The Arc of Moral Universe Needs Some Bending.
It Ain’t Bending On Its Own. But Merry Christmas.
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A black man or a Jew wearing a kippah walks into a liquor store to refund a product. They’re prepared with the receipt and expect a straightforward transaction. Yet, they’re subjected to delays, scrutiny, and dismissive treatment for the next hour. The store clerk never utters a racial slur, nor do they reference the customer’s background. Is the clerk rude and inefficient, or is something more sinister at play? The customer leaves with their refund eventually, but also with a lingering, gnawing doubt:
Was I treated this way because of my race or because they knew I was a Jew?
This experience is far from unique. It illustrates the insidious psychological toll racism and anti-semitism can exact—even when overt hostility is absent. The doubt it seeds forces individuals to grapple with a haunting question: Is this happening because of my skin colour or because they saw my Star of David?
Whether the answer is yes or no, questioning erodes agency; it makes people feel like they are losing control, and that is as bad as the real thing.
This is the fine thread where the suffering of racism tightens its grip, and it is this phenomenon that Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (DEI) programs often fail to address.
Racism and prejudice divide not only society but also the individual. The persistent question—“Is this happening to me because of my race or my Judaism?”—becomes a mental prison. It forces people to navigate between two untenable options:
Paranoia (non-clinical, but the irrational search for enemies) and bitterness: Assuming racial/other prejudice drives animus in every interaction fosters distrust, resentment, and a sense of helplessness.
Denial and false empowerment: Ignoring the reality of racism places undue weight on the individual, suggesting that systemic issues are mere personal failures.
Even when racism or prejudice is absent, the possibility of its presence burdens the mind. The white individual rarely carries this doubt, enjoying easier access to faith in their agency. For those subjected to racism/prejudice, the doubt wounds; at its extreme, it may temporarily soothe, but it also strips away either autonomy or the perception of autonomy. It doesn’t matter which one - it leaves you in the same spot.
Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. observed, “Nothing in all the world is more dangerous than sincere ignorance and conscientious stupidity.1” Racism thrives in these ambiguities, forcing victims to navigate a minefield of doubt and frustration.
Racism and anti-semitism, by creating doubt, fear, and self-questioning, oppose this divine spirit. But then the music starts up . . .
At this point, the band is here, marching in stride. The white saviours and the racebaiters are all part of the same band, just playing different instruments.
The band is revved up, and the music distracts. The frontman has no baton, just one hand extended, wanting us all to know he is looking to lift someone. His other hand is hard to see, clinging to his side, but it is palm up, looking for a little grease. Behind the man who lost his baton, a choir sings soaring songs about empathy. Woo.
Empathy is overrated.
Empathy is the assumption that you can, based on experience or speculation, understand another person’s feelings, perceptions or attitudes. It is a wonderful idea but exceedingly rare. When gold is mined, the ratio of dross (waste) to gold is extreme: one tonne for one gram of gold. Perhaps the ratio of counterfeit empathy to gold, even if the user does not know it is counterfeit, is equivalent. Empathy often falters under the weight of life’s profoundest pains. At times, it becomes hollow—a performative response to suffering, called false empathy, where the gesture is there but the heart is not. This form of shallow sympathy, devoid of understanding, leaves us more isolated.
No human can truly comprehend our struggles in our loneliest moments. Whether one believes or not, religion and Christianity, in particular, offer something the world cannot: the presence of an all-knowing, all-loving God who understands and enters into our suffering. The atheist says this is foolish, but it is a nice idea.
False empathy often stems from good intentions but falls short of true connection. It arises when someone tries to mirror your emotions without truly understanding the depth of your experience. No matter how well-meaning, this performative act can leave the recipient feeling more isolated. It’s the reason why people say, “You just don’t get it,” even when someone tries their best to console them.
Human empathy is inherently limited. We can’t fully know each other because we are complex genetic creations bombarded with millions of experiential inputs with all their nuances. No one can experience your pain exactly as you feel it, and even those closest to you cannot inhabit your mind, soul, and memories.
Other problems? Self-interest creeps in: As Teju Cole writes in The White Savior Complex, even well-intentioned empathy can become more about the helper than the person in need2. We humans have an infinite capacity for self-delusion. Does the empathiser simply like the dopamine hits they get from telling themselves they are understanding and helping this other person?
To be human is to be lonely; to be human is to carry the burden of isolation. Even surrounded by friends or family, there are moments when we feel profoundly alone—moments when no one else can fully understand our fears, doubts, and pains.
This loneliness isn’t just emotional; it’s spiritual. I remember the hot August day when I scattered my father’s ashes in a gorgeous barley field next to the yellow shack my grandfather had cobbled together and the house my dad had built with his sweat. After the scatterings, some relatives and friends gathered in our small farmhouse. The room was full, and I sat in a generous chair by the fireplace, my arms on the armrests.
What does one do after one has thrown the ashes of your father into a field? The conversation did not differ from any typical living room gathering, but my father was not there. I remember clutching the armrests, grasping for composure, my eyes tracking as the conversational ball was passed from person to person. Perhaps I held the ball for an instant, I can’t recall, but I remember loneliness, the crushing weight, love seemed abandoned; I did not seek empathy, I could not bear a cheap facsimile. I could not have the cut infected by dirty empathy; the infection would have burned red hot.
The Bible acknowledges this universal human experience,
“For we do not have a high priest who is unable to empathise with our weaknesses, but we have one who has been tempted in every way, just as we are—yet he did not sin.3”
The hole is filled through faith. Writer C.S. Lewis wrote in The Problem of Pain:
“God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our conscience, but shouts in our pains: it is His megaphone to rouse a deaf world.4”
Lewis says that God does not empathise; He transforms. He does not merely watch; He redeems.
False empathy leaves us longing for something more, something truer. Empathy risks becoming performative or exaggerated, the “profuse kisses of an enemy.5”
False empathy alienates those it seeks to support, infantilising them rather than fostering empowerment. True progress requires humility, listening, and understanding, not the exaggerated gestures of “white saviours.”