On Empathy, Once More: A Response To Critics (Part 1)

Over the past six months, a number of scholars, counselors, and authors have responded to my own work on the dangers of empathy. They include Scot McKnight, Warren Throckmorton, and Chuck DeGroat. I’ve wrestled with whether to respond directly to them. However, there is a consistent and puzzling pattern of criticism in each of them that seems to warrant some sort of engagement. In fact, there are two distinct lines of criticism leveled against me, each kind comprehensible in itself, but seemingly contradictory when combined.

Agreement

One line of criticism runs thusly. First, there is some acknowledgement of substantive agreement on the phenomenon in question. Thus, Throckmorton acknowledges that it’s useless to try to save someone from drowning in quicksand by jumping in with both feet — an analogy I’ve repeatedly used to describe the danger of (untethered) empathy.

DeGroat quotes my Screwtape article on the danger of “fusion” and losing oneself in the feelings of another and says I am right to be worried. Fusion, he says, “is profoundly unhelpful, unhealthy, and relationally toxic.”

The closest McKnight comes to agreement is in a seeming acknowledgment that losing oneself in the feelings of another demonstrates a lack of boundaries. At the same time, short of more overt agreement, he does describe some aspects of my position with accuracy (at least initially).

From the best I can tell these denouncers of empathy are distinguishing the virtue of compassion from the potential vice of empathy. The former means to “suffer with” and the latter “to suffer in.” Or, to “feel with” and “feel in.” The former is rational; the latter appears to be less (than) rational, and perhaps irrational. At least in their constructions, it’s OK to suffer with but not to suffer in.

Criticism 1: Semantic

From this (more or less) accurate summary of my concern and agreement on the danger of the phenomenon described, my critics then object to the use of the term empathy to describe this phenomenon and instead suggest alternatives. Throckmorton suggests “impulsivity”; McKnight mentions “lack of boundaries.” DeGroat offers “fusion” and “the absence of differentiation,” in the process suggesting that I am ignorant of basic psychological concepts and should spend time studying family systems theory (a criticism I’ll return to in a moment). Other critics have suggested “enmeshment” and “codependency” as the better terms.

Thus, this criticism — let’s call it Criticism 1 — proceeds in three steps. 1) Agree with me in some measure about the harmfulness and danger of the phenomenon in question — namely, losing oneself in the feelings of a hurting person. 2) Object to my use of the term “empathy” in relation to this phenomenon. 3) Suggest an alternative term.

Thus, this line of criticism is largely a semantic one, and one that I am happy to learn from. The alternative terms suggested — impulsivity, enmeshment, codependence, fusion, lack of boundaries — seem to me to be of some use in providing clarity about the destructive dynamic in question (though it’s intriguing that all of these terms are drawn from modern psychology). And I am gratified to have these men acknowledge, at least in some measure, that this danger — whatever we call it — is real.

And if this were the extent of the criticism, I would probably leave the matter there. But in addition to this semantic challenge, each of the critics offer a second, very different line of criticism.

Criticism 2: Substantive and Inflammatory

Criticism 2 runs like this. It begins with some combination of accusation, derision, and speculation about my motives for writing. Throckmorton derisively refers to those of us writing on this issue as “theodudes,” a jab that I suspect plays to his reader’s perceptions of certain theological perspectives.

DeGroat describes my article as “an exercise in pastoral malpractice, psychological misunderstanding, and etymological confusion.” In writing, I am (wrongly) motivated by (presumably unfounded) fear.

McKnight regards my perspective as “the most unwise piece of pastoral theology” that he’s seen in his lifetime. He suggests that those of us warning about empathy are (likely? potentially?) narcissists and psychopaths. He speculates about our motives: we are “white, Type A, high achieving, Reformed, complementarian males who have LIKELY sought these positions of authority to feed some intense need for power” (emphasis his).

Beneath these accusations and speculations about motive are the justifications for such harsh judgments. The justifications universally fall along two lines: either criticizing arguments and positions that I don’t embrace, or defending positions that I have not criticized. In other words, the intensity of the accusations is built on either substantial misunderstanding of the crux of the issue (at best) or willful misrepresentation of my position (at worst).

Let me provide a few illustrations.

1) The Importance of Feelings

I’m accused of adopting a modernistic dichotomy of “truth vs. feelings,” one that enables narcissism, arrogant leaders, and pastoral abuse (DeGroat). I allegedly want to diminish or suppress feelings and emotions out of fear of other people’s pain, or to control other people’s emotions and feelings (McKnight).

Now there are a number of ironies here. The first is that I’m the president of a college and seminary founded by John Piper. If there is anyone who has done more in the last 50 years to elevate the importance of feelings and emotions in the Christian life than him, I’m not sure who it would be. The use of the word “affections” among Christians today is owing almost entirely to his influence.

The second irony is that my very first article on this subject spoke directly to the danger of correcting sufferers in the intensity of their grief, of elevating truth-telling over compassionate tears, of wielding biblical texts as weapons against the hurting because we are so uncomfortable in the face of their pain. I felt it important to address that danger first precisely to avoid this kind of misunderstanding. (And strangely enough, no one objected to the fact that I put “God works all things together for good” in the mouth of a demon.)

Thus, while I do want to make a distinction between truth and feelings, I don’t want any kind of dichotomy, modernist or otherwise. I have no desire to diminish the importance of feelings or to suppress them, though I do want feelings to be governed and guided by what is true and good (as I assume my critics do as well). In other words, a call for governing our feelings is not the same as a call for suppressing our feelings.

2) Biblical Passages.

For some reason, McKnight thinks that I’ll object to Romans 12:15 (“Rejoice with those who rejoice; , weep with those who weep”) or with the multitude of texts from the Gospels on Christ’s pity and compassion. But, throughout my writings, I’ve commended Christ as the model for compassion, and, as McKnight himself notes, I commend the notion of “suffering with” as fully biblical and loving.

Moreover, McKnight is surely correct that the words racham and splanchnizomai suggest deep emotions and intense feelings. And he is correct that these terms don’t have any hint of “getting lost in someone’s feelings” or “being irrational.” Did anyone ever suggest that they did? I certainly didn’t. Thus, to highlight this as some sort of response to me is bizarre to say the least. I’ve written about Jesus sharing the suffering of Mary and Martha and weeping at the tomb of Lazarus. I’ve written about the importance of weeping and remembering and even rejoicing in the depths of our pain. My concern has never been about whether the emotions are intense or deep, but about whether they are governed by what is good and tethered to what is true. Put another way, I want us to show compassion like Christ, who sympathized with our weaknesses, yet did so without sin (Hebrews 4:13).

3) Awareness of psychological concepts.

I noted above DeGroat’s indictment that I am ignorant of basic psychological concepts, especially concepts like differentiation, which are drawn from family systems theory. Differentiation is the capacity to stay connected to other people while also retaining one’s own boundaries and integrity. According to DeGroat, if I were aware of such psychological concepts, I wouldn’t make foolish errors like conflating fusion and empathy.

Here is an irony of ironies. The person who first helped me to see the destructiveness of fusion and losing yourself in the pain and feelings of another was a family systems theorist. And he explicitly connected such fusion and loss of self to empathy. His name is Edwin Friedman, a prominent family systems psychologist and counselor who died in the 90’s. Here is a sampling of quotations from his writings.

I have consistently found the introduction of the subject of “empathy” into family, institutional, and community meetings to be reflective of, as well as an effort to induce, a failure of nerve among its leadership. (Failure of Nerve, 133)

Empathy, ‘“to feel in”…was intended to be an advance over old-fashioned concepts such as sympathy or compassion, which mean only “to feel or to suffer with”…I believe that the increasing popularity of empathy over the past few decades is symptomatic of the herding/togetherness force [note: fusion] characteristic of an anxious society. (Failure of Nerve, 136)

Thus, Friedman used the “suffer with” vs. “suffer in” distinction as a linguistic entry to the conversation, long before I did (indeed, I learned it from him). Elsewhere, he argues, “Our focus on empathy is one of the major factors that has everybody stuck…The concept of empathy has wound up encouraging everyone to lose their own boundaries, so it works against the very self-regulation that is necessary for it to be employed objectively” (“Empathy Defeats Therapy,” in The Myth of the Shiksa, 119).

In another essay, Friedman offers a fictionalized interview with the first family counselor in history — namely, the devil (and though I wrote my Screwtape letters prior to discovering this essay, I was gratified to learn that Friedman had made the connection before me); the interviewer is in normal text, the devil in italics:

Political rhetoric encourages everyone to lower their threshold for pain. It supports a quick-fix attitude. Haven’t you ever noticed that in any counseling session or at any community meeting the persons most apt to mention “trust,” “sensitivity,” “confidentiality,” “togetherness,” and “consensus” are always the ones who want others to adapt to them?

These concepts have great communal potential.

They used to, but through the word ‘“empathy”’ I have succeeded in turning them into abuses of power.

You’re taking credit for empathy?

It’s probably the most regressive concept I have ever employed.

Regressive? It’s the foundation of many modern approaches to relationships.

But it makes feelings more important than boundaries. It’s a very late concept, you know…Came into English about 1922 actually. At first I didn’t pay too much attention to it, but then 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 for an evolving response to challenge because everyone would stay focused on one another instead of themselves. (“An Interview with the First Family Counselor,” in The Myth of the Shiksa, 27)

Of course, in warning about empathy, Friedman is not commending callousness, apathy, or narcissism. Instead, he is insisting that we increase our threshold for another’s pain so that we are able to challenge them to take responsibility for their own emotional well-being. Such differentiation and self-regulation on our part enables us to then rightly feel for others, care for others, identify with others, and respond to others (Failure of Nerve, 136–137). Avoiding the fusion of untethered empathy is what enables us to truly and deeply love and care for others.

And lest we think that Friedman is the only family systems theorist to talk this way, a recent book by a Christian family systems thinker suggests otherwise:

Differentiation is the ability to be fully yourself while being fully connected to people. It is gaining clarity on where “I” end and the “other” begins. A differentiated person allows space between herself and another, even when that other person is highly anxious or asking for rescue. A differentiated leader is clear on her own values and convictions and is not easily swayed from them.

The opposites on either side of differentiation are enmeshment and detachment. An enmeshed leader is unable to hold any space between himself and the other. If the other is struggling, the enmeshed leader gets pulled into it. The detached leader holds too much space between himself and the other. There is so much space the leader does not care for the other. An enmeshed leader struggles with codependency but calls it empathy. The detached leader struggles with indifference and thinks it is healthy. In contrast, a differentiated leader is fully present, but fully intact, with space between where he or she ends and the other begins. (Steve Cuss, Managing Leadership Anxiety (p. 119).)

My point here is not that Friedman and Cuss (and I) are necessarily correct. My point is simply to note, in response to DeGroat, that it was awareness of psychological concepts (like differentiation) drawn from family systems theory that first tipped me off to the danger of fusion under the guise of empathy.

4) Definitions

Perhaps the most puzzling aspect of my critics is the fact that, as noted under Criticism 1, they are aware of how I am defining empathy in my own criticisms, and yet they consistently offer a different (more positive) definition of empathy and then act as though I was criticizing that.

Throckmorton defines empathy as “simply understanding the inner world of other people.” McKnight quotes Webster’s dictionary to define empathy as “the action of understanding, being aware of, being sensitive to, and vicariously experiencing the feelings, thoughts, and experience of another.” But I have no objection to these concepts as defined in this way, and have written so repeatedly. Thus, to give the impression that I’m at odds with these definitions is a straightforward case of misrepresentation.

And again it is the combination of Criticism 1 and Criticism 2 in the same articles that is so strange. I have a category for accurate representation, substantive agreement on the major point, and semantic criticism of the terms used. And I have a category for intense accusations based on clear misunderstandings and misrepresentations of arguments; people sometimes get things wrong. But what is surprising to me is finding both sets of criticisms together.

One line of criticism communicates, “I have understood your position and wish you would use different terms.” The other says, “I haven’t understood you at all, and regard you as an evil person.” Or again:

1) Rigney is right (or at least, has a point), but he should have expressed his point differently.

2) Rigney is grossly wrong and is likely a power-hungry narcissist.

At times, my own sense of the debate is that it is largely semantic (though I admit that the fact that empathy’s strongest advocates consistently misrepresent my position has made me wonder). In Part 2, I’ll offer further reflections on the subject in hopes of clarifying the real issues and (perhaps) finding some common ground.