A Sham Trial: Reviewing 'The Sin of Empathy'

Joe Rigney. The Sin of Empathy: Compassion and Its Counterfeits. Moscow: Canon Press, 2025. $22, 164 pp.

There is perhaps no better example of literary lunacy than the court scene in Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. Alice is excited to witness the machinery of justice she had only ever read about (though, she is also admittedly distracted by the delicious-looking tarts that lie at the heart of the crime). Instead, she finds herself treated to—and indeed co-opted into—a bizarre pageant of absurdity

The King of Hearts’s pomposity is on full display as he orders the jury to render their verdict before hearing a shred of evidence. Enthroned next to him is the tart-baking Queen whose tyrannical demands of “Off with their heads!” are surpassed only by her insistence that the sentence must come before a verdict. The Knave, accused of absconding with the precious tarts, remains chained and passive. The clueless jury of creatures, scribbling inanely on their slates, constantly mistakes “stupid things” for important evidence.  The Mad Hatter, March Hare and Cook—useless as witnesses—contribute nothing but confusion and chaos. What should be about the pursuit of truth and justice descends into farce.

As I read Joe Rigney’s The Sin of Empathy: Compassion and its Counterfeits, I began to identify a little with Alice in that courtroom as she watched blame assigned inconsistently,  truth contorted, and meaning conjured out of thin air.

The Charge is Laid

In a promotional trailer for The Sin of Empathy, Rigney claims, "The so-called virtue of empathy is the greatest rhetorical tool of manipulation in the twenty-first century." In the book, the reader is told that "a community in the grip of empathy winds up being characterized by three traits: cowardice, indifference, and cruelty" (p.52, Kindle ed.).  Empathy, the author warns us, is "a man-eating weed devouring families, relationships, even churches and ministries." (p.71) This, of course, raises the question, “What exactly is empathy?”

Rigney admits, "part of the trouble with empathy is that there is so little agreement about its proper definition" (p.22). Yet, the book’s subtitle immediately signals how he proposes to navigate this challenge. He defines empathy as the counterfeit to compassion or sympathy (terms he uses interchangeably, p.17). For this reason, he insists it is "vital that we learn to distinguish good from bad, healthy from toxic, the virtue of compassion from the sin of empathy" (p.6).

Early on, Rigney explains that sympathy (synonymous with compassion) literally means “to suffer with”, while empathy means “to suffer in”. This distinction is central to his argument, for "the shift from 'with' to 'in' is of more than philological importance. At stake is the difference between virtue and vice, goodness and sin." (p.17)  To illustrate, he describes a sufferer sinking in quicksand. A compassionate person, he contends, keeps one foot on solid ground before stepping in to help the sufferer, while an empathetic person jumps in with both feet. In and of itself, empathy "entails a suspension of judgement and a more comprehensive sharing of emotion" (p.28) that leaves them dangerously untethered from reason, truth, justice or morality.

In summary, Rigney asserts that true compassion means suffering with someone, whereas empathy—joining the person in their suffering—is a destructive excess of compassion that "sweeps us off our feet […and] loses sight of the ultimate good, both for ourselves and for the hurting." (p.33)

However, just pages after asserting that “joining with” versus “joining in” suffering distinguishes virtue and vice, goodness and sin, Rigney writes: "the virtue of compassion (or sympathy) is the habitual inclination to share the suffering and pain of the hurting […] it resolves to join them in their pain" (p.32 emphasis added). This conflation of empathy and sympathy, which contradicts Rigney’s own definition, is not an isolated example. For instance:

Faithful compassion leans into the suffering of others, weeping with those who weep, genuinely joining the sorrowful in their grief (p. 51)

Tethered compassion is not tepid compassion. We must join them in their sorrow’ […we should communicate to them] “I’m with you in this” (p.144)

Yes, the love of Jesus waits […] He still meets us in our sorrow (p. 159)

Rigney’s own distinction between sympathy and empathy—and more importantly, between goodness and sin—is one he himself neither consistently upholds nor respects.

His definitional irregularity is compounded by terminological vagueness throughout the book. He often denounces empathy in and of itself (for example, it is "fundamentally reactive," whereas sympathy is "fundamentally responsive" p. 28).  This corresponds with his quicksand illustration in which empathy is presented as inherently unreasonable. ("Empathy is overwhelmed by the danger and dives in and is swept away by the current", p.33.) Yet there are occasions in which he indicates that empathy may not always be problematic. ("I believe that there are perfectly good applications of the term 'empathy’", p.14-15.)  Perhaps aware of this contradiction, Rigney often modifies empathy with the qualifiers of “untethered” or “weaponized” in order to articulate certain expressions of it as destructive. But this undermines his broader claim that empathy itself (as the counterfeit to compassion) is intrinsically flawed. The reader is left uncertain: Is empathy always bad? Sometimes bad? Always good, except when it isn’t?

Similarly, Rigney sometimes equates “pity” with virtuous compassion ("Compassion, sympathy, pity—these are attributes of God," p.10; "Pity, of course, is a good thing. It spurs us to help those who are hurting," p.6). Yet, on other occasions, Rigney inclines towards using pity as a stand-in for empathy ("'The anger of man does not produce the righteousness of God' (James 1:20). Neither does the pity or empathy of man," p.143.)  Once again, the reader is left uncertain: is pity a biblical virtue akin to compassion? Or is it the manipulative tool of those who would throw "pity parties and guilt trips […] to steer us" (p.50)?

Rigney would likely object to this critique of his tendency to conflate and confuse his readers, arguing that his broader argument provides important context and clarity about what these terms mean and how they relate. Yet, such an objection is undermined by his own repeated assertion that he is not overly concerned about precise definitions and meaning:

I’m concerned first and foremost, not with the “true” definition of empathy, but with its use. It’s the emotional and relational dynamics that I’m attempting to address, whatever you call them. (p. 14)

… this book is not primarily interested in the "true" definition of empathy, but rather with its use and influence in our culture. (p.22)

Additionally, I want to stress once more that I’m not mainly concerned with the “true” definition of empathy, but with its use. (p.164-5)

Rigney repeatedly signals his indifference to any critique that his argument lacks definitional clarity. Why? Because his focus isn’t on defining empathy as such—it’s on denouncing a particular practice that he has chosen to label as “empathy,” even though the appropriateness of such a label is highly contested by researchers and experts in the field.

Perhaps Rigney is not rejecting empathy as a construct, but only its cultural weaponization? This is, in fact, what he himself claims on multiple occasions. However, if that were true, we would expect him to clearly differentiate between healthy, biblically rooted empathy and its distorted, manipulative form. Instead, he repeatedly portrays empathy itself as a dangerous force that inevitably leads to moral compromise. As we continue reading (both the book and this review), we will see why he does not make any serious attempt to redeem empathy from its cultural corruption but instead insists on identifying it as the guilty party.

At the start of Carroll’s courtroom farce, the trumpet-blasting White Rabbit reads aloud the charges against the Knave:

The Queen of Hearts, she made some tarts,
All on a summer day;

The Knave of Hearts, he stole those tarts,

And took them quite away!

Immediately, the King turns to the Jury and commands them to render their verdict.

“'Not yet, not yet!' the Rabbit hastily interrupted. “There’s a great deal to come before that!”

It’s clear to the reader that this trial is sham—the Knave has already been found guilty based on the accusation alone.

The first chapter of the Sin of Empathy operates in a similar way. From the moment empathy is indicted, the verdict is a foregone conclusion. But because there should be “a great deal to come before that!” over the next two chapters, Rigney calls his witnesses.

The Witnesses Testify

The first of Rigney’s witnesses is C.S. Lewis—or perhaps more precisely, several characters from Lewis’s The Great Divorce.  Chapter Two introduces Pam, a mourning mother who has become tyrannical and obsessive in her grief, pouting, sulking, and wielding her suffering as emotional control over others—even God. Meanwhile, the ghostly Frank broods because his still-living wife is not endlessly miserable in his absence. Viewing the level of her misery "as a measure of her love for him […Frank] is only interested in a love that desperately needs him and that he can manipulate to get his way" (p. 43).

From this, Rigney concludes that we must ourselves "repent of the Sulks. We must refuse to wield our afflictions as tools of manipulation. We must not throw pity parties." (p.49) Secondly, we must guard against compassion being weaponized, for "while compassion will leap from the heights of joy to the depths of sorrow in order to bring healing, even at great cost to itself, it will refuse to be steered by the manipulations of the afflicted." (p.50)

Rigney’s character analysis is engaging, and, certainly, the characters of Pam and Frank have some lessons to teach us. And yet it is clear that these witnesses have been carefully selected to strengthen his prosecution against empathy. Other Lewis characters—not least Aslan himself—could offer a strong defense. But they are absent from the stand. This is disappointing as Lewis’s broader work suggests he does not reject empathy (as genuinely defined and understood), but self-centeredness masquerading as grief and idolatry disguised as love.

However, there is a second, even more significant issue with Rigney’s use of Lewis in this chapter.  As he constructs his case against empathy, these witnesses he calls are no more real than the Mad Hatter and the March Hare. What is missing in this chapter castigating “weaponized pity” is substantial scriptural support, biblical exegesis, or theological affirmation. As we shall see in later chapters, such an omission is anything but benign.

Chapter three’s star witness is twentieth-century rabbi, therapist, and author Edwin Friedman, who Rigney credits as "most responsible for exposing the destructive capacity of empathy in the modern world" (p.53). Continuing his reliance on fictionalized narrative, Rigney draws on an interview with the Devil, imagined by Friedman. In it, the Devil proudly claims empathy as:

...probably the most regressive concept I’ve ever employed […]  it makes feelings more important than boundaries [...] I began to realize that by getting everyone to substitute empathy for compassion—feeling in supposedly being better than feeling with—I saw that I could generally frustrate the Creator’s plan (p.57-8).

Here, we see that the “suffering in/with” distinction—one that Rigney struggles to maintain consistently throughout the book—is one that Friedman also makes. 

There are important truths to mine in Rigney’s discussion in this chapter, not the least the importance of self-differentiation/regulation as that which allows us to "rightly feel for others, care for others, identify with others, and respond to others" (p. 58) while not becoming completely enmeshed with others. Though unacknowledged in The Sin of Empathy, Friedman’s work in this area built upon that of Murray Bowen, whose “Family Systems Theory” employed the concept of “differentiation of self” as that which describes how one can "be emotionally close to others without emotional fusion or loss of self, or loss of identity." (p.109) 

Rigney’s misstep lies in his insistence that empathy demands enmeshment and that fusion always "lurks beneath modern appeals to empathy" (p. 60). To put it another way, Rigney sees self-differentiation/regulation and demonstrations of empathy as being mutually exclusive. The empathetic helper always leaps rashly into the quicksand without considering the implications for himself or the sufferer he wishes to help. In failing to self-differentiate, he also fails to recognize how others are ever eager to take advantage of his foolish enmeshment by means of emotional manipulation.

Other commentators, such as Alastair Roberts, have critiqued Rigney’s selective use of Friedman to create a “bogeyman” out of empathy. An important aspect of critical appraisal has been Rigney’s universalizing of Friedman’s concerns with empathy.  Whereas Friedman’s critique was concerned with effective leadership within anxiety-producing communities full of unregulated and dysfunctional people,  Rigney has thoroughly extrapolated this concern into a universalizing principle. However, as Roberts contends, "framing Friedman’s work around his empathy stuff causes issues [...] we end up with a medicinal teaching rather than a positively edifying one." He particularly notes that Rigneyesque focus "on a left-and female-coded empathy instead obscures many of Friedman’s insights and lends itself to a reactive application of his empathy stuff." (It is with some irony that I incorporate Roberts’s critique of Rigney’s highly selective use of Friedman for, in a later chapter, Rigney treats Roberts’s own work to the same selective treatment.) 

Nonetheless, for the author of The Sin of Empathy, empathy must remain the guilty party (and this for reasons we will soon see). Eager to cement this verdict, he selectively presents Friedman as a key witness, while again declining to engage with the testimony of other worthy witnesses who demonstrate that, when properly understood, empathy does in fact "not involve extreme relativism or enmeshment." 

As in the previous chapter, Rigney also declines to mount a substantial biblical or theological case for how and why empathy leaves us in a state of enmeshment that renders us "unable to distinguish between the distress of others and harm to others." (p.62) The weight of this ongoing omission becomes apparent as we turn to the evidence submitted in chapter four and the accusations of blame leveled in chapter five.

The Evidence is Submitted

Chapter four is where I found myself most sympathetic to (empathetic with?) Rigney’s underlying concerns. Yet, for reasons I will explain below, I also found it the most frustrating section thus far. In it, the prosecutor submits what he considers to be the strongest evidence of his case:

Over the last decade or so, American society has endured a series of conflicts surrounding race, sexuality, abuse, and LGBTQ +. In each of these conflicts, the progressives have become popularly known as “woke.” Conflicts over wokeness in American society spilled over into the church, with particular events […] acting as flashpoints. One of my basic contentions is that a common denominator in the conflicts surrounding all things “woke” is untethered empathy. (p.72)

Rigney argues that in seeking "to maintain a seat at the pluralistic table by pursuing credibility in the eyes of urban progressives" (p. 79), evangelicals have withered under the “progressive gaze.” Crucially, this was enabled by "a mix of empathy, faux justice, and credibility," (p. 83). Note that while Rigney readily distinguishes between justice and faux justice, he is unwilling to do the same for empathy. There is no such thing as faux empathy, just empathy itself. And empathy’s sin lies in having transformed sufferers into unimpeachable victims, advocates into hostage-takers, and the respectable (including Christian leaders) into conflict-avoidant “floppers.” As a result, "the church lost the plot," (p.73). The “sins” of the Left were minimized, while those of the Right were exaggerated. Winsomeness smothered honesty. Biblical clarity waned. The progressives won the fight. And all of this, Rigney argues, is the fault of empathy.

Except that it isn’t.

Even as Rigney layers charge upon charge against empathy, he simultaneously arms his readers with abundant evidence to render a not-guilty verdict.  Early in the chapter, he confidently asserts it is "empathy that began to weaken the church’s foundation," (p.75). Yet, his own extended discussion in this chapter undermines such a claim.

Chapter four brims with revelations, allegations and accusations that make one thing abundantly clear: it is not “the sin of empathy” but the sinfulness of human beings manifested in a variety of ways that is responsible for our individual and collective failure to seek justice, pursue truth and love faithfully. According to Rigney, these include our:

• desire to love and be loved by the world (p. 78, 91, 101, 102)
• obsession with credibility and reputation (p. 79, 82, 83, 92, 97, 98, 99, 101,102, 103)
• preference for faux rather than true justice (p. 83, 88, 98)
• egoism, pride, and self-centeredness (p.88, 102)
• immaturity, cowardice, and reactivity (p.90, 106, 107)
• greed (p. 83, 101)

To these sinful intentions and actions identified by Rigney, we might add others such as envy, lust, debauchery, idolatry, hatred, discord, dissensions, partiality, and more.

By relying on selective (and often fictionalized) witnesses and in failing to construct a coherent theological argument—beyond a brief discussion of a handful of Old Testament verses given no biblical-theological context—Rigney misdiagnoses the true source of the conflicted and conflictual situation the church finds herself in today. The problem is not that (some) Christians have joined people too deeply in their suffering, but that we have been too willing to justify our own sin. It is not the progressive gaze that "poses the greatest threat to Christian faithfulness," (p.100), but the sinful heart and mind. It is not that empathy automatically entails unreasonableness, but that sin has despoiled our reason… and our loves.

Our desire for approval and credibility corrupts the genuine compassion we might offer, twisting it for our own ultimate benefit. Our selfish ambition leads us to show partiality, aligning with others when it best serves our present or future interests. Our love of money and sex tempts us to compromise on truth, making us quick to excuse the actions and emotions of others so that, when the time comes, we are well positioned to justify our own greed and lust. Our fear of people leads us to appease and placate them rather than pursue justice and please God.

Yes, there are times when unchecked sentimentality can cloud judgment, when feeling the depth of someone’s pain can tempt us to excuse what should not be excused or to silence truth. And, of course, we can become victims of the emotional manipulation of others, be that intentional or inadvertent. However, such calamities are not flaws of empathy itself. They are a failure of human wisdom, the result of human sin, or both.

To put it in therapeutic terms, we fail to self-differentiate maturely not because we are overly empathetic but because we are selfish and immature. To put it in theological terms, empathy does not sin. We sin.

In Carroll’s courtroom scene, a nonsensical, unsigned rhyme—written in an unfamiliar hand—is submitted into evidence against the Knave:

“They told me you had been to her,

And mentioned me to him:

She gave me a good character,

But said I could not swim…”

The King immediately declares, “That’s the most important evidence we’ve heard yet,” while Alice objects, “I don’t believe there’s an atom of meaning in it.”  Yet, the King remains undeterred.

“If there’s no meaning in it […] that saves a world of trouble, you know, as we needn’t try and find any. And yet I don’t know […] I seem to see some meaning in them after all”.

Determined to find proof of the Knaves’ guilt, his eye lands on one line. Triumphantly, he turns to the Knave: “You can’t swim, can you?”

Carroll’s point is clear. You can find meaning in anything that serves your purpose.

Even as Rigney’s very own argument repeatedly acknowledges that the true culprit plaguing today’s church and its people is not truly empathy but rather sinfulness, he insists on seeing the meaning he wishes to see. Empathy must remain the guilty party.

The next chapter reveals why.

The (Real) Culprit is Named

We can’t adequately address the dangers of empathy without considering feminism and its impact on the church (p.110).

With those words, Rigney introduces the real culprit behind the “sin of empathy.”

Women.

Chapter five—titled, "Feminism: Queen of the Woke"—initially frames feminism, rather than women themselves, as the culprit. Rigney warns of the destructive "emotional dynamics involved when feminism encroaches upon the church," (p.116) and urges resistance against the "cancer of feminism" (p. 132, 138). What he somewhat contradictorily identifies as simultaneously the obvious "watershed issue" and feminism’s sneaky "Trojan horse" is women’s ordination—whether Anglican “priestesses”, Southern Baptist female pastors or “feminist impulses” in the Presbyterian Church in America.  For Rigney, the issue of women’s ordination is a one-way runaway train heading straight from "I’m Not That Kind of Complementarian" to "Sodomy is Cool" (p. 132).

Yet an attentive reader will quickly recognize that when Rigney rails against “feminism” as the force behind empathy’s corrosive influence, he is really objecting to women having any meaningful voice, contribution, or active presence in the church. This is because women are the empathetic sex:

In general, women are more empathetic than men. And, in itself, this is a God-given blessing. Empathy—that is, vicariously experiencing the emotions of another—can be a wonderful thing in its place (p. 112).

Given that the preceding hundred-plus pages have repeatedly presented empathy as inherently destructive—unhinged, even—it is difficult to read this comment as made in good faith. How could Rigney possibly view women’s greater instinct and capacity for empathy as a "God-given blessing" when, by his own argument, "empathy entails a suspension of judgement" (p.28), "becomes a man-eating weed, devouring families, relationships, even churches and ministries" (p.71) and "loses sight of the ultimate good, both for ourselves and for the hurting" (p.33)?

Our suspicions are soon confirmed. Rigney clarifies that while empathy has its usefulness in the home, when scaled up in the church, female empathy is not a blessing but a "curse"—"a liability, not an asset" (p.113, 114). Why? Because a woman’s instinct to "move toward the hurting with comfort and welcome becomes a major liability when it comes to guarding the doctrine and worship of the church" (p.113). This, he concludes, means  "the empathetic sex is ill-suited to the ministerial office" (p.16).

Regardless of where one stands on women’s ordination (for clarity: I affirm male eldership or oversight in the church), it is alarming to hear a pastor declare that a heightened capacity for understanding, comfort, and welcome for the weak, vulnerable, and suffering is a ministerial liability rather than an asset. Perhaps the Apostle Paul made a mistake when he cared for the Thessalonians as a nursing mother does for her own children (1 Thess 2:7). Though Rigney approvingly quotes Calvin Robinson—who says that "men do not have the emotional intelligence of women" (p.111)—it is clear he does not rate this innate “intelligence” at all highly.

Yet, Rigney’s concern extends well beyond women occupying pastoral or leadership roles. He is equally disparaging of efforts "to get more women 'up front' (not to preach, but to make announcements, read Scripture, etc.) or to make sure that more women are 'in the room where it happens,'" (p. 130).  For Rigney, the problem isn’t just women leading or preaching—it’s women speaking, being visible, or contributing meaningfully in God's household. Why? Because, in his view, their innate intellectual and emotional differences as the empathetic sex render them incapable of maturely stewarding such responsibilities. 

Rigney claims to be complementarian. Indeed, he sits as a council member for the Council on Biblical Manhood and Womanhood. And yet, his argument against female elders, overseers, and pastors—let alone against women making any public “one-another” contribution within the Body of Christ—based on generalized distinctions in female aptitudes and patterns of relating is patently not complementarian, at least as it has been defined in the past. According to The Danvers Statement, complementarian role distinctions in the church are based on God’s created order between men and women—not on the premise that the female sex was created with a compromised ability to responsibly steward their emotions and relationships (something which, if true, is surely the result of the Fall, not God’s good design).

Nonetheless, in a demonstration of ideologically patriarchal rather than theologically complementarian convictions, Rigney maintains that certain stereotypical flaws of female character and capacity are the decisive reason why men ought to make sure women are kept in their (silent) place within the church.  He observes that when men interact collectively with one another, they have a natural orientation to ideas, reason and rationality, which means "they are willing to debate, challenge, and provoke one another directly," (p. 118). Women, by contrast, are supposedly governed by “feelings” and therefore "prone to indirect and subtle communication and sublimated conflict, and averse to open disagreement and overt hierarchies while being comfortable with excluding those who violate their social norms," (p.119).

His comprehensively negative portrayal of female relational dynamics—contrasted with the supposed rational equanimity of their male counterparts—becomes terminal when applied to mixed groups such as the Body of Christ.

This means that pastors, church leaders, husbands, and fathers must "resist Medusa (and the toxic empathy she rode in on)," (p.139). (Notably absent from Rigney’s repeated references to Medusa is Ovid’s revelation that she only became the “monster” we know her to be after she was callously raped by Poseidon.) Such men are not called to simply reject female ordination but to exclude women from having any meaningful public influence in the church body—or, for that matter, society itself (p.132-133). Should the men in charge fail to control Medusa, the result will be that:

Direct speech is out; indirect speech is in. Open debate is out; emotional reasoning is in. Ideas are out; empathy is in. What seems most compassionate and empathetic in the moment is prioritized over what is good and wise in the long run. Violate the new rules and expect to be policed by white knights and sidelined for being quarrelsome, divisive, and rocking the boat (p.121)

At the end of chapter five, two truths are confirmed.

First, despite prior tokenistic claims to the contrary, Rigney clearly sees empathy as being inherently untethered and instinctively weaponized—just like his quicksand illustration suggests. Why? Because, in his framing, empathy is the folly and tool of women who, unlike men, are neither innately reasonable, wise, nor objective.

Secondly, it is empathy itself—not the sinful hearts and minds of men and women alike—that must remain the ultimate culprit behind the contemporary church’s failures, tragedies, and threats. Why?  Because beneath the surface, Rigney’s all-consuming sin of empathy is, in reality, the sin of being a woman.

After all "Medusa let it in," (p.128).

Once the fictional witnesses have testified, and the evidence has been examined for non-existent meaning, the Wonderland trial lurches towards its (un)natural conclusion.

“Let the jury consider their verdict,” the King said, for about the twentieth time that day. 

“No, no!” said the Queen. “Sentence first—verdict afterwards.”

“Stuff and nonsense!” said Alice loudly. “The idea of having the sentence first!”

“Hold your tongue!” said the Queen, turning purple.

“I won't!” said Alice.

“Off with her head!” the Queen shouted at the top of her voice. Nobody moved.

After reading The Sin of Empathy, we may be tempted to freeze in place, hoping that the “stuff and nonsense” will simply go away. But if, in this present moment, there is a book that right-minded, wisely discerning, and spiritually mature Christians—especially male pastors and leaders—ought to move on and speak against, it is this one. Because, you see, when Joe Rigney shouts at empathy, “Off with her head!” the real culprit he would metaphorically decapitate (as fitting for Medusa) is your sister in Christ. 

But there is another, even more fundamental reason we must not become paralyzed by Rigney’s contrived claims and instead hold them up to the mirror of Scripture. If we accept that reason, truth, and justice stand in opposition to joining people in their suffering, what are we to make of the incarnation of Christ?  Surely, the Word becoming flesh and making his dwelling amongst us (John 1:15) is the most profound act of empathy the world has ever known?

The true light that gives light to everyone was coming into the world. He was in the world, and though the world was made through him, the world did not recognize him. He came to that which was his own, but his own did not receive him. Yet to all who did receive him, to those who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God. (John 1:9-12)

We follow a Savior who left his Father’s side in order to step into our suffering. Jesus did not fear being swept away by it; instead, he bore it. The Son of God took our sorrow, shame, and sin upon himself. Not because he pitied us, or was emotionally fused to us or was manipulated by us—but because he loved us. 

Jesus Christ shows us that empathetically entering into the suffering of others does not automatically untether us from justice, truth, and love. Indeed, he teaches us that these things compel genuine empathy.  Not only this, but because Jesus joined us in our sufferings, we are now to “Rejoice insomuch as you participate in the sufferings of Christ, so that you may be overjoyed when his glory is revealed,” (1 Peter 4:13). 

Praise be that Jesus’s empathetic love wrought both our salvation and his glory! May we be ever spurred to loving empathy for others because of the incarnate Son’s loving empathy for us.