Empathy As Sacred Practice

 

I don’t think I’ve ever felt more fear or despair than I did one afternoon in December of 2012. Eleven months earlier, God had given us a miracle—our daughter. After years of being told we would never have biological children, after miscarriages and grief, we had come to terms with what wouldn’t be. We had our son, adopted and deeply loved, and that was enough. But God, in His kindness, listened to the persistent prayers of a little boy who wanted a sister. And then one day, I found myself running into an emergency room holding that miracle in my arms—limp, barely breathing, unresponsive.

I remember the panic rising in my chest. I remember feeling invisible as medical staff moved too slowly for what felt like life and death. I remember doing something I never thought I would do—crying out for attention in sheer desperation. And I remember, most vividly, yelling at God: Why would you give her to us… just to take her away?

On the drive to the hospital where they airlifted her, something unexpected happened. In the middle of my anger, fear, and confusion, I sensed God ask me a question: “Do you know that I can empathize with what you’re feeling right now?” My honest response was immediate—No, You can’t. And yet, over the course of that drive, my mind was drawn to a different scene—to Jesus Christ in the garden of Gethsemane, on His face, overwhelmed, asking the Father if there was another way. In that moment, something shifted. God wasn’t standing at a distance, analyzing my pain. He had entered it.

The Gospel narrative does not portray a detached God who delights in our misery. It gives us a God who steps fully into human experience. In Gospel of Matthew 26, we don’t see a stoic Savior pretending everything is fine. We see sorrow. We see anguish. We see honest wrestling. That matters, because it means God doesn’t just know our pain intellectually—He has felt it. He knows what it is to dread what’s ahead. He knows what it is to be betrayed by a friend. He knows what it is to feel abandoned in the moment we need others most. This is not weakness. This is the deepest strength imaginable.

There’s a growing idea in some circles that empathy is dangerous—that feeling deeply with others somehow leads us away from truth or strength. But when we look at Jesus, that argument falls apart. Jesus is not less holy because He feels deeply—He is the fullest picture of holiness because He does. Empathy, rightly understood, is not abandoning truth or affirming everything uncritically. It is entering someone else’s experience with compassion. Jesus does this perfectly. He looks at Judas Iscariot—the one who betrays Him—and still calls him “friend.” He sees Peter—the one who denies Him—and restores him. He feels the full weight of suffering and still chooses faithfulness. That’s not toxic. That’s transformational.

And this is where it becomes deeply practical for us. If God has chosen not to remain distant from human suffering, then neither can we. The empathy of God calls us to stand with those who are hurting—not in theory, but in real, tangible ways. It calls us to draw near to those who live on the margins, those who have been overlooked, misjudged, or pushed aside. It calls us to listen to the stories of the LGBTQ community, to stand with immigrants navigating fear and uncertainty, to honor the voices and experiences of women who have too often been dismissed, and to lament and confront the ongoing realities faced by people of color. This is not about abandoning conviction; it is about embodying compassion. It is about refusing to let anyone suffer alone.

When we encounter a God who empathizes with us, something begins to change in us. We stop pretending. We learn that faith is not the absence of struggle—it’s bringing our struggle honestly to God. We begin to trust that we are not alone in our worst moments. And slowly, we become people who can sit with others in theirs—not to fix them, not to rush them, but simply to be with them. Because we have been met by a God who is with us.

Returning to where I started. 

When I finally arrived at the hospital, I didn’t know what I would find. But somewhere along that drive, I had come to a place of surrender—not a polished, peaceful surrender, but a real one: God, I don’t like this, but I trust You. And then I walked into the room, and my daughter sat up and said, “Daddy.” She was okay. God had restored what I thought I had lost.

But here’s what I need you to hear: even if the story had ended differently, the truth I discovered on that road would still stand. God is not absent in our pain. He meets us in it.

As we move toward seasons like Holy Week, we’re reminded again that the road to resurrection goes through the garden and the cross. Which means if we follow Jesus, we shouldn’t be surprised by despair, betrayal, or failure. But neither should we be defined by them. Because the same Jesus who empathizes with us also restores and walks alongside us.

Here is a simple invitation. This week, bring one real struggle honestly to God—not cleaned up, not filtered, just real. And then, as best you can, pray: Not my will, Lord, but Yours. And from that place, look for one opportunity to extend empathy to someone else. Not to solve their life, but to be present in it—especially someone whose experience is different from your own.

When we reject empathy, we drift away from the heart of Jesus. But when we embrace it—grounded in truth—we begin to reflect Him. The God who entered our story so that we could enter the stories of others. And in a world quick to judge, fix, and divide, that kind of presence is not weakness.

It’s the way of the cross.