Series: N/A

Service: Lord’s Supper Service

Type: Lord's Supper Talk

Speaker: Dwayne Gandy

We’ve spent the past few weeks remembering Jesus by walking through some of the most emotional moments of His life—moments that revealed not only His humanity but also His divinity. When His family rejected Him, He didn’t respond in anger or bitterness. When God’s family rejected Him, He didn’t retaliate or withdraw. Instead, He turned rejection into redemption, always using His emotions to draw people closer to God, never to push them away.

We saw Him enter the temple courts early in His ministry and drive out those who were turning His Father’s house into a marketplace. But near the end of His life, He returned to find the same abuse taking place. This time, His focus seemed to shift—not merely to the disrespect for God’s house but to the oppression of God’s people. The temple was supposed to be a house of prayer for all nations, a place where even Gentiles could draw near to God. Yet the very people meant to represent God had made that impossible.

Everywhere Jesus went, He experienced human emotion. But He didn’t simply feel what we feel; He responded to those feelings in a perfectly divine way. That’s what makes Him so remarkable.

There’s a Greek word used twelve times in the New Testament to describe this divine reaction to emotion. Each time it’s applied to a person, that person is Jesus. The word is splagchnizomai, and it’s usually translated moved with compassion.

Three other times the word appears in parables Jesus told: the king who forgave an enormous debt, the Good Samaritan who stopped to help a beaten stranger, and the father who ran to embrace his prodigal son. Those parables give us glimpses into the heart of God, but when Scripture uses this word of Jesus Himself, we’re seeing compassion not just described but embodied.

Jesus alone could take the deepest human feelings—sorrow, frustration, pity, tenderness—and channel them into a perfect, godly response. He was never ruled by emotion; He ruled over it, using it as a vessel for divine mercy.

One of the clearest windows into this compassion is found in Matthew 9:35–38.

Then Jesus went about all the cities and villages, teaching in their synagogues, preaching the gospel of the kingdom, and healing every sickness and every disease among the people. But when He saw the multitudes, He was moved with compassion for them, because they were weary and scattered, like sheep having no shepherd. Then He said to His disciples, “The harvest truly is plentiful, but the laborers are few. Therefore pray the Lord of the harvest to send out laborers into His harvest.”

At first glance, these verses can seem ordinary—just another snapshot of Jesus doing what Jesus does. But if we slow down, there’s a world of meaning here.

Matthew paints a picture of constant motion: Jesus traveling from city to city, village to village. That phrase alone says a lot. He went. He didn’t wait for people to come to Him. He didn’t stay home in the comfort of familiar surroundings. He went—again and again—to the people who needed Him most.

Travel in those days wasn’t convenient. No hotels, no luggage, no car rides with air-conditioning. Every trip required walking dusty roads, arranging lodging, feeding a group of disciples, and facing opposition at nearly every stop.

Most of us can relate to the feeling of being overwhelmed by endless demands. The to-do list never ends. As soon as we finish one set of tasks, another appears. That’s how Jesus lived—surrounded by needs, never short of people to heal, teach, or comfort. When He finished helping one crowd, another was already gathering.

He healed every sickness and every disease. He never turned anyone away. Yet He was human. He grew tired. He felt the drain of constant expectation. And wherever He went, enemies waited—scribes, Pharisees, and skeptics eager to trap Him or humiliate Him. Every step brought new people to help and new people determined to hurt Him.

No wonder He felt weary. He was sick of seeing sickness. He was tired of death and brokenness. He knew this was never how the world was meant to be. Sin had twisted everything, and He bore the weight of it daily.

And then, in that moment described in Matthew 9, He looked out over another crowd—“multitudes,” Matthew says. A sea of people, all needy, all broken. And instead of frustration, instead of resentment, something stirred deep inside Him: He was moved with compassion.

Jesus saw what we might have missed. To the casual observer, the crowd was just another mob pressing in for miracles. But Jesus looked deeper. He saw hearts that were weary, souls that were scattered, lives with no direction.

He compared them to sheep without a shepherd—vulnerable, exposed, wandering in confusion. Sheep without a shepherd can’t find food, can’t protect themselves, can’t stay together. They are completely helpless. That’s what Jesus saw when He looked at humanity.

We might have looked for an escape. We would have pulled away, sought rest, or shut the door for some peace and quiet. But Jesus didn’t retreat. His compassion compelled Him to act.

The word moved with compassion isn’t just an emotion—it’s a movement from the gut, a stirring so deep that it leads to action. Jesus didn’t just feel sorry for people; He stepped toward them.

And yet, He recognized something important. The work was too big for one person, even for the Son of Man living in human flesh. So He told His disciples, “Pray the Lord of the harvest to send out laborers into His harvest.” In other words, Ask the Father to multiply compassion.

He didn’t pray for the crowds to go away. He didn’t ask for easier days or lighter burdens. He prayed for reinforcements—more workers, more hearts willing to feel what He felt and do what He did.

That prayer didn’t go unanswered. It began to unfold in the book of Acts. When persecution hit Jerusalem, the disciples were scattered. But rather than silencing the gospel, it spread it. Luke tells us, “Those who were scattered went everywhere preaching the word.”

In that moment, God turned suffering into mission. The prayer for more laborers was being answered in a way no one could have imagined. Compassion multiplied. The shepherd’s heart was being reproduced in His followers.

But even that wasn’t the full picture. Because the deepest compassion Jesus ever showed wasn’t when He healed the sick or fed the hungry. It was when He saw our spiritual sickness—our sin, our separation from God—and chose to do something about it that only divinity could do.

He didn’t just touch the leper; He became unclean for us. He didn’t just raise a widow’s son; He went to His own death so we could live. He didn’t just feel compassion; He embodied it on the cross.

When He looked down from heaven and saw us—lost, weary, scattered—He didn’t turn away. He was moved with compassion. And the only adequate divine response to that emotion was sacrifice.

His body was broken. His blood was poured out. The Shepherd laid down His life for the sheep.

Think about that. Every human feels compassion at times, but our ability to act on it is limited. We see someone in pain and want to help, but we don’t always have the means. We want to comfort, but words fall short. We want to heal, but our touch can’t restore.

Jesus had no such limitation. When He was moved with compassion, power flowed from Him. Blind eyes opened. Broken hearts were restored. The dead lived again.

But even more, His compassion didn’t stop with temporary relief. It aimed for eternal restoration. He came not only to heal diseases but to conquer the disease behind every disease—sin itself.

That’s why His compassion is divine. It doesn’t just feel; it saves. It doesn’t just notice suffering; it ends it.

And that’s why Matthew 9 is so much more than a travel summary. It’s a glimpse into the heart of the Savior—the same heart that beats for you.

When we see need after need, it’s easy to grow numb. The world’s brokenness can feel overwhelming. The temptation is to retreat—to close the door, scroll past the pain, or tell ourselves there’s nothing more we can do.

But Jesus’ example challenges that instinct. He didn’t hide from the multitudes. He walked toward them. He felt the full weight of human weariness and still moved forward with divine compassion.

That doesn’t mean we can meet every need ourselves. Even Jesus called for help. But it does mean we should pray the same prayer He taught His disciples: that God would raise up more workers—people filled with His compassion, willing to go, willing to serve, willing to see others as He sees them.

Every time we extend mercy, every time we share the gospel, every time we sacrifice for someone else, we’re answering that prayer. We’re stepping into the harvest as part of His divine response.

And when we come to the Lord’s table, we remember where that compassion led. The same Jesus who was moved with compassion for the crowds allowed Himself to be moved to the cross for us.

The bread reminds us that His body was broken—not by accident, but by love. The cup reminds us that His blood was poured out—not because He lost control, but because compassion demanded a divine response.

As we eat and drink, we remember a Savior who didn’t just pity us but acted for us. He didn’t turn away when He saw our need; He moved toward it, all the way to Calvary.

There’s never been a time when Jesus looked at broken, shepherdless people and turned His back. From the leper who begged for cleansing, to the widow whose son lay lifeless, to the multitudes wandering without direction, His compassion always moved Him to act.

And that same compassion continues today. When He looks at your life—your exhaustion, your fears, your scattered thoughts—He still sees a sheep in need of a shepherd. And His response is the same: “Come to Me, all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”

He’s still moved with compassion. He still invites us to follow. And He still calls us to pray that others will go into the fields to bring more weary souls home.

That’s what it means to remember Jesus—not only what He did, but how He felt, how He saw us, and how He responded.

So as we gather around the table today, let’s remember the One who met human emotion with divine mercy. Let’s thank the Shepherd who gave His life for the sheep. And let’s go into the world moved by the same compassion that moved Him.