Paul Bloom makes the case against empathy, which he distinguishes from compassion:
It is worth expanding on the difference between empathy and compassion, because some of empathy’s biggest fans are confused on this point and think that the only force that can motivate kindness is empathetic arousal. But this is mistaken. Imagine that the child of a close friend has drowned. A highly empathetic response would be to feel what your friend feels, to experience, as much as you can, the terrible sorrow and pain. In contrast, compassion involves concern and love for your friend, and the desire and motivation to help, but it need not involve mirroring your friend’s anguish.
Or consider long-distance charity. It is conceivable, I suppose, that someone who hears about the plight of starving children might actually go through the empathetic exercise of imagining what it is like to starve to death. But this empathetic distress surely isn’t necessary for charitable giving. A compassionate person might value others’ lives in the abstract, and, recognizing the misery caused by starvation, be motivated to act accordingly.
Bloom goes on to warn that “empathetic distress is destructive of the individual in the long run” and claims that “experiencing others’ pain is exhausting and leads to burnout.” Sam Harris agrees, using the Israeli-Palestinian conflict as an example of why Bloom is right:
Bloom’s thesis is that emotional empathy, the ability to identify with others and “feel their pain,” is generally a poor guide for ethical behavior. As he acknowledges, many will find this idea grotesque—how could sharing another’s pain be anything less than a virtue? Indeed, many readers will feel that their very humanity depends on the strength of their emotion when witnessing suffering of the sort on display in Gaza. To question the merits of empathy is to question love, compassion, and basic human decency.
However, Bloom likens empathy to anger, and the comparison is remarkably astute. We want to be able to feel anger when circumstances warrant it, but then we want to stop feeling it the moment it is no longer useful. A person who is unable to feel anger would be, as Bloom says, “the perfect victim,” but feeling too much of it reliably leads to misery and chaos. Generally speaking, to have one’s moral judgment colored by anger is to have it clouded. Bloom argues that empathy is like anger in this respect, and I am convinced that he is right.
Elizabeth Stoker Bruenig hesitates at Bloom’s arguments, suggesting that we should consider the “function” of empathy in different contexts, especially it’s role in religious traditions:
If a person faces ongoing demands upon her emotional resources and requires a steady stream of positive, upbeat responses in return, then it is easy to see how empathy might eventually render her dysfunctional. On the other hand, if she lives in a world where piety and intense relational faith are valued, the otherwise unhealthily empathetic stigmata could be seen as supremely functional. And, indeed, many of us venerate a number of Christian figures whose empathy overwhelmed them even unto death.
This is not to suggest that all should aspire to mystic ecstasy, but rather to observe that the success or failure of particular emotional states appears deeply dependent upon context. It may be wise to question the demands and structure of contemporary society before determining an individual’s appropriate level of emotional availability. True, the more distant and emotionally restrained person might be more functional given the requirements of our post-industrial market society, but one might also ask whether the shrinking niche for the emotionally unguarded reflects a loss for us all.
The Dish 