Although I am still working on my Apprenticeship, A.Div, and Seminary training, I had an experience earlier today (17 Feb) that inspired me to write a sermon that includes lessons from a theology course I am taking as part of my undergraduate education. Please note my friends, that this sermon was written from a Christian/Abrahamic perspective, but can be applied to any faith that one adheres to.
There are moments when mercy does not announce itself. It does not arrive with ceremony. It slips into a room on soft shoes or the light squeak of a freshly cleaned floor, looking like something ordinary: a warm blanket, a lowered voice, a hand steady on the bedrail, a presence that does not flee. On February 17, 2026, in the Emergency Department at Gundersen Lutheran in La Crosse, I was asked to do a small clinical task—an ultrasound-guided IV start for a seventy-year-old woman brought in after a ground-level fall. Her pain was real, but what filled the room even more was fear: the fear that rises when the body fails, when the future narrows, when hospice is no longer an abstract word but a plan. Her son stood by the stretcher and asked the simplest question a family member can ask: “Mom, is there anything you need?” And she answered with the need of a pilgrim: “My rosary. I want my rosary.”
The chaplain was at the bedside. They could provide one, but it was in the spiritual care office. It would take minutes—perhaps only a few—but fear does not wait politely for the hallway. Distress is immediate. It presses on the chest. It steals breath. It makes the present feel like a trap. So I did what mercy often requires: I tried to meet the need that was present, not the need that was convenient. I told her, “I’m wearing my crucifix. If it would bring you comfort, you’re welcome to hold it.” She accepted. Her fingers closed around it, and something in her breathing loosened. The metal in her hand did not change the medical facts, but it changed her loneliness in those facts. She became more able to receive coaching—slow breaths, grounding, the simple discipline of returning to the body. The crucifix became a handhold while the rosary was on its way.
That is what I want to name today: comfort-now mercy.
Comfort-now mercy is not denial. It is not pretending suffering is small. It is the decision to relieve immediate distress in a way that preserves dignity and quietly points to Christ. It is the Church’s refusal to let a frightened person suffer alone while we search for the “proper” solution.
We can be tempted to think of mercy as something grand: institutional programs, sweeping gestures, public declarations. God certainly works through those. But often, mercy is as small as what you can place in someone’s hand right now.
Why? Because God Himself chose “right now.”
The Incarnation is the great refusal of distance. God did not save us from across the street. He entered our street. He entered our flesh. He entered our hours. And because Christ entered time, Christian mercy must be willing to enter time as well—especially the sharp minutes when a person’s fear is most acute.
The Gospel that day (Mark XIII) shows the disciples anxious because they forgot bread. Their minds spiral around what they lack, while the Bread of Life is already in the boat with them. Jesus’ question is almost tender in its firmness: “Do you not yet understand?”
How often we do the same. We panic because we cannot find the thing we normally hold—our routine, our control, our beads—while Christ is closer than our anxiety admits. Sometimes what a suffering person needs is not a lecture about trust, but a concrete reminder that trust is possible.
That is what sacramentals do. A crucifix is not magic. A rosary is not superstition. These are reminders the body can understand when the mind is flooded: “You belong. You are prayed for. You are not alone.” In medicine, we already know the wisdom of tangible comfort. We dim the lights. We warm the blankets. We speak slowly. We ask permission before touch. These are not “extras.” They are humane care. Spiritually, sacramentals are the same kind of mercy—mercy made touchable.
Now, I did not succeed in the IV start. Skill does not always win. But mercy is not measured by success in procedures; mercy is measured by faithfulness in presence. The crucifix stayed with her during her stay. She remained consolable. She was more open to breathing and calming. The chaplain later brought a rosary. When she was discharged home on hospice, the chaplain returned my crucifix, and I placed it back around my neck. That exchange matters. It says: faith is not a trophy; it is a tool for love. It is stable enough to be lent. It is strong enough to be shared. Friends, “comfort-now mercy” is available to all of us.
It looks like:
• noticing distress early, before it turns to panic;
• offering presence before offering explanations;
• giving what is within reach while the fuller help is on its way;
• and doing it without making the moment about ourselves.
If you are a clinician, your calm can be a form of mercy. If you are family, your steadiness can be a form of mercy. If you are a friend, your willingness to stay can be a form of mercy. And if you are a believer, your faith is not only for your own endurance; it can become a shelter for another person’s shaking.
We do not always get to change outcomes. But we can change whether someone suffers alone inside the outcome. We accept the real and now, and do what we can within us to be more human for those in our care.
So, when you encounter someone who is frightened—at a bedside, in a hallway, across a kitchen table—do not underestimate the holy power of small mercies. Offer the handhold. Fetch the beads. Breathe with them. Be near.
Because Christ is not only the Lord of the end. He is the Lord of the moment.
And mercy, if it is Christian, must be willing to become present tense.
May the Force Be With You All my Friends, Always
