Vocation

I’ve just talked about the same story through the lens of three different social factors: age, gender, and race. Did I do each of these factors justice? With the limited time and writing I gave to each, I’d say no–there’s much more to be explored in each of them. But one thing I didn’t really address was what all three of these interactions in the story had in common. All of them were moments of giving, and they were moments that were also deeply, painfully, yet beautifully human.

One can ask: was it right for each of us to have given something? From a certain perspective, it could have been. After the man had left, my friend said to me that whatever the reason he needed money, he probably needed it more than she did. When I gave the man some of what I had, I knew that it was incredibly cold outside. He may have genuinely needed it to get a blanket to keep himself and someone else warm that day. When the woman gave my friend a twenty, she did it with the recognition of what my friend had just went through. Perhaps she was trying to make something positive out of the situation. All three of us gave something, and it induced a turn of events–a change that hopefully created something positive in the end.

From another perspective, though, my friend and I were naïve. Perhaps we were too trusting, and we could have given some more thought before deciding how to respond to the man who approached us. Perhaps he didn’t need the money. This perspective may be a more practical and cautious one to take, but when taken to an extreme it leaves something to be desired. If you are guarded and cautious all the time when people approach you for help, when will you ever risk being vulnerable in helping them?

These two perspectives raise questions of the belief and the doubt, of the trust and the uncertainty, that emerges when humans interact with each other. Part of navigating these all too human experiences is finding your way through their complexity, and recognizing the ambiguity that comes with them. It’s a process both of belief and of questioning, a process that is something human–and perhaps it contains a spark of something greater, too.

Two friends and I were sitting at a cafe near Northeastern for lunch. Two of us had just left an open house for Northeaster's graduate speech-language pathology program, while the third was a current student in the program. When one of them left to pick up his order, a man approached the two of us at our booth. He explained that he was trying to buy a blanket at a nearby Target for him and his girl because it was cold out, and he needed some help. I gave him a ten, and he mentioned going to a nearby ATM. I then gave him five ones, not responding to his comment about the ATM. My friend at this point started rummaging around to find her wallet as he sat down and asked how we were doing. The man said something about exchanging bills to her, so she gave him a twenty. Then he got up and started to walk away.

My friend quickly stood up and walked after him. It took me several seconds to realize what had occurred, and during this time I only watched what was happening. My friend followed the man outside--it was a frigid, windy Saturday afternoon, and she had left her coat behind. She was talking and trying to get his attention, but he kept walking. As they both left the cafe, several people turned toward them to see what was going on. I saw the man cross the T-tracks and leave, while my friend came back into the cafe. I asked my friend if he had walked off, and she said he had. At this point our other friend returned, and he asked what had happened. We explained some of the details, and then we all started to process what had just occurred.

A few minutes later, a woman approached our booth and asked my friend if she was okay. My friend assured her that she was fine, and the woman continued to say that what my friend did was kind, but it was okay if she didn't feel comfortable giving someone money. She asked my friend how much she had given the man. When my friend responded, the woman told her to wait, and she left the cafe. Several minutes later, she came back and handed my friend a twenty. My friend protested, but the woman insisted that it was okay. She then bade us farewell, and the three of us sat for a while and talked about all of these events. In total, the entire incident probably lasted around 15 minutes.

Before I continue, let me pause here for a moment and point out something. I left out many details about the people involved in this story, and mainly told the events of what happened. Did you fill in any of those details as you were reading it? If you did, I would invite you to hold those details in mind as I start telling you more about these 15 minutes.

In the past when I've talked to friends who belong to different communities, they have told me to consider the social and systemic forces that are at play in our everyday interactions with others. For this reflection, I am going to attempt to do just that with this story. In that process, I may say things that you may disagree with. I may say things that you find ignorant, narrow-minded, and perhaps flat-out wrong. I will be candid in saying that what follows are difficult topics to discuss and reflect upon. But I am willing to risk being wrong for the sake of starting a conversation about these forces.

It all started in endocrinology class a few weeks ago. My professor was talking about behavior that's influenced by hormones during development and around puberty. One of the behaviors he mentioned was yawning in rhesus monkeys. Then, to demonstrate, he yawned.

It took me a split-second to understand what he was doing. But by then it was too late, and I'm pretty sure that knowing his intention wouldn't have stopped me anyway. I started yawning too. The class noticed, and with a chuckle my professor continued on with the lecture, having made his point.

A week or two later, I was having dinner with a small group of friends, when the same thing happened. A friend across from me started yawning, and almost immediately I yawned back. This happened about 3 or 4 times, to the point where we both started laughing because it was so comical.

Since these two incidents, I've been noticing the occasions when I've yawned, and I don't think all of them were due to fatigue (although a good number probably were). I suspect that in recent weeks, I've been yawning a lot more in response to others because I'm starting to expect it of myself.

What's interesting about yawning is that it's a socially contagious phenomenon, and some studies have found correlational data between yawning and empathy. As someone trained in science (and neuroscience at that), I am obliged to give the caveat that correlation does not imply causation. The data on this subject is not something I'm very familiar with, either.

Despite my own limited knowledge on the subject, however, these past few weeks have got me thinking about empathy more--the ability to relate to another person's emotions and their perspective. When empathy comes up in conversation, it tends to be mentioned alongside another quality, compassion. A few weeks ago, I related compassion to another closely-related concept, its near enemy pity. And that isn't even bringing sympathy into the mix.

Empathy, compassion, pity, sympathy...all of these terms have very similar meanings and are difficult to disambiguate. Unfortunately, the etymology doesn't help much on this one. Empathy breaks down to the Greek em and pathos ("feeling in"), sympathy breaks down to the Greek sun and pathos ("feeling with"), and compassion breaks down to the Latin cum and passus ("suffering with"). Pity is probably the strangest of the bunch--it comes from the Latin pietas, meaning "piety."  This is perplexing, considering that of the four, it probably has the most negative connotation today. Each term has slightly different implications, but they all relate to one thing: how we respond to the emotions and situations of others.

Responding to other peoples' situations and feelings presents a fundamental problem: how do we genuinely know another person, their perspective, and what they are thinking and feeling? A blunt answer to this question is that we don't, and we never can--we only know what we think, feel, and our own perspective.

But this answer isn't particularly satisfying or helpful--as a matter of fact, it can be paralyzing if you push it to its logical extreme. If you only know what you experience, then how do you know that anything outside of your own experiences is real? This resembles the question: "If a tree falls and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound?" I'm not fond of this philosophical view, because it seems to imply that you need to be present to observe something for it to exist (if you're interested in this question, though, I encourage you to look up "solipsism"--but for your own sake, don't get me started on that word's etymology).

Perhaps we cannot ever truly know what another person is feeling or their perspective. This presents a fundamental limitation of empathy. However, empathy allows us to approximate the feelings of others to an extent--maybe not what someone is feeling, but what their feeling might be like. And sometimes, that approximation can be affect us deeply.

One of the criticisms I've heard against empathy is that it allows us to feel another person's negative emotions, as well as their positive ones. Those negative emotions can cause us distress, to the point where it inhibits our ability to take care of ourselves. Instead, some argue, we should focus on practicing compassion after using empathy--expressing genuine care for someone and the wish that they get better after we try to understand their pain--to protect ourselves from being weighed down by it.

While I firmly value self-care, especially when being present with another person and their suffering, I do have one question: doesn't that strategy miss the point of what compassion's literal meaning is? Can you truly call it "suffering with" someone if you only try to understand their pain, then shield yourself from it by showing them concern or wishing them well? You may argue that I'm being too narrow in my definition of compassion, but that's precisely my point--it's only one definition of compassion, out of many possible ones. Which brings us back to the issue of disambiguating what empathy, compassion, pity, and sympathy mean.

Another view of compassion, which I align with more, is that compassion involves taking on some of what a person is experiencing, sitting with its weight and processing it for a while to understand it, then putting it down so that you can genuinely care for that person--and yourself. You may take criticism with this definition as well, and I welcome it. But this definition also does not solve the problem of disambiguating these four terms. Perhaps I cannot resolve this ambiguity, but I can offer my perspective and listen to yours and others' to better appreciate it.

I've neglected pity and sympathy, so now I'll turn to those. These two seem to have a more negative connotation associated with them--a recognition of someone else's suffering, with a "but" attached to the end of it. For pity, this could be expressed as "I see your suffering, but I could have handled the situation differently," or "I see your suffering, but I'm in a better place and can't help you." There's a noticeable edge of condescension to this. Sympathy, on the other hand, could be expressed as, "I'm sorry you went through this, but at least you're okay now." or "I'm sorry that this happened, but at least this aspect of your life is going well." There's an attempt at softening that can come with sympathy, but often that softening of suffering can come off as an insincere attempt to help. But then again, suppose you actually aren't able to help someone, or you genuinely don't know how to respond to a person's suffering. These responses, although they may not be helpful to the other person, may help you get through a difficult situation because in some ways, they are more detached ways of relating to another person.

I bring up these points because these terms are incredibly ambiguous, and whether they are good or bad depends on whom you are trying to help when interacting with another person and attempting to understand their emotions, pleasant or aversive. Humans are incredibly social creatures, and intentions, as well as emotions like pain or behavior like yawning, may pass between or through us without us even being aware of it. I don't expect any of us (myself included) to get it right every time we interact with someone. But I will leave you with two questions, which I hope you will pause and consider. When you are trying to relate to someone's perspective or feelings, whom are you trying to understand? And when you are trying to relate to someone's suffering, whom are you trying to help?

I've known for a long time that the weather in New England can be unpredictable. At times tempestuous, at times calm, but always changing. Given the tumultuous past few weeks in my own life, my reflection for this week might reflect today's weather--unexpected, and at times a little chaotic. I ask you to bear with me as I try to organize my thoughts and feelings on the page.

To be honest, I didn't have clear idea of what I wanted to write about this week. I had just finished two midterms for my phonetics class, and I was sitting down to another quiet evening at the office. I had uploaded the sermon from this past Sunday, in which Dean Hill meditated on Matthew 5:39 and the meaning of resistance. But when I opened up the blog to read my fellow Marsh Associates' reflections from this past week, the title of Denise's reflection caught my attention: "Sunflower"

When I was in high school, my sophomore year history teacher introduced us to a book by Simon Wiesenthal, called The Sunflower. The book talked about Wiesenthal's experiences in a concentration camp during the Holocaust, and the outlook of those in the camp with him. The core of the book, though, lies in an ethical dilemma. While in the camp, Wiesenthal is taken to the bed of a dying SS officer, who asks if Wiesenthal can forgive him for killing several hundred Jewish people a year prior. The officer was holding a sunflower in his hand, a flower that was planted in the graves of SS officers who had died.

In the end, Wiesenthal says nothing and leaves. He then presents an ethical dilemma by asking a single, haunting question: Should he have forgiven the soldier, or not? The second half of the book contains the answers and reflections of several dozen individuals on this question--scholars, theologians, professors, and many others. There's too much in their answers for me to address here (and it has been a long time since I last read them), so I will focus instead on the question Simon Wiesenthal asks; namely, the question of forgiveness.

There is a saying that "To err is human, to forgive divine." The English saying has been attributed to Alexander Pope's "An Essay on Criticism." Part of this phrase, though, has even older origins, in a Latin phrase that is sometimes attributed to the Roman philosopher Seneca. One of the formulations of this phrase is as follows: "Errare humanum est, perseverare autem diabolicum." This translates to, "To err is human, but to persist (in error) is diabolical." These two phrases, when paired side by side, have very different meanings and implications, which seem rather self-explanatory at first glance. But when they are paired together, they capture a lot of the tension and conflict that come up (at least for me) regarding the question of forgiveness.

The Latin word "ignosco" can be translated into "to forgive." This is interesting etymologically, because it contains the roots for the words "to ignore" and "to know." Thus, the word "to forgive" in Latin could be broken into the literal phrase, "to not know," or "to ignore knowing." This presents a challenge when I think about what it means to forgive someone. Can you genuinely forgive someone by overlooking what they've done, especially if it has harmed you or people close to you? When I think about the situation that Wiesenthal was in with the SS officer, I am inclined to say no. This attitude strikes me more as complacency than as genuine forgiveness.

What about other takes on forgiveness, though? Matthew 5: 38-48 offers a different perspective:

“You have heard that it was said, ‘Eye for eye, and tooth for tooth.’ But I tell you, do not resist an evil person. If anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to them the other cheek also. And if anyone wants to sue you and take your shirt, hand over your coat as well. If anyone forces you to go one mile, go with them two miles. Give to the one who asks you, and do not turn away from the one who wants to borrow from you.

“You have heard that it was said, ‘Love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’ But I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, that you may be children of your Father in heaven. He causes his sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous. If you love those who love you, what reward will you get?Are not even the tax collectors doing that? And if you greet only your own people, what are you doing more than others? Do not even pagans do that? Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect."

If someone were to ask me which part of the Bible I struggle with the most, this is one of the passages I would likely first point to. I've heard interpretations before that note there is a lot of historical context surrounding this passage that is missing from the text. Unfortunately, I don't know enough of that context to adequately comment on these interpretations.

I have trouble with this passage for the same reason that I have mixed feelings about the Latin word "ignosco." Namely, I disagree with an interpretation that one could draw from both of these views: that forgiveness is something that is given blindly.

If forgiveness can be understood as an internal state or feeling (whether it's human or divine is debatable), then I would guess that it tends not to be the first thing people feel in response to a wrong done against them. In general, forgiveness takes time and processing to emerge, and it doesn't seem reasonable to expect someone to feel immediately forgiving toward anyone who has done harm, especially if they are considered an enemy. Perhaps if they are ready to forgive, then that internal state may help them heal and move on. But I don't think feeling forgiveness is necessarily the right way or the only way to heal.

But this doesn't get at Wiesenthal's question, which was should he have done something to forgive the officer, not if he should have felt something. Should you forgive someone for the harm they have committed against you, against another, or against an entity? My answer, as unhelpful as it might be, comes in the form of another question: Why are you offering forgiveness? Are you giving it for the person who would receive it like the officer, so that they might have some peace of mind? Are you giving it for yourself, so that you may find healing? Are you giving it because that's what you were taught to do? Or are you giving it because you believe that is the right thing to do?

I can't say whether the answer to any of these questions is right or not. That, after all, is the beauty and the difficulty of ethical dilemmas. But the next time you are in a situation where you must choose to forgive or not, whatever your decision, I encourage you to reflect on why you make your choice. What motivates you to forgive, or not to forgive? There, at least, you may find some answers.