Difficulties of Compassion

Last weekend we were introduced at St. Henry’s, the church that owns the house in which we live. It also happened to be the weekend of anointing the sick and elderly – perhaps they saw it as a fitting time to introduce the JVs. At the end of mass, we were all invited up and gave the standard where we’re from, where we are serving, etc. introduction. After the service, a man, whom I will call Steve, approached my housemate Erica and I, and said that he really enjoyed our introductions. He told us that he is very lonely and wants a companion to have dinner with him, and he said we sounded like just the people he needs.

In my mind I had two immediate reactions. One, I felt compassion for this man opening up himself and calling out for love in front of me. I wanted to be there for him. But I also felt a desire to disengage and wished that he had never approached me. I thought Steve didn’t really understand what a JV year looks like, I am not really in a position to help him, and I don’t want to deal with this.

Before we could continue speaking with Steve, we got drawn out of the conversation and swept off to a newcomer’s dinner. I didn’t see anyone invite Steve.

But it became apparent that Steve was familiar with the church, and he made his way over to the dinner across the street. It also soon seemed apparent to me that the church was familiar with him, but he was largely ignored.

I invited Steve to sit next to me at our dinner table and tried to offer a listening ear. He proceeded to pour out his story to me; it was hard to hear. Over the course of his life, Steve has lived in multiple group homes, and he feels that where he currently stays no one likes him. He does not enjoy the activities they put on and does not really have friends there. He also told me that his parents have passed away, and he doesn’t have any family. I had a hard time understanding his exact relationship with St. Henry’s, but it was clear that he does attend there at least sometimes. He worries about what people think about him due to the disabilities he has. Some people ignore him because they can’t understand his speech. All in all, it seemed to me, he was profoundly lonely.

He gave me his phone number to call him so that we could have dinner together. I did not say yes to this, but I did not really say no either. I did not know how. Either way, it seemed to me that I was going to end up as another person who hurt him.

I know I do not have the time and emotional capacity to reach out to him and be his friend. I would burnout. But by not doing so, I would be leaving him alone.

After some time talking with Steve, someone from the church asked if I needed a break from the conversation while I was up getting food. I knew by saying yes, I would basically be saying no to Steve. I said yes. I felt completely drained and on the verge of tears, so I did not know if I could continue on the conversation. But I wonder how it felt to Steve to see me come back to the table and take another seat not by him.

When most people finished eating, different church members share about their various ministries. During one woman’s brief presentation, she paused, and it seem a natural moment to ask a question. Steve raised his hand, and she saw him out of the corner of her eye. It looked like she was turning to call on him, but when she saw who it was she just said “no!” as if rebuking a child.

To me it seemed Steve was perceived as a nuisance and a burden. And this is at a church that is relatively socially active. They operate a food pantry two days a week, and one day a week open up their gym as a day space and serve a hot meal. They have a peace and justice committee. They have a house that they rent out to JVC NW, and they have treated us kindly. And maybe there is more going on that I did not see, and they are doing something with Steve, but it was a saddening dinner.

I left the church angry. I shook hands with Steve goodbye, but I left quickly not really giving him a chance to speak because I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to do something, but then I also did not want to do something, or felt that I couldn’t do anything. I was frustrated with myself, with the church, and with society. There are so many lonely people out there.

I returned to our house, silent and stewing inside. When I opened up with Erica about how upset I was, the tears started coming. Going on a walk to calm down, I wrestled with this question:

How do live in the self-giving, compassionate way of the cross while also practice self-care and maintaining personal well-being?

In my mind, I know that this question creates a false dichotomy because being compassionate with yourself flows into greater compassion with others over time. But the question is profoundly difficult on a heart level, when real life happens and you are confronted with the world’s pain and your own limitations.

Taking the question out of the abstract and applying it, the question becomes: do I call Steve back or not?

On the one hand, I have a deeply held commitment to pursuing social justice through relationships and love. And to be in relationship with someone, to love someone, requires opening up one’s self to the risk of being changed and the risk of being hurt. It requires energy and time and your whole self. Pursuing justice through mutual relationships cannot be placed into a neatly sealed box called work and separated from the rest of your life.

On the other hand, I am finite. I cannot save anyone. If I am not well, don’t take care of myself, and don’t have boundaries, then I will not be able to live a life of such love and relationship at all. I will develop compassion fatigue and burnout. Even Jesus went away to pray in solitude. He did not heal everyone he encountered, and he avoided the crowds at times.

I did not call Steve.

But I am hoping to not forget him. It would be easier in some ways to push him out of my mind, but that doesn’t feel satisfactory. I should by his situation and the inadequacy of my response, the church’s response and society’s response. I will not live in shame, but I will live in the hope that things ought to and will be better. Living with such hope necessitates not accepting the current arrangement of things. I want to grow in compassion and go to the places of pain and sorrow which are frustrating and anger inducing. I believe that in those places I not only have something to offer, but I have much to receive. It is in those places in which I may open up to give and receive love in a new way. Going to places of inhumanity, and allowing myself to be upset rather than turning a blind eye or rationalizing it away, I may become more human.

As I reflected more this last week, I also realized that there were more possibilities that my compassion could have led me to then remembering Steve and calling him or remember him or not calling him. I was operating under a very limiting equation of what I could do versus what I could not do. But I am not the body of Christ, rather we, the people of God empowered by the Holy Spirit, are the body of Christ. Thinking in terms of “we” creates new possibilities of compassionate response to the world’s pain.

It is not sustainable for me to be Steve’s friend, but what if I had tried to introduce him to other members of the church who were at the dinner and could be more constant in his life? What if I had been an advocate speaking up about how he was ignored and mistreated? What if I had invited my housemates into the conversation I was having with him so there compassion and creativity could have been brought into the situation?

For now, all I know to do is to pray. Pray that people might come into his life in a way that I could not, pray that God’s Spirit might comfort and we with him. And perhaps in praying, I might become a person of greater openness and love and inviting others into the God’s outworking of justice in the world. 

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