I whispered the familiar prayer, the founding prayer of World Vision, as I took in my surroundings. I’d arrived in the city at the end of the business day and, having lost my bearings amid a maze of one–way streets, found myself trapped by rush–hour traffic in the heart of San Francisco’s financial district.

Expensively dressed executives filled the sidewalks, leather briefcases at their sides, cell phones to their ears. Rarely making eye contact or smiling, harried men and women navigated through the crowd, touching only when accidentally pushed—a mass of individuals.

Then I noticed others mixed into the throng. A shabbily dressed derelict wandered aimlessly, mumbling unintelligible words. A woman, her face worn and dirty, sat against a building with a ragged dog at her side and a cardboard sign that spoke her plight. A young mother shuffled through the crowd, her baby and earthly belongings in a cart, the weight of the world on her stooped shoulders.

The juxtaposition startled me. The successful and self–sufficient contrasted with the downtrodden and lost. A veil of grief draped across my soul as God answered my whispered plea. The pain led me again to prayer. “Father, what are You calling me to do? How can I help?” The Holy Spirit breathed Jesus’ familiar words into my conscience:

For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me. . . . I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.

—Mt. 25:35–36, 40

I looked out my car window and pondered Jesus’ words. Just then my cell phone rang, interrupting my thoughts. My husband’s anxious “Where are you?” brought me back to the task at hand—meeting him for dinner. We’d planned an extravagant weekend together, shopping at wonderful stores, dining at some of the country’s finest restaurants, and attending the theater. I forgot heartbreak for the moment.

A Collision of Desires

As I approached an elegant department store the next day, I encountered a homeless man sitting next to the doorway. Once again God answered my prayer. I hesitated, and questions pricked my conscience: Am I being a faithful steward of the money God has given me? Is there anything in this store I really need? Would I rather use my money to help this man? The answer to each question was no. I experienced a moment of conflict as my compassionate heart and my selfish desires collided.

Then I made a choice—an embarrassing one. I hardened my heart. I stepped around the man and walked into the store. This time, instead of forgetting the heartbreak, I chose to ignore it. Throughout the remainder of the weekend I joined the city’s mass of individuals, averting my eyes and reaching out to no one.

In essence I said, “Thank You for answering my prayer, God. But I don’t like the answer.” Although I liked the noble idea of being heartbroken for God, I didn’t like the pain or moral conflict that ensued. So I invoked my God–given freedom of choice. I determined that I’d enjoy my weekend rather than allowing “the least of these” to intervene.

Fortunately, that isn’t the end of my story. At a conference a few months later, I listened to the speaker, Jan Johnson, talk about allowing the things that break the heart of God to break our hearts.

Ouch.

I listened intently, knowing God was nudging me, calling me to conform more closely to the image of His Son. The nudging has since turned to nagging as my persistent and loving Father pursues me and asks me to make difficult choices, choices that reflect His heart rather than mine.

Fasting from Pain

Consciously allowing our hearts to break goes against not only our natural tendencies, but also against the grain of our culture. We’re bombarded with messages of comfort and instant gratification. Myriad distractions lure us from embracing pain. Television programs, movies, books, websites, and malls offer hiding places—places where we need not heed God’s beckoning to share in the suffering of impoverished people.

Bible teacher Beth Moore suggests we can “choose to fast from poverty and oppression” but warns that if we do, we’ll “never have a heart like God’s.” We’re steeped in a culture that encourages this reverse form of fasting, this abstaining from pain. We participate in the fast by averting our eyes from the needs of others. Hardened, apathetic hearts are the result.

Try as I might, I can’t justify my own frequent fasts from others’ pain, my wanderings into places of distraction. Nowhere in Scripture do I see Jesus on this fast. Instead, I see Him seeking out those who hurt, weeping with them, and serving them with a heart of love and compassion. Jesus’ willingness to bear others’ brokenness is radical and counter to the culture of our world.

Jesus prayed that though we’re in the world, we would not be “of the world” but would be set apart, sanctified by truth (Jn. 17:16–17). Our willingness to endure the ache of a heart broken by need sets us apart and demonstrates the truth of God’s love to others.

Breaking the Fast

One evening, not long after I committed to let God give me a heart like His, I stood in front of my television watching horrors unfold in India after a severe earthquake rocked the country. In tears, I witnessed haunting images of people enduring suffering beyond my imagination. After the news report, I turned off my television and sighed a prayer for comfort for the people of India.

Then, for the next two days, I ignored the television and let my newspapers languish in the driveway. I didn’t want to feel that agony. I didn’t want to share the suffering of my heavenly Father. I wanted to ignore the news and the pain.

When I realized what I’d done, Satan taunted me with my failure, attempting to convince me I’d never change. But I didn’t succumb. Instead, I confessed my weakness and gratefully accepted God’s grace. Then I caught up on the news and used the internet to track down agencies that offered tangible opportunities to help the people in India. I took a small step toward change.

When we choose to submit our hearts to God and “seek first his kingdom and his righteousness” (Mt. 6:33), our focus begins to change. Instead of concern for our comfort, we gain the loving perspective of our Father and become more concerned for the welfare of others.

The point, however, is not just broken hearts. We must allow the pain to move us to action. The gnawing heartache becomes a spiritual marker reminding us to reach out and serve in the name of Jesus Christ. In fact, not doing so means we’ve chosen not to serve Jesus Himself. Jesus’ teaching in Matthew 25 is clear: An identifying seal of the righteous is the simple charity they extend. But to the wicked He’ll say, “I tell you the truth, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me” (Mt. 25:45).

James 2:24 teaches, “A person is justified by what he does and not by faith alone.” An outpouring of service not only evidences authentic faith but is also a natural consequence of that faith. As our relationship with Christ matures, we will choose a heart like His. We’ll willingly—even unconsciously—begin choosing to display our faith through works.

Our acts of service will be as varied as the situations we encounter. Our call may be the literal fulfillment of Jesus’ command to love our neighbor (recently, a neighbor was stricken with pneumonia and greatly appreciated my offer of a meal and a place for the children to stay), or we may search out specific opportunities (volunteering at a shelter or becoming a big brother or sister to a lonely child). Perhaps we’ll choose to sacrifice an extravagant weekend in the city for a weekend spent demonstrating God’s extravagant love to the street people in that city. The possibilities are endless.

Sustained by Comfort

Humanity is groaning all around us. Need is plentiful, and pain is abundant. Once we allow God to break our hearts, how do we keep that heartache from weighing us down under a blanket of despair?

Our grief need not overwhelm us, because we’re assured that “just as the sufferings of Christ flow over into our lives, so also through Christ our comfort overflows.” Paul taught that there is hope for those who suffer with others. Just as we share their suffering, we also share their comfort (2 Cor. 1:5, 7).

Christ proclaimed, “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted” (Mt. 5:4). Blessed includes the idea of happy. In this paradoxical statement, Jesus promises happiness to those who mourn, happiness found in His comfort. Through the ministry of the Holy Spirit—the Comforter—Christ applies a soothing balm of solace to our grieving hearts. We exchange our mourning for the blessing of happiness.

The Comforter brings a wellspring of encouragement and refreshment through God’s Word. Scripture is laden with promises for those who share the sufferings of Christ—promises of comfort, hope, and joy. Wrapped in the embrace of God’s assurances, we find ourselves, like Paul, praising the “God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort” (2 Cor. 1:3).

And His compassion is infinite.

Yes, Lord, “let my heart be broken with the things that break Your heart.”