Mercy Always Wins

Let me ask you a question to get us started today: Have you ever been left out, or ignored, or treated like you didn’t matter?

When I was a kid, we used to play this game on the playground called “Pick Your Team.”

You know the one—two team captains stand up, and everyone else stands in a nervous line waiting to see when—or if—they’ll be picked.

First, the fastest kid gets called.
Then the strongest.
Then the kid who had a trampoline in his backyard and was, for all intents and purposes, a playground god with a juice box endorsement deal.
Then, one by one, the rest get picked.

And then… there’s always that one kid left.

Let’s just say, if you’re not sure who that was, it might have been you.

It was me—at least once or twice. Maybe more than twice if we’re being honest.

And that feeling—that slow, stomach-knotting realization that you’re not wanted—it sticks with you.

It doesn’t matter how old you get. Rejection doesn’t age out.

It’s funny how the little things—being left out of a group text, not getting invited to the dinner, being overlooked at work—can cut deep.

Because deep down, we all want to matter. We want to be seen. We want to be picked.

And favoritism? It tells us that some people matter more.

Now imagine what that’s like when it happens in the church—a place that’s supposed to be a refuge for the brokenhearted, a home for the outsider—the one community where love isn’t performance-based.

But if we’re honest—many people walk into churches and quietly wonder, “Do I belong here?”

And the answer they get has everything to do with their appearance, or their bank account, or their background.

I heard a story about a pastor in a large city who dressed like a homeless person—worn clothes, messy beard, unshowered.

He came to church before his first Sunday as the new senior pastor that way. He walked through the lobby, sat near the front, and waited.

Some people ignored him. A few subtly avoided eye contact. No one spoke to him.

Then, during announcements, he walked up to the platform, introduced himself as their new senior pastor, and said, “We’re going to talk about what I experienced today.”

Can you imagine being in that room? That sinking realization?

We live in a world that evaluates, ranks, and filters constantly.

We grade people like essays: strong opening, weak logic, needs improvement.

Swipe left, swipe right.
Algorithmic worth.
Profile-based assumptions.
First-impression bias.

And it’s subtle, right? We don’t mean to favor some and overlook others—but we do.

It’s baked into the culture of success and self-promotion that surrounds us, especially here in the Bay Area.

A place where your last name doesn’t matter unless it’s on a building—or a start-up acquisition.

Favoritism might seem harmless or even normal, but James—Jesus’ brother—says it’s actually devastating.

It’s not just impolite; it’s anti-gospel. It’s against the way of Jesus.

It reveals a heart misaligned with God’s love.

So today, we’re going to talk about what happens when the church starts playing favorites—and how mercy, not merit, must define our community.

Because in the kingdom of God, everyone gets picked first.

If you have your Bible, open it to James 2:1–13—and let’s wise up.

We’ll start with verses 1–4:

My brothers and sisters, believers in our glorious Lord Jesus Christ must not show favoritism. (James 2:1)

James doesn’t ease into the subject. He doesn’t warm us up. He goes straight for the jugular:

If you follow Jesus, you don’t play favorites.

And to make his point, he tells a story.

Two people walk into a church gathering. One is clearly wealthy—wearing gold rings and fine clothes. The ancient equivalent of showing up with a Bentley key fob, a Prada jacket, and a luxury watch that somehow costs more than a semester at Stanford.

The other guy? Not so much. His clothes haven’t been washed in weeks. His body language says, “Please don’t notice me.”

He’s invisible in the world—and quickly becomes invisible in the church too.

James says the rich man is treated like royalty: “Here, sit in the best seat.”

And the poor man? “Could you just… stand in the back?”

It sounds extreme, right? But let’s not kid ourselves. This still happens.

Maybe not with assigned seats—but in more subtle ways:

Who we make eye contact with.
Who we’re excited to see walk through the door.
Who we talk to at the coffee cart.
Who gets the warm smile—and who gets the polite but distant nod.
Who we invite into our circles—and who we quietly keep out.

We might never say it out loud, but we think it:

“Successful? Put-together? Interesting? Come sit up front.”
“Awkward? Needy? Might make the conversation weird? Maybe next week.”

The Greek word James uses for “favoritism” means literally “to receive the face.”
It’s judging someone entirely by what’s visible. The surface.

In our world, “face value” comes with a whole list of signals:

What do they do?
Where do they live?
What school did they go to?
What do they drive?
Are they wearing designer or discount?
Do they drink Philz? Peet’s? Or… heaven forbid… Starbucks?

We’ve been trained to:

Estimate net worth by sneakers,
Gauge intelligence by how confidently someone says “systems thinking,”
And respect degrees more than character.

Let me tell you a quick story.

I once had someone introduce themselves to me, and within 30 seconds, they casually dropped, “I was part of the original team at Google.”

Now, I’m not saying they shouldn’t be proud of that. That’s impressive. But I noticed something in me light up. “Oh… you’re important.”

And that’s the moment I realized: this stuff lives in me, too.

We’re not immune. Not even in church.

There’s a Stanford study that found we evaluate a person’s trustworthiness within 100 milliseconds of seeing their face.

That’s faster than you can click “Skip Intro” on Netflix. You know you do.

So favoritism isn’t just about how we see others—it’s about what it reveals in us.

James doesn’t say favoritism is impolite. He says it’s evil.

Why?

Because it’s a symptom of a distorted value system. A heart shaped by competition, not compassion. By self-preservation, not self-giving love.

When we favor people who are wealthy, powerful, or well-connected, we’re revealing who we think can benefit us.

Our kindness has a price tag.
Our welcome is conditional.
Our “love” is actually a transaction.

And James says: That’s not love at all. That’s just networking with spiritual branding.

Let me ask you a question:

When someone walks into this church, who are you secretly hoping it is?

And who are you secretly hoping it’s not?

That’s the diagnostic moment.

An African American man was trying to join a church in the South that had a long history of racism and exclusion.

They wouldn’t let him in.

He went to the pastor and explained what was happening, and the pastor shrugged and said, “You just need to pray about it.”

Three weeks later, the pastor saw the man again and asked, “So—did you talk to God about it?”

The man said, “Yes. And God said, ‘Don’t worry about it. I’ve been trying to get into that church for 20 years—and they won’t let me in either.’”

You see, when we show favoritism, we’re not just rejecting people. We’re rejecting the presence of God.

Because Jesus doesn’t just identify with the powerful. He identifies with the excluded.

And when we build a church culture where some are elevated and others are excluded—we risk leaving Jesus outside.

Because if we find ourselves leaning toward some people and away from others—not because of behavior, but because of image—

That’s when we have to stop and ask: “Whose value system am I living by?”

Because God doesn’t look at the outside. He looks at the heart.

And if we’re becoming more like him, we’ll do the same.

Remember what God said to Samuel when he was choosing Israel’s next king?

People look at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart. (1 Samuel 16:7)

David was the youngest, the smallest, the one even his dad forgot to call in from the field.

But that’s who God chose.

Because God doesn’t evaluate the way we do—and he expects his people not to either.

Let me tell you about a time I almost missed it.

A guy came into our church wearing dirty clothes. He looked tired. He sat near the back, didn’t make eye contact.

And I hate saying this, but I didn’t talk to him.

I was “too busy.” I had “things to do.”

Later that day, someone told me he had been in prison.

And now? He’s in our church. And he’s learning. And he’s growing.

I almost missed all of that—because I was evaluating him before I even said hello.

That’s how subtle—and how dangerous—favoritism can be.

So here’s a challenge:

Move toward the people you instinctively avoid.

When you feel yourself gravitating toward someone because they impress you—ask, “Who is being ignored in this moment?”

Go sit with the overlooked. Go serve the person who seems unimportant.

Because that’s where Jesus would be.

You see, when we show favoritism, we’re not just making a social decision. We’re making a theological one.

We’re declaring, “This is how value works.”

And James says, “That system? That’s evil.”

Because it runs on pride, image, and power—not grace, humility, and mercy.

Let me give you a tech analogy:

Favoritism is like spiritual bias in the algorithm. It affects what you notice. What you prioritize. Who you elevate.

And the worst part? It doesn’t stay internal. It spreads.

It affects the culture of a church.
It creates tiers of belonging.
It builds a hierarchy where Jesus dismantled one.

Because a church that favors the powerful—even subtly—is a church that has forgotten the cross.

Let’s look at verses 5–7:

Listen, my dear brothers and sisters: Has not God chosen those who are poor in the eyes of the world to be rich in faith…? (James 2:5)

James shifts the spotlight.

He’s just called out our default settings—favoring the rich, overlooking the poor—and now he challenges that with one powerful question:

“Has not God chosen the poor?”

In the first-century world, wealth wasn’t just about lifestyle. It was identity.

The rich had power, land, political leverage.
The poor were often invisible, unprotected, expendable.

And yet again and again, God chooses them.

He picks David, the forgotten shepherd boy, to lead a nation.
He raises up Moses, a fugitive with a speech problem, to confront an empire.
He calls Mary, a teenage girl in a town with a bad reputation, to carry the Messiah.

God seems almost stubbornly committed to reversing our assumptions about who matters.

This isn’t a new idea—go all the way back to Deuteronomy.

God told His people, “I did not choose you because you were numerous or impressive… but because I loved you.” (Deuteronomy 7:7-8)

God’s choosing isn’t based on what’s seen. It’s based on his love.

In James’ day, the church wasn’t built by influencers. It wasn’t a TEDx conference with sandals.

It was a gathering of ordinary people—fishermen, slaves, widows, immigrants, orphans.

And that’s who God used to ignite a global movement.

First-century Christians weren’t holding equity. They were holding on.

They were laborers, farmers, day-workers. No one had a Peloton. No one had a personal brand.

What made the church radical wasn’t just that it included the poor—It elevated them.

They weren’t the charity recipients. They were the spiritual leaders.

Because the early church believed something we’ve quietly forgotten: The poor have something the rich need.

Not money. Not image. But deep, durable faith.

Not the kind of faith that refreshes after yoga and a turmeric latte.

The kind that survives heartbreak. And scarcity. And silence. And suffering.

That’s what James is getting at when he says: “Why are you dishonoring the very people God has honored?”

Why are you catering to those who exploit, while ignoring those who are rich in faith?

Today, the temptation looks different—but the script is the same.

We may not use gold rings and purple robes anymore, but we’ve got our own status signals:

The job title that makes people lean in: “Senior Product Manager at Meta.”
The degree that gives instant credibility: “I did a dual program at Harvard and MIT.”
The subtle humblebrag: “We just got back from sabbatical in Patagonia. The region, not the jacket.”

Favoritism today is less about Rolexes—and more about résumés.

But James reminds us: None of that matters in the kingdom of God.

Because what impresses the world doesn’t impress God. What gets someone influence in a startup doesn’t get them status with God.

And the person we’re tempted to overlook might be carrying a faith that could change our own.

If we only welcome the polished, we’ll miss the prophetic.
If we only listen to the powerful, we’ll silence the ones God most wants to speak through.

Let me tell you about a man named Rob.

Rob had a past—addiction, brokenness, divorce. The whole story.

When he first attended church, you could tell he felt out of place. He’d sit in the back. Didn’t say much.

But he kept showing up.

Eventually, he joined a small group—and everything changed.

His faith—raw, unfiltered—started to encourage everyone else.

People who had been following Jesus for decades started saying things like,
“I think I’ve been a Christian so long I forgot how much I need Jesus. Rob reminded me.”

That’s the kingdom of God.

Rob didn’t just benefit from being welcomed.

The church benefitted from welcoming him.

And that’s the thing we don’t always realize—When we dishonor the poor, we’re not just robbing them of dignity. We’re robbing ourselves of the gifts God placed in them for us.

Here’s a spiritual practice to flip the script.

If you want to break free from favoritism, try this: Pay attention to who you’re overlooking—and then move toward them.

Not as a project. Not to “help.”

Just to learn.
To listen.
To see what God might want to show you through someone the world has forgotten.

Because James is saying:

Stop playing by the world’s script. God already flipped it. Start living by His.

Alright, let’s move on to verses 8–11:

If you really keep the royal law found in Scripture, ‘Love your neighbor as yourself,’ you are doing right. But if you show favoritism, you sin… (James 2:8–9)

Let’s talk about this phrase: the royal law.

It sounds fancy—like something etched on scrolls in gold calligraphy and stored behind velvet ropes.

But James is quoting something very familiar to every Jewish listener: Leviticus 19:18.

And he calls it “royal” not just because it sounds impressive—but because it comes straight from the King.

Jesus himself said this law—Love your neighbor as yourself—sums up the entire moral vision of God.

Not as they deserve.
Not as they benefit you.
Not as they align with your worldview.

As. Yourself.

This is the heart of God’s covenant with his people. It’s not new—it’s ancient.

Even back in Leviticus, God was forming a people who wouldn’t just obey rules, but would reflect his heart.

This “royal law” wasn’t about moral superiority. It was about embodying a radical kind of community—one where everyone had dignity because everyone was made in God’s image.

And James doesn’t give us a loophole.

He doesn’t say, “Love your neighbor unless they’re difficult, uneducated, draining, awkward, politically opposite, or still using an iPhone 8.”

He says, “If you show favoritism, you sin.”

Let’s sit with that. Favoritism isn’t a flaw. It’s not a quirk. It’s sin.

One of the most loving things you can do in a place like the Bay Area is to notice someone who’s not “useful” to your life trajectory.

Because so much of life here is built on optimization:

Networking
Efficiency
ROI
“Adding value”

But love?

Love is wildly inefficient.
It slows down.
It sees the person.
It listens past the awkwardness.
It doesn’t calculate—it commits.

Let’s be honest: we all have people we instinctively avoid.

Sometimes they challenge our comfort.
Sometimes they expose our pride.
Sometimes they just talk too much in small group and say things like, “I feel like this is a season where God’s pruning my spiritual branches,” and you have no idea what that means—but you nod anyway.

But Jesus doesn’t say, “Tolerate your neighbor.” Or “Manage your neighbor.” He says: “Love them.”

James says that breaking this law is like breaking all of it.

It’s not a minor infraction. It’s a foundational failure.

Think of it like a bridge. You don’t need to destroy every beam to collapse it.

Just one well-placed weakness and the whole structure falls.

Favoritism weakens the bridge of love.

Eventually, it collapses under the weight of its own hypocrisy.

Or imagine a beautifully written program—10,000 lines of optimized code.

But one unhandled exception crashes the entire system.

Favoritism is a crash-level bug in the community of faith.

Because love is the operating system.

And when you corrupt the core, everything else breaks too.

And just like in software, you might not notice the bug right away.

The app still opens.
The site still loads.

But over time, the system becomes glitchy.

The church becomes colder, and narrower, and shallower.

People stop coming—not because they don’t like Jesus, but because they never felt like they belonged to his people.

And James is waving a flag saying, “Don’t let that happen to your community.”

Now, let’s Be Honest:

There have been times when I’ve welcomed someone more quickly because they were sharp, or educated, or successful.

And there have been times I was slower to engage with someone who seemed socially awkward or emotionally draining.

And that’s on me.

That’s not loving my neighbor. That’s protecting my comfort.

And that’s not what Jesus did.

Think about how Jesus lived out this royal law:

He sat with tax collectors.
He touched lepers.
He honored women in a patriarchal world.
He told stories where the hero was a Samaritan—not a scholar, not a priest, not the religious elite.

And then—he died for the very people who betrayed him.

That’s not sentiment. That’s sacrificial love.

So when we talk about loving our neighbor, we’re not talking about a nice idea. We’re talking about sacrificial living.

And when we fail to do that—when we show favoritism—we’re not just being unkind. We’re not just breaking church culture. We’re breaking covenant. We’re rejecting the very ethic that gives the gospel its power.

Because the gospel isn’t just something we believe. It’s something we live.

And when we live it well, love isn’t selective—it’s sacrificial.

Let’s look at verses 12–13:

Speak and act as those who are going to be judged by the law that gives freedom, because judgment without mercy will be shown to anyone who has not been merciful. Mercy triumphs over judgment. (James 2:12–13)

Did you notice those words ‘mercy’ and ‘merciful’ are used three times in those verses? It’s the same word that Jesus used when he said:

Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy. (Matthew 5:7)

Mercy means love in action. Mercy is an attitude that starts in the heart of love; but it has to rise up, it has to find an expression. It’s a revolutionary kind of love.

It’s not just something you feel inside. You express it. Mercy says let me help.

It doesn’t just say I love, I care about you, I’m concerned about you. It says let me come alongside of you and assist you and show you how much I love you.

We’re not only called to treat people equally; we’re called to treat people with something better than equality—and that’s mercy.

Favoritism looks at the face, but mercy looks beneath at the heart.
Favoritism says how can you help me? Mercy says how can I help you?
Favoritism is self-centered. Mercy is other-centered.

Every day you and I have the opportunity to follow the example of Jesus to not show favoritism, but to instead extend mercy to people.

Let me read the last four words of James 2:13 again.

Mercy triumphs over judgment. (James 2:13)

This is one of the most beautiful, liberating, and honestly humbling four words in the New Testament.

Mercy. Triumphs. Over. Judgment.

That’s not just a theological point. That’s the gospel in four words.

James says:

Speak and act as those who are going to be judged by the law that gives freedom, (James 2:12)

In other words: Don’t forget who you are. Don’t forget how you got in.

You weren’t welcomed into God’s family because you were the most polished, most strategic, most emotionally intelligent person in your row. You were welcomed because of mercy.

God didn’t run a background check and say, “They’re clean, let them in.”

He saw the mess and said, “I love them anyway.”

He didn’t base his love on your performance. He based it on his grace.

Favoritism says, “You’re valuable if…”
Mercy says, “You’re valuable, period.”

And James is saying: If you’ve received that kind of mercy, how can you possibly withhold it from someone else?

It’s like being pulled out of a flood, given dry clothes and a warm meal—and then refusing to help the next person drowning because “they probably made bad choices.”

That’s what we do when we judge instead of extend grace.

Let me tell you a story.

Years ago, a church in San Francisco started a midweek meal ministry. The idea was simple: dinner every Wednesday night. No preaching. No program. Just long tables, warm food, and real conversation.

The catch?

They intentionally mixed the guest list: Tech workers. People experiencing homelessness. Retired professionals. Refugees. Recovering addicts.

The only rule? Everyone serves, and everyone is served.

One guy who had been on the street for years ended up helping a VC investor clear tables.

Later that night, the investor said, “That was one of the most meaningful conversations I’ve had in a year.”

That’s what mercy does.

Mercy breaks down walls.
Mercy equalizes the table.
Mercy says, “You belong—not because of what you bring, but because of who you are.”

James warns us: if we live without mercy—if we judge, categorize, and exclude—we shouldn’t expect to receive what we refuse to give.

But when we lead with mercy—when it becomes our posture, our reflex, our reputation—everything shifts.

We stop managing people. We start ministering to them.
We stop curating community. We start embodying Christ.

Rosaria Butterfield, a former professor at Syracuse University, was an atheist and vocal critic of Christianity.

After writing an op-ed against Christian values, she received a letter—not defensive, not aggressive. Just… curious. Thoughtful.

It came from a local pastor. He and his wife invited her to dinner. No pressure. No debate. Just hospitality.

She expected arguments. What she got was mercy.

They welcomed her back again. And again. And again.

She later said: “They didn’t treat me like a project. They treated me like a person.”

Over time, that mercy opened her heart to the mercy of God.

It wasn’t a doctrine that changed her first. It was dinner.
It wasn’t a rebuttal. It was relationship.

That’s the power of mercy.

Mercy disarms. Mercy opens. Mercy wins.

Maybe you’re listening and thinking, “I’ve failed at this.”

You’ve played favorites.
You’ve avoided the hard people.
You’ve chosen comfort over compassion.

You’re not alone.

James is writing this letter to a church full of real people. People like us. People who mess up. People who default to judgment. People who are still learning to love.

And yet James doesn’t end this section with guilt—he ends it with hope.

Mercy triumphs.
Mercy wins.
Mercy covers.
Mercy changes everything.

If you’ve been judgmental—you can change.
If you’ve been overlooked—you’re still seen.
If you’ve been merciful—keep going. You’re giving the world a glimpse of what heaven looks like.

So how do we actually become people of mercy?

Here are three simple, but not easy, practices:

1. Assume dignity

Every person you meet—whether they’re cleaning your building or chairing the board—bears the image of God. Treat them like it.

2. Interrupt your comfort

Favoritism thrives in comfort zones. Break the pattern.

Invite someone new to lunch.
Sit next to someone alone.
Serve where your preferences aren’t prioritized.

3. Rewire your reactions

When you meet someone, what’s your first instinct?

Do you size them up?
Do you compare?
Do you move toward them—or quietly away?

Mercy trains us to look again. To slow down. To see beneath the surface.

So let’s take a breath and reflect for a moment.

This passage from James—it’s not just about church etiquette. It’s about the kind of people we’re becoming.

Here’s the question I want to leave you with:

What kind of community do we want to be?

Do we want to be a church that reflects the culture around us—polished, performance-based, image-conscious?

Or a church that reflects the kingdom of God—messy, merciful, radically welcoming?

Because here’s the truth:

Favoritism is easy.
Mercy is costly.

Favoritism protects comfort.
Mercy stretches it.

Favoritism draws circles.
Mercy makes space.

What if our church became a place where the outsider felt like family before they even knew where to park?

Where the guy in cutoff jeans and the woman in high heels both felt equally at home?

Where people who’ve been told their whole life, “You’re not enough,” walk in here and hear, “You are seen. You are loved. You matter.”

That’s not sentimental. That’s supernatural.

That’s the kingdom of God. That’s what James is calling us to.

That’s what Jesus demonstrated with every person he welcomed, every barrier he broke, and every step he took toward the cross.

Let’s be that kind of church.

Where the résumé doesn’t determine the reception.
Where the credentials don’t control the compassion.
Where mercy—not judgment—is our defining posture.

Because mercy doesn’t just belong in our theology.

It belongs in our tone.
Our body language.
Our invitations.
Our tables—It belongs in how we make space for others.

And one more thing—mercy isn’t just something we give. It’s something we’re going to need.

There will come a day when you will walk into a room unsure of yourself.

When you’ll feel unworthy. Unqualified. Out of place.

And on that day—you won’t need a lecture.

You’ll need mercy.

Let’s be the kind of people who give what we know we’ll one day need.

Because in the end… Mercy always wins.

Alright let me pray for you as the worship team comes to lead us in a closing song.