The Danger of Empathy

No one likes to talk about the danger of empathy. I don't blame them. We’re trying to encourage the good stuff -- stuff that comes from the likes of empathy -- because it might quiet down the bad stuff -- stuff that come from the likes of apathy. Lord knows the world needs the good stuff.

And danger is not encouraging. It is discouraging, instead. I don’t use raccoon urine to clean my pots and pans because the danger of procuring rabies is discouraging. Otherwise, nothing would stop me. I absolutely would. But the truth is, empathy is dangerous, too. Empathy is scary and dangerous. I think most everyone has empathy, but I don’t think empathy is for everyone.

I'm not talking about feeling too much for others, or whatever. Like forgetting to eat because you are so in-tune to the well-being of your fellow man. This is almost always an asset, and almost never a real danger. Unless it gets to the point where you forget to eat and you die.

The more typically dangerous thing about empathy is it can never be what it’s advertised to be. Because the better you get at empathy, the only one you get closer to is you. The only one you get better at serving is yourself.

Humans have mirror neurons. They are clever little cells found in the frontal lobe -- the part of the brain Conan O’Brien and other foreheadly-endowed folks seem to have a good chunk of. These mirror neurons fire just like motor neurons, but in response to observed action, rather than in concert with action itself.

There are also mirror neurons specifically involved with pain. You watch someone scissor kick a rock. Rock beats scissors, so pain-associated mirror neurons fire, and your toe hurts.

Psychology, for obvious reasons, has tied the function of these mirror neurons, in a colorful bow, around the gift of empathy.

But even in all it's glory, empathy is elusive. Or maybe illusive—meaning it’s not what it seems to be. Empathy is not connecting to another’s feelings. It’s taking those feelings on and making them my own. Empathy ends in me. It is one of those Slaughterhouse Fives, when the closer you get to something, the more it actually eludes you. You can’t escape the contradiction. It’s a real 1984 like that.

I want to take and carry your pain, but it’s too easy to get stuck in this tiny world of me. Even when I am bearing your anguish, your struggle, your brokenness, your cross, they are only becoming mine.

I think that’s the danger of empathy. You can get stuck in yourself. The story can become about you.

Empathy is supposed to be enough. But it’s not enough. And it’s definitely not for everyone. Empathy is only for those willing to turn it into compassion.

I’m pretty terrible at this, unless I’m paying attention and trying really hard. But I’m aloof and lazy, so normally I’m terrible at this. I’m terrible at turning empathy into compassion.

But dammit, am I good at empathy. I bet if you stuck my nog in an fMRI machine and showed me videos of people kicking rocks, my mirror cells would fire like a California treeline. This is dangerous, because sometimes I think I can rest in this and call it enough. It can keep me from connecting. It can keep me from changing anything. It can keep me from looking a man in the eye.

I need to turn it all into compassion. And I have to choose this. And I have to practice this. I can’t be lazy about it. When someone kicks a rock, I need to walk over and put my arm around that person. Maybe rub his or her toe. Remember that the pain is theirs, and not mine.

Until that happens, empathy remains dangerous.