Sustaining Compassion

Empathy and Human Flourishing - Part 2

Foreword: I worked for two days on a follow-up to my last post, entitling it “Defending Compassion.” It was “full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.” Or at least nothing that I need to repeat. Anyone reading my Substack posts is certain to value compassion already, and to know how critical it is to us as individuals and as a society (and as a democracy). So rather than repeat what many have said/are saying, I thought it might be better to offer some of my thoughts and experiences of trying to find less costly and more enjoyable ways to continue being a helper; to continue feeling deep empathy, identifying with those in need, and yet finding ways to limit the amount of pain and anxiety I take in. To suggest ways to put boundaries around our compassion, that it might be more sustainable. So even as I continue to feel a deep unease about ways that empathy is being critiqued or discarded by some leaders (and even some who call themselves “Christian”), I think I can be more helpful for those who would continue to live with compassion, to be (to use a biblical metaphor) “salt and light” in the world.

In the life coaching world, “niching” is everything (or so we were told). Your niche (some pronounce it “nitch” and others “neesh” — not sure why that second one bugs me!) is the sweet spot of intersection between your own interests/passions and your ideal clients’ needs. Fairly early on, I recognized how coach training and the required peer coaching was helping me come to terms with my own burnout (or compassion fatigue). I was nine years into campus ministry and almost desperate for a way out, largely because I failed to navigate a changing student body landscape at the university where I worked. A growing recognition of the need for programs to support students on the Autism spectrum had dramatically increased the number of those students on campus, and program leaders encouraged them to participate in extracurricular activities and groups. Identifying those groups who were welcoming and accepting of students whose social skills and needs were often quite different from the mainstream led to our campus ministry group (typically around 20-25 students at any given time) receiving 3-4 students who were part of the Autism Spectrum Student program.

I had previously started learning the hard lesson that you can only help those who really want help and are prepared to receive it, but that lesson didn't really apply here: these students wanted/needed connection and community. One of my deepest theological/moral convictions was some call “radical hospitality.” (Some would say Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion… or they would have before those words became inexplicably toxic). I felt that a Christian witness in any place — but especially on a public university campus — ought to be welcoming of anyone who wanted to experience a supportive, meaningful community of faith. So when our group began welcoming students with a very different set of needs and issues than those with whom I felt I had been called and equipped to work, I learned about Autism Spectrum Disorder and looked for ways our group (and not just me) might provide hospitality — and even how the group itself could benefit from their participation.

What I experienced was a profound sense of frustration, inadequacy, and failure; my learning was completely inadequate for finding ways to integrate students who — in several cases — had the social skills and emotional maturity of middle schoolers. Our group programs went from being deep, soul-searching conversations and questions about life and faith (which I had deeply enjoyed for seven or eight years of that ministry) to having those conversations disrupted by inappropriate questions and behaviors — behaviors I was unprepared to challenge. Eventually — I think… it’s a bit of a blur now more than 12 years later — I quit trying to do deeper, more meaningful things (the things that had fed me as a leader, and also fed many students) and began to “phone it in.” We met, we ate snacks, we sang a song or two, we said prayers, and we talked about classes and college life. And the sense of deeper community began to slip away — for me and for many students.

I eventually realized I was burned out, my enthusiasm and energy for working with college students gone. And the only option I could see was to get out.¹

Looking back now, I can certainly see other possibilities. But the one that has been the most difficult for me to contemplate — even in retrospect — is what it might have taken/what it might have been like for me to find ways to limit the participation of students whose needs neither I nor our group was equipped to meet. My own deep convictions/beliefs kept me “on the hook” (not always a bad thing, to be sure); my compassion — lacking boundaries — was akin to a spigot with no flow control. Ministry became far more about obligation and felt far less like opportunity.

I lived for a long time with that sense of obligation to help wherever/whenever I found people that I perceived to be in need. I wasn’t taught how to limit the incoming flow of vicarious suffering, and since the world is filled with suffering, I found myself frequently alternating between sadness and anger. (I still visit those places fairly often, but try not to live there!). Entering a coach training process that was a bit like extended therapy, I was encouraged to look for what felt less like obligation and more like opportunity. What ways of contributing to the good of others/the world felt energizing, inviting, or — dare I say — even fun? It changed my life. Still honoring my deepest values (who I am), I have been looking for ways ever since to enjoy my helping work. And it makes all the difference.

In my last post, I shared what this can look like when it takes place in a larger community setting (see Community Paralysis in that post). Just as it can for us as individuals, empathy can lead to compassion fatigue for groups, institutions, and even in governing bodies. But even asking questions about how we might limit or create boundaries around our compassion can feel like a betrayal of our deepest convictions and identities! I find that when helpers first begin to consider any form of “empathy restructuring” or self-care, they feel deeply selfish — as though they somehow do not deserve the same considerations, nurture, and joy as the people they seek to help. The two critical steps are:

1. A careful “accounting” of what it is costing them to do their caring work without boundaries:

   1. Personally — physical and mental health often both suffer; financial woes are common (whether because of overspending their own resources on others or binge-spending on themselves as a kind of “numbing” action); and happiness and joy are severely diminished.

   2. Family — loved ones get “leftovers” of time and energy (which often means little to nothing….).

   3. Recipients — the quality of help and the attitude with which it is given inevitably suffer eventually. More effort doesn't lead to better results because the effort is tainted by fatigue or depression.

2. A willingness to see that keeping something for themselves — or even treating themselves as graciously as they seek to treat those they are helping — can be:

   1. Far more sustainable, enabling them to continue helping for much longer than their current trajectory will allow (and much more effectively).

   2. A blessing that they deserve to give themselves, just as they are convinced the folks they work with deserve blessings.

The hard truth here is that this sort of “self-love” is a form of “tough love.” It rarely comes easily or without external support (counselors, coaches, spiritual directors, wise mentors, etc.). And in a larger communal setting, especially, it doesn't come without cost. Choosing who/when/how to help means that some will not receive the gifts of our compassion.

But what does this sort of tough love — a sustainable empathy — look like for our society as a whole? How do we deal with both the political and the emotional fallout when people suffer from the choices we make? Despite negative impressions we often have of politicians, I would guess that many live in a constant state of ambivalence, knowing that less-than-ideal deals have to be made, that hard choices demand sacrifice, and that human beings will both rise and fall with almost any legislation they enact. Only those who possess absolute moral (and usually religious) certitude are immune from this ambi-valent (two-sided) experience. (Sadly, it seems that an increasing number fall into this category…). As a whole, we at least need to acknowledge that social policies are never perfect (Abraham Lincoln was certainly astute in observing that trying to please everyone is a fool's errand). Collectively, we need to keep looking for the “greater good” — that which will provide the best opportunities for the most people to flourish. BUT if we submit to reductionist arguments of an absolutist nature (“We can ONLY EVER do it this way or with THESE rules or within THIS moral/religious framework”), not only do we lose the opportunity to exercise our compassion, we lose the thread of true democracy. (I also wonder how term limitations for representatives might help some honor their sense of compassion without the burden of constantly considering what will help them get reelected?)

If I had it to do all over again — the challenge of doing campus ministry in a setting with a greater diversity of needs than I was prepared for — what would I do differently? A few possibilities:

• I might have created two new groups — one primarily for student with Autism Spectrum challenges, and one to blend that group with our other group to share socialization, volunteer opportunities, etc. And I would have recruited help to manage those groups.

• I might have laid more responsibility on sponsoring organizations — local churches, committees, boards. (As I think back now, I wasn't clear enough about asking for the kind of help I needed — at least partly because I didn't know…).

• Even as I write this one, I'm still bound by my deepest beliefs and find it painful to say, BUT I might have found ways to direct some students to alternative groups. At the time, I would surely experienced this as a failure, but what happened instead was that I stopped doing that work — which in other ways was an even more significant failure.

I'm reminded of having written previously about our values and how we draw on them and also sometimes experience substantial internal conflict between them. Both individually and collectively, I think we need to do the hard work of assessing our values and of choosing which ones will will honor more highly than others (even if only temporarily). I know that can sound morally ambiguous, and it certainly comes across that way in the brief sound bytes to which we tend to pay attention these days. But large-scale decision-making is even more complex than what we do as individuals, so recognizing that different decisions may call for different values to be honored above others is both realistic and freeing.

I feel just a bit like I wandered into some weeds in this post, so if you've stuck with it this long, thank you for your curiosity and tenacity! Perhaps this poem can be a kind of reward for your reading — I will definitely plan to expand my poetic references in upcoming posts, but this one from Mary Oliver is among the truest things I've ever read about boundaries and compassion. The first time I read it, I remember tears streaming down my face as I was struck by its deep honesty and awareness — truly prophetic, I'd say:

The Journey

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice–
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
‘Mend my life!’
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do —
determined to save
the only life you could save.

Peace, Dana

1. There is more to the story, of course, regarding asking for help from committees/boards who were equally confused and unequipped to support this specialized kind of ministry.