As undeniably valuable as compassion is, its distribution often provides a curious look at the motivations of those offering it. Thus, I find it important to assess the manifestations of compassion as a whole — specifically the ways in which we often neglect our very neighbors due to the favoritism shown toward people of more pronounced destitution elsewhere in the world.
Compassion most regularly falls upon those bearing the stereotypical image of poverty: the starving of Africa, those living in slums in the Far-East, the war-ravaged villages, those dying of disease. These visions, and many more, provide what may seem sufficient qualifications to warrant our compassion. They rightly elicit an emotional response: often, a feeling of sympathy. Yet in the United States, the poverty within miles of each one of us does not, from my angle, receive the same sort of sympathy. You may say those in developing countries experience a sort of hardship none here will ever know, and that may be true. But I believe we too quickly ship our compassion and ourselves overseas without asking our neighbors what we can first do for them. By the way many treat those who live among us in our own cities, neighborhoods and schools, one might deduce we care very little for each other. We are actually quite selfish at home, but travel abroad to share our goodness with the needy. How noble of us.
Somewhere along the line, it became commonplace to be admonished for neglecting starving children in Africa when caught wasting food. While acknowledging a very real need in many parts of the world, and challenging careless eating practices, such a dichotomization keeps us ever looking into the distance for a recognition of need, while we must first address what is right in front of us. We do not see insolvency as something present with us, but only something to be found elsewhere, among the “less fortunate.” That perspective is a great luxury, but also a lie. We are all “less fortunate” in some way or another.
There is an interesting trend that has taken hold in recent decades, particularly among the young and affluent. For those who have the means, it has become quite the posh excursion to visit other countries that bear the marks of abject poverty. We in the U.S. are largely free of the wholesale poverty that afflicts large swaths of populations in developing countries. And this lack of exposure makes us unsure of how to deal with those forms of poverty that we do see domestically. It is admittedly strange and uncomfortable to be faced with unexpected privation. Yet I submit that our response to that which we find locally could stand to borrow from the flashy, offhand concern that we feel for remote regions of impoverishment. The poor and deprived on our own streets deserve attention as well.
A further rift in the offering of compassion is: who deserves it? We have a great interest in the “innocent-poor,” those who have committed no discernable crime and seem harmless. But we are not so interested in those who have been stigmatized by violence or misdeed. These people are admittedly harder to get excited about, to serve and love, as they are not quite as desirable. But with this mindset we are throwing many desperate people to the curb, even while we so openly and enthusiastically embrace others that do meet our ideas of “worthy candidates.” Remember, not all with genuine need can offer a cute smile and be held tenderly in return for your services. There are many who may seem to have nothing redeemable in them who will beckon you to be close to them. And there does exist destitution that will not fit blithely into an Instagram post.
In my own life, I have been fortunate enough to grow up comfortably. But I realized one day, to my own shock and conviction, that less than a mile from my house was a set of railroad tracks, on the other side of which was an entirely different set of experiences from my own. It was then I realized I did not need to go to a foreign land to feel like an alien. I did not need to cross an ocean to meet someone who was familiar with daily hardship. How simple yet consistently neglected is this truth? I am often guilty.
Personally, I am not so sure I have earned sufficient credentials to take my own personal compassion-show on the road. If love is absent at home and isn’t extended fully to those within my vicinity, what a master of deception I must be to convince those abroad that I genuinely love all people as sincerely as my brief time with them may seem to indicate. When I feel within myself spontaneous and unprecedented urges to go far away and “make a difference,” I conclude that it may not be other people that I love and care for, but myself, with my own ideas of self-righteousness being where my heart really lies.
Were you to ask me right now whether I’d rather take a trip to Ghana or to a homeless shelter in the center of my very own city, I would likely choose the former, even if it came at great cost monetarily. Why? There is some mystical allure of far-off countries, where I would likely be a spectacle and the focus of much attention. It is sexy. There I might even be tempted to carry vain visions of being some sort of white savior for the darker peoples at the margins of the world. There is a Jars of Clay song that takes a particularly severe blow at such inappropriate ideas; in the song “Light Gives Heat,” they sing, “heroes from the West, we don’t know you, we know best” as an admission of an attitude all too common among the people of the nothern hemisphere. A far cry from this is where meaningful concern and useful service begins. A wholesome view of what it means to be a neighbor seems like a great place to start. There is work to be done.
