Exercising Compassion

The most tender place in my heart is for strangers
I know it’s unkind but my own blood is much too dangerous
Neko Case, “Hold On, Hold On”

Christians are called to see Christ in all people, especially the poor. I was reminded of the challenges of living this calling at church on Sunday. But I’ve also been thinking lately about the challenges of seeing Christ in those closest to me. In a lot of ways, Neko Case is right – it’s easier to be charitable toward people I don’t know than to people I know (or think I know) all too well. Sometimes the cost of trying to see Christ in my family and friends seems too steep to pay. And yet I know it’s important to see Christ in them too.

Some of my thinking on this subject is influenced by Henri Nouwen, who offers a great working definition of compassion – the deep recognition of another’s pain and suffering, which often leads one to see “Christ in need” in that person. But for clues on how to put that definition into action in my everyday life, I find Madeleine L’Engle’s discussion of compassion in A Circle of Quiet especially helpful. Compassion, she points out, is particular. It’s evoked by a particular person in a particular set of circumstances; it’s not easily generalizable, even in this age of televised mass disasters. And the ability to be compassionate is one that can grow with practice – very much like a skill. Elsewhere in the book she talks about the need for “finger exercises” for various skills such as writing. Finger exercises are special exercises that pianists do to develop their technique; they’re not music of themselves, but they enhance one’s ability to play music when the time is right.

So in a sense, exercising one’s ability to be compassionate is like finger exercises for the soul. There are many times in a regular work week that I might exercise my capacity for compassion by simply checking in with a co-worker who looks troubled or asking the administrative assistant with a broken leg if she needs help getting out to her car. Then, as my capacity for compassion grows, I might notice that my spouse is really quiet when he gets home from work, and instead of taking advantage of the quiet to read without interruption (just kidding, honey!), I might take the time to ask what’s wrong. If I can’t be compassionate with the people I love, or at least am familiar with, how much more likely am I to miss the chance to be compassionate to a stranger when it presents itself? (I’m thinking of what Jesus said about servants who are trustworthy in small matters.)