Beyond the Pity Project

I remember one summer when my mom paid a neighbor girl to pop in every once in a while to keep me company. My brother and sister each had for summer schedules, and both my parents worked full-time. I get it now: my mom didn’t want me to spend the entire day alone. But when I originally found out about the arrangement, I was devastated. Offended. I felt like a pity project.

My mom’s intentions were good, but that experience planted a seed. As I got older, it became easier to interpret acts of kindness through that same lens: Someone feels sorry for me, so they’re just trying to be nice: trying to do the right thing.

There is nothing wrong with wanting good for someone or helping. But there is a world of difference between pity-driven charity and love-driven community.

In The Amplified Bible, Matthew 9:36 says that Jesus “was moved with compassion and pity.” It’s important to make a distinction here, because our modern word for pity has changed. When we read that Jesus “had compassion on the crowds” (ESV), the original Greek word, splanchnizomai, is incredibly powerful. It means to be moved in your inward parts—a gut-level, visceral empathy. For Jesus, this was never a condescending feeling. It was a catalyst for action. He felt it, and so He healed, He taught, and He fed them. It was a compassion that moved toward people, not one that looked down on them.

The modern understanding of compassion seems to be more in line with pity. This interpretation of compassion establishes distance. Biblical compassion closes the distance. Transactions fueled by pity leave the giver feeling good. Responses born out of love make the receiver feel seen.

This is the cry of our hearts, especially for those of us with disabilities. I don’t want to be your good deed for the week. Nor do I want to be a box to check on your discipleship list. I am a person, your peer. We long to be seen as a friend, not a project. We want to talk about football, or work, or complain about the weather, not just talk about our disability. When you’re seen as a project, you’re not seen as a person. You’re an object. You’re a task to be completed. It’s dehumanizing, even when the intention is kind.

The apostle Paul draws this line perfectly: “If I give away all I have… but have not love, I gain nothing” (1 Corinthians 13:3, ESV). Helping without love is just a clanging cymbal. It’s noise. It’s the sound of someone checking a box.

Sociological research even shows that our modern idea of pity is an othering emotion. It establishes a hierarchy: I am up here, and you are down there. I will reach down to help you. This dynamic is toxic to genuine friendship.

The model of Jesus was never othering. He didn’t just heal from a distance; He touched the leper, He ate with sinners, He sat with the woman. He entered their world. He shared their meals, walked their roads, and felt their pain. His compassion was incarnational—it put on flesh and moved into the neighborhood.

So how do we move from pity to partnership? It starts by following a simple “With, Not For” principle. Don’t just offer to do something for someone. Offer to do it with them.

Instead of: “Let me know if you need anything.”

Try: “I’m running to the grocery store. Send me your list, and I’ll drop it off and we can chat for 10 minutes.”

Instead of: “I’ll pray for you.”

Try: “Do you have a minute to pray together right now?”

Instead of: “We’re dropping off a meal.”

Try: “We’re dropping off a meal. Do you have 15 minutes for us to sit and eat with you on the porch?”

For churches, this means reframing our service ministries. A disability ministry shouldn’t just be a separate room; it should be an integration team that equips every other ministry—ushers, small groups, children’s—to do life with people of all abilities. It’s a shift from helping to belonging.

This is Part 1 of our 5-part series on loneliness. Being seen as a peer, not a project, is the first step. But what happens when people stop trying to “help” and start trying to “fix” you?

Come back tomorrow for Part 2: “Please, Don’t Fix Me. Just Hear Me.”