COMPASSION WITHOUT APOLOGY: a Christian response to Gaza

Scripture Reading: Luke 10:25–37 — The Parable of the Good Samaritan

This past week was the final straw.  Yet again, a message from a fellow believer landed in my inbox:

“Explain why you support the enemy of the people of God. Why are you anti-Israel? You are cursing God by supporting Palestinians.  They are God’s chosen people and by advocating for their enemies you are taking sides against them?”

These questions (accusations) weren’t new—but the weight of them felt heavier than before. Not because they challenge my theology, but because they question my humanity. Because in a time of immense suffering – unequal in our generation – my compassion is questioned as betrayal.

I do not support war. I do not support terror. Yes, I have taken sides.  I support the wounded.  And if that makes me suspect, then perhaps we’ve forgotten what it means to follow Christ.

So, I am tired.  Not fatigued but fed up…
Tired of having to explain why I weep for the people suffering in Gaza.
Tired of the arguments that twist my compassion into betrayal.
Tired of the accusations that equate my empathy with the wounded as support for Hamas.

I am tired of being told that my Christian call to anguish for the people of Gaza must first pass through political filters, theological gatekeeping, or biblical biases. I am tired of being condemned by those who claim that defending the displaced and starving in Gaza makes me anti-Israel.  I am anguished that Christians are more concerned about prophecies than souls.

For the past two years, expressing empathy for the people of Gaza has come at a cost. Those who dare to weep for the wounded are often branded as anti-Semitic, Hamas sympathizers, unbiblical, ignorant, or even enemies of the Jewish people. Compassion has been treated like a crime—requiring justification, disclaimers, and explanations.

Meanwhile, the killing of innocents has too often been met with silence. It requires no defense, no discourse, no moral reckoning. The imbalance is staggering: mercy must be explained, but violence is assumed to be necessary.

This distortion of moral clarity is exhausting. But it is also a call—to reclaim the Gospel’s radical compassion, and to remind the world that weeping for the wounded is not betrayal. It is Christlike.

So, if you question my motives, I will not apologize for love.

To those who keep on questioning my compassion,
To those who keep on accusing, dismissing, or condemning—
Let me be clear: I do not weep for Gaza and it’s people out of ignorance. I weep because I know Christ.

For many believers, defending the wounded in Gaza is not a political stance—it is a spiritual imperative.
It is not rebellion against Scripture—it is obedience to it.
It is not a denial of Israel’s pain—it is an affirmation of every human life made in the image of God.

Jesus never asked us to check the wounded before binding their wounds.
He never told us to ask, “Are you innocent?” before offering mercy.
He simply said, Go and do likewise.

I unashamedly feel called to defend the wounded in Gaza—not in spite of my faith, but because of it.
And if you feel the same, you are not alone.
Your compassion reflects a deep biblical conviction shared by many who refuse to let politics silence their empathy.

So, to all of us who are asked this question: “How do you justify your empathy for the enemies of Israel?”

I say this:

1. THE GOSPEL IS NOT NEUTRAL ABOUT SUFFERING

In Luke 10, Jesus tells a story that cuts through politics, religion, and bias. A man is beaten and left for dead. Two religious leaders pass by—perhaps too busy, perhaps too afraid, perhaps too unsure of the man’s affiliations. But a Samaritan, an outsider, stops. He sees. He acts.

Jesus doesn’t praise the priest or the Levite for fulfilling their religious duty by not touching the unclean. He praises the one who crossed the line of comfort to show mercy.

Today, the road from Jerusalem to Jericho runs through Gaza. And the wounded lie in plain sight.

2. COMPASSION IS NOT A CRIME

Some of us have been made to feel that caring for Palestinians—especially in wartime—is controversial. But let me be clear: compassion is not a crime. It is the very heartbeat of the Gospel.

Jesus healed Roman servants. He fed crowds without checking their political views. He wept over Jerusalem, knowing it would reject Him. He did not ask, “Are you innocent?” before He offered mercy.

So when we grieve for the children of Gaza, we are not betraying our faith—we are embodying it.

3. THE BURDEN OF JUSTIFICATION

Why must compassion be justified? Why must Christians explain their grief for children pulled from rubble or mothers mourning their sons? The burden of proof should never fall on love. Jesus didn’t ask the bleeding woman about her politics. He healed her.

To defend the wounded in Gaza is not to deny the complexity of the conflict. It is to affirm the humanity of those caught in its crossfire. It is to say, “I see you,” when the world looks away.

Micah 6:8 says: “What does the Lord require of you? To act justly, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God.” Not to explain your mercy. Not to apologize for your justice. Just to live it. Act it, Love it, Walk in it

4. THE CHURCH MUST NOT LOOK AWAY

We are the Body of Christ. And when one part suffers, we all suffer (1 Corinthians 12:26). That includes the suffering of our brothers and sisters in Gaza—Christian, Muslim, or otherwise.

To be silent in the face of suffering is not neutrality. It is complicity. And the Church must never be complicit in the dehumanization of any people.

5. LET LOVE BE LOUD

Romans 12:15 says, “Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn.” This is not conditional. It is not partisan. It is Gospel.

The love of God for a sinful world was loud and bold.  It brought heaven to earth.  It demands from us to act accordingly.  So let your love be loud. Let your prayers be bold. Let your advocacy be rooted not in politics, but in the radical love of Christ.

6. A CALL TO COURAGE

If you feel tired, you’re not alone. But your weariness is holy—it means your heart is still soft. In a time when outrage is easy and empathy is rare, your compassion is a prophetic act.

Let your voice be one of many. Let your faith be a refuge for the wounded. And let your love be loud enough that no one mistakes it for silence.

CONCLUSION

Beloved, if you are tired, take heart. You are not alone. You are walking the road of the Good Samaritan. You are living the Gospel.

And when the world asks, “Why do you care?” you can answer, “Because Jesus does.”

Amen.