We Other

Othering often begins in fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of losing control. Fear of being wrong, displaced, or uncomfortable. Sometimes it’s inherited from our culture or upbringing. Other times, it grows out of wounds we haven’t healed.

But fear is never a fruit of the Spirit. Love is. And love casts out fear (1 John 4:18).

It’s far easier to dehumanize than to sit in the discomfort of difference. But Jesus didn’t call us to easy. He called us to love.

Rehumanizing the World

What if the Church became known not for who it kept out, but for how far it would go to bring others in?

What if we stopped asking, “Are they one of us?” and instead asked, “How can I love them well?”

To rehumanize someone is to see them as Christ sees them. Not as a label, not as a statistic, not as a problem but as beloved.

This doesn’t mean we excuse harm or abandon discernment. Boundaries are biblical. But even boundaries can be held with compassion instead of contempt. Even disagreement can happen with dignity.

A Kingdom Without Lines

The kingdom of God is not tribal. It is table-shaped. And that table has room for tax collectors, doubters, immigrants, addicts, scholars, skeptics, and saints. It has room for you. It has room for me.

At the cross, Jesus didn’t just erase the dividing wall between us and God (Ephesians 2:14)—He also destroyed the wall between us and each other. Every “them” we’ve created, He died to redeem.

So let us be bridge-builders. Let us become a people who refuse to “other” those whom God has called beloved.

And when we’re tempted to draw lines, may we remember: Jesus came to erase them.

We don’t like to talk about ruins.

We like stories of victory — the healing, the breakthrough, the miracle. We want the dust to settle and the sun to rise. But what about when the walls are still crumbled, when the prayers haven’t been answered, and all you can see is what was lost?

There are times in life when everything we trusted is torn down — by grief, betrayal, war, trauma, illness, injustice. The ground gives way beneath our feet and nothing feels safe. We wonder where God is, and if He even sees us here.

But friend, the story of our faith has never been one of perfect people with tidy lives. It is the story of a God who enters into the rubble.

God walked with Adam and Eve after the fall, clothed them, and called them still.
He came to Hagar in the wilderness and said, “I see you.”
He wept with Mary at Lazarus’s tomb.
He was born into a poor family under Roman oppression.
He hung on a cross between criminals, stripped and mocked, misunderstood to His last breath.

And even after resurrection, Jesus still bore the scars.

This is the mystery of our faith: we are not alone in the ruins.

We are not forsaken in our loss, in our trauma, or in our aching questions. God is still Emmanuel — God with us. Not just in church pews or mountaintops, but in hospital rooms, in shelters, in bedrooms where grief sits like an uninvited guest. In cities torn by war. In hearts torn by silence.

The presence of God does not always look like resolution.
Sometimes, it looks like someone sitting in the ash heap with you.
Sometimes, it looks like breath in your lungs when you thought you couldn’t survive the night.
Sometimes, it looks like the smallest flicker of hope — enough to get you through the next five minutes.

And that, too, is holy.

You don’t have to rise quickly.
You don’t have to rebuild right now.
You don’t have to make meaning out of what broke you.

But let this settle into your bones: God is still in the ruins.

And He is not in a hurry.

He will sit with you until you are ready. He will hold your tears, honor your pain, and whisper life into what feels like death. And somehow, some way, the story isn’t over yet.

I’ve been sitting with a line from Pastor Thomas’s sermon all week.
“It is not to us to condemn—but we were given the ministry of reconciliation.”

That one sentence has turned over and over in my heart, sifting the ways I’ve looked at people, spoken about people, distanced myself from people. It’s brought me back to something so central, so deeply rooted in the heart of God, that it should shape every part of how we live:
Every human being is an image bearer of God.

Every single one.
The neighbor who waves kindly from across the street.
The stranger who cuts us off in traffic.
The friend who fails us.
The person whose lifestyle, politics, theology, or choices feel far from our own.
The hurting. The hardened. The hopeful. The hardened.

Image bearers.

Not one of us is more made in God’s image than another. That’s not how this works. And yet… how quickly we forget. How quickly we divide and other and judge.

But here’s the thing—Scripture is crystal clear on the posture we’re called to carry:

“He has committed to us the message of reconciliation. We are therefore Christ’s ambassadors…” (2 Corinthians 5:19–20)

Not ambassadors of condemnation. Not gatekeepers of who is “in” and who is “out.”
Ambassadors of reconciliation. Bearers of a message that restores and heals and mends.
That message is love.

Jesus summed up the entirety of the law and the prophets with two commands:

Love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, and mind.
And love your neighbor as yourself. (Matthew 22:37–40)

Not “love those who vote like you.”
Not “love those who are easy to get along with.”
Not “love those who follow the rules you think matter most.”
Just…
Love.

Love God. Love people.
Period.

I’m reminded that Jesus, who had every right to judge, chose instead to draw near.
To touch the leper.
To eat with sinners.
To welcome the outcast.
To forgive the ones who betrayed and denied and crucified Him.

If He did not come into the world to condemn it (John 3:17), then how dare we take up that mantle?
We weren’t called to condemnation.
We were called to compassion.
To truth wrapped in grace.
To courage that lays down pride for presence.

So here’s the invitation I’m holding today, and maybe you are too:
To see every person—every person—as an image bearer of the Most High God.
To lay down the need to be right, and pick up the call to be reconcilers.
To love when it’s easy, and especially when it’s not.
Because the love of Christ compels us.

And maybe, just maybe, when we lead with love, we make room for the kind of transformation that only God can bring.