Edited by Jim McCrory, Wednesday 3 June 2026 at 09:17
“You have faith and I have deeds.”
Show me your faith without deeds,
and I will show you my faith by my deeds.
James 2:18
A Quiet Hope for Kindness
Many years ago, I remember an elderly sister who would enter the congregation and look around her with a deep sense of loss in her eyes. There was something in her expression that told its own story. She was lonely.
She had come to the very place where she should have found refuge, warmth and companionship, yet it seemed to be a struggle for her simply to be there. I sometimes wonder what thoughts passed through her mind as she took her seat among us.
Perhaps someone will notice me today. Perhaps someone will sit beside me and ask how I really am.
But no one did. I would often see her sitting alone in a coffee shop in the town: Alone.
And, looking back, I must acknowledge with sorrow that I failed her too. I saw something of her loneliness, but I did not do enough to relieve it. At the time, as an elder, I was more tied up with procedure rather than compassion. I am more aware now, more observant as I walk along the beach, the town or the city that the elderly are calling out in silence
Now that I am getting older myself, I am more conscious of that vulnerability. Age can bring many changes. Strength diminishes. Health becomes uncertain. Friends and loved ones are lost. The world becomes quieter, and sometimes the walk into a congregation requires more courage than anyone else realises. A person may arrive hoping not merely to attend a meeting, but to feel that they still matter; that they are still loved; that their presence is still precious.
Yet how easily a congregation can fall into familiar patterns. People gather in their usual groups. The middle-aged speak with those who share their interests. The younger ones laugh easily among themselves. There is warmth, certainly, and friendship is a beautiful gift. But sometimes that warmth does not reach beyond the circle.
And so, an older brother or sister, a widow, someone who is ill, bereaved, anxious or quietly struggling, may walk away just as lonely as they walked in.
There is something deeply sad when a congregation begins to feel more like a social club than a spiritual family. Fellowship is a good thing. Friendship is necessary. But when fellowship becomes a collection of closed circles, leaving the vulnerable standing at the edges, something precious has been lost.
A place of worship should be one of the safest places for a lonely person to enter. It should be a place where tired eyes are noticed, where a quiet sigh is heard, where the person sitting alone does not remain alone for long. It should be a place where someone cares enough not merely to offer a passing greeting, but to sit down and ask, ‘How are you really?’
It does not always require great effort to ease another person’s burden. Sometimes it is a conversation. Sometimes it is a seat offered beside us. Sometimes it is remembering a name, making a telephone call, offering a lift, sharing a cup of tea, or listening without hurry. Small deeds of kindness may appear insignificant to those who give them, but to a lonely person they can be the difference between feeling forgotten and feeling loved.
James wrote of a faith that is shown by deeds. His words remind us that spirituality is not measured merely by our attendance, our knowledge, our words or our outward appearance. It is revealed in compassion. It is seen in the willingness to notice those whom others overlook, and to draw near to those who are quietly hurting.
It is easy to speak of love. It is much harder, and far more meaningful, to practise it when there is no recognition or praise; when the person needing our attention is frail, withdrawn, awkward, grieving or unable to offer anything in return. Yet perhaps it is in those moments that our faith becomes most visible.
God notices the lonely person whom others overlook. He sees the brother or sister who enters with a heavy heart and leaves without anyone knowing the burden they are carrying. He sees the one who sits among many, yet feels painfully alone.
And perhaps he also notices whether we see them.
I often think now of that elderly sister from many years ago. I cannot return to those days and sit beside her. I cannot ask her the question I should perhaps have asked then. But I can allow the memory of her loneliness to soften my heart now. I can try to be more watchful, more compassionate, more willing to cross the room and speak to the person standing quietly on their own.
For faith is not only something we confess with our lips. Sometimes faith is a chair drawn close to someone who is lonely. Sometimes it is a hand held in grief. Sometimes it is a few sincere words spoken to someone who feared that no one had noticed them at all.
A Quiet Hope for Kindness
“You have faith and I have deeds.”
Show me your faith without deeds,
and I will show you my faith by my deeds.
James 2:18
A Quiet Hope for Kindness
Many years ago, I remember an elderly sister who would enter the congregation and look around her with a deep sense of loss in her eyes. There was something in her expression that told its own story. She was lonely.She had come to the very place where she should have found refuge, warmth and companionship, yet it seemed to be a struggle for her simply to be there. I sometimes wonder what thoughts passed through her mind as she took her seat among us.
Perhaps someone will notice me today. Perhaps someone will sit beside me and ask how I really am.
But no one did. I would often see her sitting alone in a coffee shop in the town: Alone.
And, looking back, I must acknowledge with sorrow that I failed her too. I saw something of her loneliness, but I did not do enough to relieve it. At the time, as an elder, I was more tied up with procedure rather than compassion. I am more aware now, more observant as I walk along the beach, the town or the city that the elderly are calling out in silence
Now that I am getting older myself, I am more conscious of that vulnerability. Age can bring many changes. Strength diminishes. Health becomes uncertain. Friends and loved ones are lost. The world becomes quieter, and sometimes the walk into a congregation requires more courage than anyone else realises. A person may arrive hoping not merely to attend a meeting, but to feel that they still matter; that they are still loved; that their presence is still precious.
Yet how easily a congregation can fall into familiar patterns. People gather in their usual groups. The middle-aged speak with those who share their interests. The younger ones laugh easily among themselves. There is warmth, certainly, and friendship is a beautiful gift. But sometimes that warmth does not reach beyond the circle.
And so, an older brother or sister, a widow, someone who is ill, bereaved, anxious or quietly struggling, may walk away just as lonely as they walked in.
There is something deeply sad when a congregation begins to feel more like a social club than a spiritual family. Fellowship is a good thing. Friendship is necessary. But when fellowship becomes a collection of closed circles, leaving the vulnerable standing at the edges, something precious has been lost.
A place of worship should be one of the safest places for a lonely person to enter. It should be a place where tired eyes are noticed, where a quiet sigh is heard, where the person sitting alone does not remain alone for long. It should be a place where someone cares enough not merely to offer a passing greeting, but to sit down and ask, ‘How are you really?’
It does not always require great effort to ease another person’s burden. Sometimes it is a conversation. Sometimes it is a seat offered beside us. Sometimes it is remembering a name, making a telephone call, offering a lift, sharing a cup of tea, or listening without hurry. Small deeds of kindness may appear insignificant to those who give them, but to a lonely person they can be the difference between feeling forgotten and feeling loved.
James wrote of a faith that is shown by deeds. His words remind us that spirituality is not measured merely by our attendance, our knowledge, our words or our outward appearance. It is revealed in compassion. It is seen in the willingness to notice those whom others overlook, and to draw near to those who are quietly hurting.
It is easy to speak of love. It is much harder, and far more meaningful, to practise it when there is no recognition or praise; when the person needing our attention is frail, withdrawn, awkward, grieving or unable to offer anything in return. Yet perhaps it is in those moments that our faith becomes most visible.
God notices the lonely person whom others overlook. He sees the brother or sister who enters with a heavy heart and leaves without anyone knowing the burden they are carrying. He sees the one who sits among many, yet feels painfully alone.
And perhaps he also notices whether we see them.
I often think now of that elderly sister from many years ago. I cannot return to those days and sit beside her. I cannot ask her the question I should perhaps have asked then. But I can allow the memory of her loneliness to soften my heart now. I can try to be more watchful, more compassionate, more willing to cross the room and speak to the person standing quietly on their own.
For faith is not only something we confess with our lips. Sometimes faith is a chair drawn close to someone who is lonely. Sometimes it is a hand held in grief. Sometimes it is a few sincere words spoken to someone who feared that no one had noticed them at all.
And in such simple deeds, love becomes visible.