GRIEVING WITH IRAN: the parable of the two painters

2 Corinthians 1:3  Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort,
Colossians 3:12  Therefore, as God’s chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience.

“Maybe it’s fake tears.”

These were the words by Donald Trump in response to the mourning scenes from Iran where an estimated 50 million people gathered over 6 days to mourn the death of their spiritual father and religious leader; Ayatollah Ali Khamenei.  This was the ultimate expression of insensitivity and a lack of compassion

Coming from someone who professes to follow the “man of sorrows”, who wept openly and often – in cities, at graves and in public, for the lost, the vulnerable and the brokenhearted – the comment was both  unsettling and revealing.  At the same time, it forced me to ask what compassion truly looks like — and whether we have theologised the DNA of an all-compassionate God and then confined it to the borders of our own spiritual bubbles.  Is selective compassion, compassion at all?  Or is it sympathy disguised as loyalty.

To feel sorrow only for those who share our creed is to misunderstand the God whose mercy stretches beyond every boundary we draw.  True compassion is not sentimental pity; it is the courage to enter another’s pain until it reshapes our own.

It is the deep recognition that humanity itself is sacred, and that every tear — Christian or not — belongs to the same river of divine grief.

To explore compassion, then, is to explore the mystery of God’s heart: a heart that does not ask who deserves love, but simply who needs it.  We have to intentionally remind ourselves that grief existed before theology

The following story is often quoted to illustrate the depth and nature of compassion.  It echo’s the same principle of Frank Jackson’s book Mary’s Room (2).  Just like the story of Mary and the red rose, the PARABLE OF TWO PAINTERS exposes another truth: COMPASSION.  It resembles two principles:

• finding the God of compassion not in theology only, but in lived experience,
• and discovering the depth of compassion not in theory only, but through intentional encounters.

THE PARABLE OF THE TWO PAINTERS: A STORY ABOUT COMPASSION

There once were two painters in a small town—both gifted, both devoted to their craft. One day the town elders asked them to paint a single theme for an upcoming festival: Compassion.

The first painter approached the task with discipline and precision. He studied colour theory, researched the psychology of empathy, analysed historical depictions of mercy. He filled notebooks with sketches, diagrams, and symbolic interpretations. He wanted his painting to be correct—technically flawless, intellectually impressive, emotionally safe.

The second painter did something different. She closed her studio and walked into the streets.

She sat with a mother who had lost her son. She listened to an old man who had no one left to visit him. She shared bread with a refugee family who had arrived with nothing but their names. She held the trembling hands of a young girl who had seen too much war. She let their stories stain her heart before they ever touched her canvas.

When the day of unveiling arrived, the elders gathered the town.

The first painter revealed a masterpiece of technique—balanced colours, elegant symbolism, a flawless composition. People nodded with admiration. It was beautiful in the way a textbook is beautiful: orderly, safe, untouched.

Then the second painter uncovered her work.  The crowd fell silent.

Her painting was not perfect. The brushstrokes were raw, the colours uneven, the edges trembling. But the moment people looked at it, they felt something rise inside them—something warm, something painful, something alive. It was as if the canvas itself was breathing.

One elder whispered, “This one knows compassion.”

Another said, “She has been inside the suffering she painted.”

And the oldest among them finally spoke: “The first painter understood compassion. The second painter became compassionate.”

THE POINT OF THE PARABLE

Compassion cannot be learned from a distance. We can watch the hardship of the people of Gaza from a distance, but unless we sit with the homeless in our own community it will remain sympathy.  Compassion cannot be mastered through study or research, nor perfected through technique.

Compassion is not a concept; it is a wound willingly touched. It is a presence offered. It is a life shared.

You cannot paint compassion without entering the places where compassion is needed. You cannot preach compassion without letting someone’s pain rearrange your heart. You cannot advocate for the suffering without letting their suffering become part of your story.

Compassion is not the art. Compassion is the encounter that makes the art possible.

The story of the two painters helped us recognise something essential about Syria and Lebanon. We realised it is possible to watch the hardship of others on a television screen and feel the anger rise at the injustice but still not share the pain of those standing in the midst of the rubble.  But once you step out and show up, it changes.  The moment you stand in front of the destruction and sit with those who have lost ALL, the anger drains away and is replaced by a deep, aching anguish. You can know every fact about a people’s suffering and still not know what it is like to live inside that suffering. And until you know that, your moral imagination stays thin, your compassion underdeveloped, and your theology untested.

The grieving crowds in Iran do not need moral judgement. There are enough painters in the room. They need people willing to cross the threshold from knowledge to presence — from the psychology of compassion to tasting and seeing. 

THE CHURCH AND THE PARABLE

Whether we want to acknowledge it or not, the church cannot teach us compassion, it can only point us toward it. As painters of the gospel, we are not called merely to study the spiritual brushstrokes and gospel techniques—we must encounter the living color of compassion itself. Compassion is caught, not taught.

This means we need to step into the spaces where pain lives. It means drawing near to the wounds of the world, listening where souls are aching, and standing beside the Saviour who Himself declared:
“The Spirit of the Lord is on me, because he has anointed me to proclaim good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners and recovery of sight for the blind, to set the captives free.” — Luke 4:18

THE APPLICATION OF THE PARABLE 

We cannot all stand in Gaza. We cannot all travel to Syria and Lebanon.  Iran is closed and few will have the opportunity to walk amongst those who grieve.  We cannot all walk through the ruins of Ukraine or sit beside families who have lost everything. But compassion is not limited by geography. If we cannot be present there, we can be present here.

When we visit the homeless in our own communities, when we sit with someone whose life has collapsed in quieter ways, something in us begins to shift. Their stories soften us. Their vulnerability trains our hearts. And slowly, we gain the inner landscape needed to imagine the suffering of others far away.

Local compassion becomes the doorway to global compassion. By entering the pain that is near, we learn how to paint the pain that is far — with greater tenderness, greater truthfulness, and greater resemblance to the heart of God.

 

1. https://thethirdway.org/9-july-2026-the-largest-gathering-op-people-in-modern-history/
2. https://thethirdway.org/escaping-marys-room-why-we-went-to-lebanon-and-syria/